Robert Frost famously said: “One who concerns himself with the sound of sense more than the subject is an artist.” What is beyond an artist? What is beyond art? What do you call someone who masterfully weaves words and sounds, and stitches diction and rhythm to shape meaning and emotion? Ocean Vuong’s books redefine poetic boundaries by transforming something abstract into something tangible. He depicts the very words our blood itches to utter.
It is no surprise that Vuong is a critically acclaimed poet and a New York Bestselling novelist. He is a recipient of the 2019 MacArthur “Genius Grant,” and a winner of the T.S. Eliot Prize, as well as the Whiting Award. His published work, “Time is a Mother,” is a book of poems weaved together, focused on time. In 128 pages and four parts, it reflects on and muses about the past, loss, death, and love. Through masterful language and rhythm, Vuong takes the reader on a journey of trauma and self-acceptance that ends with a trademark stamp of hope.
Part I begins with the poem “Snow Theory,” where the reader encounters the blunt juxtaposition of the lines “This is the best day ever / I haven’t killed a thing since 2006.” Vuong draws us in, and compels us to reach the end, where his final repeated line leaves us in a silent gasp “I haven’t killed a thing since.” Through Vuong’s repetition, string of words, and imagery, he meaningfully reveals grief’s processes. The poem uses fleeting imagination to expose the gut-wrenching truth about grief and its long-lasting effect it has on our lives.
Other outstanding poems in this section like “You Guys” or “Dear Sara” have a rambling tone, creating a sensation of words being spat out and released, as if to grasp them before they vanish. While it gives the reader whiplash at times, it is relentlessly admirable that a story about rescuing two white rabbits or ants crossing a white desert can become so tender and aching. Vuong’s shifting depictions stir pent-up emotions and fill us with a deep understanding of the feeling of loss.
However, Vuong’s expert craftsmanship of and relationship with words is expressed in “The Last Prom Queen in Antarctica.” He states, “It’s true I’m not a writer but a faucet underwater,” exposing a turbulent release of language that consistently “seep[s] through.” When he could not speak, he “wrote [himself] into silence.” In this way, Vuong’s pen flows, releasing him from the words trapped inside.
In his New York Times Bestselling novel “On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous,” he mourns his mother’s death from breast cancer. Addressing his persistent theme of grief in the poem “Dear Rose,” he repeats the criticism “stop writing / about your mother.” Yet, his perpetual mourning for the most important person in his life is not for our entertainment. It is an essential trauma that cannot — and should not — be let go. It is a heaviness carried deep in his bones. The weight cannot be separated from poems that aim at exposing its fundamental truth.
Vuong’s title “Time is a Mother” is a line from the poem “Not Even,” where he briefly grapples with the meaning of life within a world characterized by sadness. Quoting Lil Peep, sarcastically repeating ‘Ha,’ and literally and metaphorically separating from his mother, Vuong punctuates the desire to be free.
Simultaneously, he uses time as a structural framework for his collection. In the poem “Künstlerroman,” which translates to “artist’s novel” or an artistic journey, Vuong structures a narrative through passing time. He sits and watches a rewinding tape that stars a man who cycles through funerals, birthdays, abuse, and car accidents. In this cyclical reflection, Vuong processes his memories through dissociation. Ultimately, he finds acceptance through his resignation.
The book ends on a hopeful note with “Woodworking at the End of the World.” Though the poem chronicles cycles of self-hatred and guilt over the death of the speaker’s brother, he finds solace in “remember[ing] [his] life.” Yet, grief can sometimes blind you, and dwelling on the past often deepens the wound rather than healing it. In this moment of reflection, he does not remain trapped in sorrow, but reclaims agency through reflection. In other words, the speaker’s memory and confrontation of the past ultimately leads to his rebirth. After I finished the book, Vuong’s final words still rang in my ears. I could feel and believe the speaker as he said: “I was free.”
