HOW DID YOU COME TO POETRY?

I have always been in touch with literature and stories. I even wrote a short one in first grade about a classmate who hit himself with a mop. Poetry was never on my radar, and quite frankly, it was extremely intimidating. However, during a mini passion project I was doing in sixth grade, I realized that I was writing short sentences that were quote-like. There was no way to categorize that as a genre, so I just started calling it poetry. The more I believed that it was, the more I wanted to find out what poetry actually entailed. So naturally, I went on google and searched for some of the most popular poetry collections around. Whether it’s bad luck or good, I came across Milk and Honey by Rupi Kaur and decided to look into it instead of clicking on Dog Songs by Mary Oliver right next to it. I can’t imagine how much my writing “career” would’ve changed if I did make that decision. Reading Milk and Honey threw me into my instapoet phase, where I was writing modern poetry and posting it online, getting a couple of features by big poetry Instagram accounts such as Bleeding Soul Poetry and Society of Poetry throughout the months. At that time, I did not completely allow myself to love poetry because it’s poetry and the burdens that come with it are hefty. However, that changed when I got an opportunity to perform a piece I have written, titled “The Blood We Inherit, The Blood We Spill,” at a cultural event that was being broadcasted across my entire school district. The poem was used as advertising and it was everywhere for a few weeks, burning the now iconic first line into everybody’s frontal lobes. And after seeing the success of the poem, I realized that perhaps I do stand a chance and deserve a moment for me to completely drown myself in poetry in the best way one can drown themselves. I guess I can say that it worked out.

HOW HAS YOUR RACIAL AND CULTURAL IDENTITY IMPACTED YOUR WRITING JOURNEY?

My racial and cultural identity has been a huge benefactor to my writing. Believe it or not, “The Blood We Inherit, The Blood We Spill,” was inspired by a hate crime I experienced a few days before I was made aware of the event. I’m actually incredibly happy about that because the event was centered around the rise in Asian hate crimes during that time and without those kids who decided to call me an ethnic slur, the poem would have never been written and my so-called “big break” would have never happened. But aside from that, my recent writing has also been a result of my racial and cultural identity. One of my main goals in writing is to blend both English and Mandarin into my poetry so that one day my collections can be read in both China and America. Sadly, the one attached to this interview does not have any Mandarin, but if you keep up with my writing, you will find a lot more poems being published with Mandarin words in them.

WHAT IS THE BEST PIECE OF WRITING ADVICE YOU’VE EVER RECEIVED?

I have never received a piece of writing advice that has influenced my writing as much as watching videos of Ocean Vuong performing. To me, his poems, his words, and his readings are the best writing advice. I strongly suggest you check out Ocean Vuong’s reading of “Headfirst” at Silo City because that was a turning point for my poetry. Not only did I learn that good performance poetry doesn’t have to be quick and have some dramatic climax, but it can also be blunt and direct. That line, “stupid boy,” changed my entire understanding of poetry. But if you want a real answer, I would say what Ocean Vuong said during his Sixth & I reading is the best writing advice I have ever received, which is to “never expect an audience for your work.”

FROM THE SUBWAY

By Evan Wang

42nd Street Station, Times Square

children of a sad society,
raised by the back alley–could always do better. 


they are no strangers to sewers,
having been smoke-choked and battered


like fish on cracked white porcelain plates,
pulling out rotten teeth for want to fill the grooves.


finally, the ones chewing us would exhale—
the kids are alright, they will be alright, and I’m all right.


so at eye level, lessons of the city on canvas kneecaps
chalk it up to subtle suffering, a trip


on each crack with no faults. don’t worry, 
you can call them bloody bandages. for i am


a blinged-out tetanus shot for cut-up teenagers
stripping off scaffoldings. once a snuffed-out cigarette lying 


facedown in a street puddle,
but i hated myself in the right way.


then future suddenly wanted me,
and i craved nothing more than to be its henchman.