I remember the table. It exists and does not exist. An inheritance assembled with bare mouths. And nouns. And ash. I remember the table as a shard embedded into the brain. How some will call it shrapnel. And I will call it art.

I remember the table. It exists and does not exist. An inheritance assembled with bare mouths. And nouns. And ash. I remember the table as a shard embedded into the brain. How some will call it shrapnel.
And I will call it art.

from “I Remember Anyway,” Ocean Vuong

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newyorker.com

A Letter to My Mother That She Will Never Read

Perhaps to lay hands on your child is to prepare him for war.

hi, i wrote an essay/letter in The New Yorker on growing up with a mother with PTSD, and the inheritance of war. Mother’s Day can be a complicated day for many, if not all of us, and i just wanted to acknowledge that. and also, perhaps, that love does not have to be perfect, or even smooth, in order be worthy.

hugs, –ocean

ocean vuong mothersday trauma war poetry thenewyorker essay

Anonymous asked:

Dear Ocean Vuong

yes? hey

deathbypride asked:

hello. i stumbled across 'some day i'll love ocean vuong' a few days ago and today i left the house to buy your book. it made me feel happier than i have been recently; i think melancholia is different to depression, namely because it's feeling something. this is really silly, sorry - i didn't mean to throw a pity party in your inbox. i'm just writing to say that i find your words lovely and they helped me today and thank you for sharing them.

iqfashion asked:

A Big Question: How Important is Poetry as a Form of Protest?

very

ngangiang47 asked:

I just want to thank you. You and your poetry helped me to better convey my own thoughts and emotions in my poetry. I've never written more emotional pieces than the ones I wrote after being touched by yours. And for that, I would like to thank you.