On an otherwise unremarkable night in April, Andrew and I attended a poetry reading and conversation with Ocean Vuong. When the promotional email appeared in bold at the top of my cluttered inbox, I clicked myself into two in-person tickets and an autographed copy of his new poetry collection, Time is a Mother. This isn’t typical for me. Usually I’ll leave an event tab open for a week or so. Or I’ll click back on the email to “mark as unread” in my inbox so I could reference it later, damned to my graveyard of allegedly unread emails. Ocean Vuong is somewhat of a literary celebrity, or maybe actual celebrity. I’d never read his writing before. But I felt like I should be there. Maybe because of his influence, maybe because the event was in-person, maybe both.
Maybe I should have attended by myself, I considered, as we stood in the queue on the sidewalk outside the First Unitarian Church of Pittsburgh. Andrew and I were tense. I could speculate why he didn’t want to be there (he was starving, he was winding down from a hectic day in the middle of a workweek, he doesn’t read poetry) but that wouldn’t be fair. Especially because I didn’t particularly want to be there, either. Remember? I felt like I should be there. We bickered until, both famished, we ran out of energy. In the crowded church, we sat in passive aggressive silence on stiff pews.
I remember the physical effect of Vuong’s reading. His quiet and commanding presence forced us to lean forward. I felt eager and warm. Andrew and I softened towards each other, the tension between us loosened up by Vuong’s soothing tone. The church, the poetry, the togetherness. In conversation with Diana Khoi Nguyen, he dissected our understanding of the writing process, of language, of history, of memory. Andrew and I continued the conversation. In the car, raising our voices, interrupting each other and ourselves: okay you go! then i’ll respond! —oh that reminds me! okay you first! —yes! yes totally! In the corner of our favorite bar, we spoke about writing and language over cheeseburgers and tots. I cherish this night in my memory. Ocean Vuong inspired me to be open with Andrew about my relationship with writing in a way I never had before; he allowed Andrew a new perspective and understanding to view writing and the writing process.
All of which is to say: poetry scares me. During school, I learned about literary devices and rhythm. We read Shakespeare in paperbacks published with extensive page-by-page notes. For me, to read poetry was a form of translation. What happened in this stanza? Unfamiliar words and vivid imagery became a code to deconstruct instead of a work to appreciate on its own. I fear that poetry is “beyond me” or “over my head.” So this month, I’m going to write about it.
I take my inspiration from not just Ocean Vuong, but also from Ordinary Plots: Meditations on Poems + Verse, a newsletter from Devin Kelly. (I loved his latest dispatch on Elisa Gabbert’s “Random Assignment.”)
And from Catherine, who sent me a photo of a Wendell Berry poem, followed by three Mary Oliver poems and a screenshot of the lyrics to a Bruce Springsteen song.
She wrote: I used to make june “poetry month” for myself and read at least two poems every night before bed.
I replied: Should we do it?
Here’s how you can participate:
Read poetry this month! Without fear!!
Share poems that you love — send them to me, or to your friends or family or Instagram story or read them aloud on a walk with your dog.
Paid subscribers will receive my own insecure, uncertain meditations on a different poem each week for the month of June. So sign up! Or share with a friend!