April 2, 2018

Mother’s Dirge, by Duy Doan


Today, a moving poem by Duy Doan, the winner of the 2017 Yale Series of Younger Poets competition for his manuscript "We Play a Game" [1].

Mother’s Dirge

by Duy Doan


Because our family is from the countryside,
Your father liked falling from high places.
Limber feet make expert tree climbers.
The coconut — meat for eating, fiber for the buttonmaker.

Your father liked falling from high places.
Upon landing, he smiles. I carry my share.
The coconut — meat for eating, fiber for the buttonmaker.
Where the bend in the trunk begins matters most.

Upon landing, he smiles. I carry my share.
Husband and wife walk home, avoiding rice paddies.
Where the bend in the trunk begins matters most.
Even if they are full, trees that stand straight: avoid climbing.

Husband and wife walk home, avoiding rice paddies.
Your grandmother warned me many times over.
Even if they are full, trees that stand straight: avoid climbing.
But we were young, the city called to us like a wilderness.

Your grandmother warned me many times over.
Saigon is big, too busy, lacking decency.
But we were young, the city called to us like a wilderness.
The day he died, the sun heated the cement too hot for bare feet.

Saigon is big, too busy, lacking decency.
Afterwards, home brought no comfort.
The day he died, the sun heated the cement too hot for bare feet.
The New World Hotel stands fourteen stories.

Afterwards, home brought no comfort,
Because tragedy cannot save face.
The New World Hotel stands fourteen stories.
Everyone here must remember my new dress last fall,

Because tragedy cannot save face.
Our neighbors recount our tale with great skill and detail.
Everyone here must remember my new dress last fall.
With the white of his palms alone, your father made us a living.

Our neighbors recount our tale with great skill and detail.
The palm trees out front aren’t tall enough.
With the white of his palms alone, your father made us a living.
Even when we were promised, I could see he had ability.

The palm trees out front aren’t tall enough.
Mind your father, improve yourself, head upwards.
Even when we were promised, I could see he had ability.
He climbed until he got us to the city.

Mind your father, improve yourself, head upwards.
Limber feet make expert tree climbers.
Because our family is from the countryside,
He climbed until he got us to the city.



                                            (Photo (c): Jess X Snow)

About the poet: Duy Doan is the author of We Play a Game, winner of the 2017 Yale Series of Younger Poets. His work has appeared in Poetry, Slate, The Cortland Review, and elsewhere. A Kundiman fellow, he received an MFA in poetry from Boston University, where he serves as director of the Favorite Poem Project.



[1] “If games figure in Duy Doan’s ‘We Play a Game,’ they do so much more seriously, and resonantly, than the title alone suggests,” says Carl Phillips, the judge for the competition. “For game here can mean as well the strategies for weathering those parts of society that threaten identity itself, at the level of gender (in all its fluidity), or race, of family as history and tradition — of language, too, and our expectations for it. Wide-ranging in subject, Doan’s poems include boxing, tongue twisters, hedgehogs, Billy Holiday, soccer and, hardly least of all, a Vietnamese heritage that butts up against an American upbringing in ways at once comic, estranging, off-kiltering. Doan negotiates the distance between surviving and thriving, and offers here his own form of meditation on, ultimately, childhood, history, culture — who we are, and how — refusing all along to romanticize any of it.

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