Remember This When You’re Hungry

for my grandma, whose Korean name I still can’t remember

Even a ghost that eats and dies again will have better color.

How hungry we must have been to die in the ocean just to pull at its weeds, dry them, soak the leaves in sesame oil.

Bleed our hands for not even a tongueful of meat from an ungiving shell.

A bird that cries at night cries because it mourns a lover.

A bird that cries in the morning cries because it is hungry.

How do you eat like a king?

Hang the remains of last week’s fish so it sways above the table.

Have a bite of rice. Chew ten times. Look at the fish. Chew ten times. Repeat.

Give thanks for anything you can put in your mouth.

Su Cho

Rae Armantrout: Finalists

Rae Armantrout is a master of minimalist. Her poems are concise and economical. She wastes no word and she leaves plenty of whitespace on the page. I read the Finalist collection twice and enjoyed the pieces each time. My personal favorites are “The Test” and “Late Remark.”

Bookbinding Vietnamese Typography

BB writes:

Hey Donny!

I am a senior Industrial Design student at BYU, I work as a UX/UI designer, and I also happen to enjoy bookbinding. I speak Vietnamese and have a strong interest in Vietnamese literature and design, and Vietnamese Typography Vol. 2 has been a wonderful resource. I love the examples, and am especially fond of the idiomatic expressions compilation.

I am reaching out to you because I am interested in making Vietnamese Typography into a physical book. I would absolutely love to be able to make your wonderful digital resource into a physical artifact to add to my personal collection. To this end, I am contacting you with a proposition I hope you might be able to help me with. I would like your help in formatting Vietnamese Typography for print—page cutoffs, chapter headers, cover design, etc.—and in return I will design and make the binding and construct the book by hand. If you’re interested in this proposition, I will make two copies of the physical book: one for you, and one for myself. I am eager to collaborate with you on this project, and I hope to hear back from you soon.

Thank you,

BB

I replied:

Hi B,

Thank you for your interest in turning my web book into a physical book. As long as you make it for yourself and not selling it, I am fine with that. The major issue you would run into is licensing. The majority of the typefaces I use on Vietnamesetypography.com were contributed by type designers. Most of them only provided web font files. I don’t have the desktop files and the licenses.

I have over 28 type families on the site. None of them are open source; therefore, it would be pretty expensive to license all the type families for desktop. This was the reason I decided to drop the print copy for the second edition of the book.

Furthermore, I am continuing to add more typeface recommendations and create more samples; therefore, the print version will be behind whenever I make updates.

I am not sure what you have in mind, but it is not as simple as turning a web book into a physical book.

Regards,

Donny Trương

Eve

i.

I say blue when morning begins
And indigo when the night sky
Hardens over us, pinned with stars.

I say moon when its shape appears
In the disappearing light. And I say
Hollow when I look into my hand.

So much taken for granted now
That I am chased by shadows
When once I noticed only

What was solid and complete.
I dream of Adam’s voice.
Was that a panting sound or a sigh?

ii.

At first it was head to toe
Until I wanted his breath on mine.
We examined each other,

Like a folded-out map of ourselves,
Fingering, puzzled by
The differences between us.

We tried it this way and that,
I was the impatient one, I have to say.
Strange, we both had a bright idea

At the same time. After that, it seemed
As though we were created to couple
In this sweet new way. It was hard

To do anything else sometimes,
So the trees suffered, burdened
Down with fruit, and the fields,

And some pale animals that emerged
Now and then, and the snakes
Hanging corkscrew from low branches.

iii.

I saw God watching Adam. I saw
The eyes popping out of God’s head
At the sight of him

As he fucked with what we later learned
Was wild abandon. I sympathized
With God’s jealousy, his pain,

But wished he had not
Displayed such obvious self-pity.
You see, he loved Adam.

Once I watched as
They fondled each other’s hair.
From my vantage-point in the tree

I then saw the two of them
Wondering how they might
Do what we had done. I have to say

It was obvious to me.
Odd how they couldn’t work it out.
Nothing bothered Adam, but God

Was not pleased, to put it mildly.
I learned that he would have been
Happy to be with either of us. Or

Even with both. He hated being left out.
That was the thing. I liked it
When he licked my neck.

iv.

But, in the end, I bewildered God
More than all creation. We spoke,
But he was never a good listener,

Preferring the sound
Of his own voice
Even when he whispered.

Since he wanted us so much
The decision he made
That we should leave

And that he would be happier
Alone made no sense.
But try telling him that.

v.

I laughed later
When I found out the etymology
Of the word ‘paradise’. In all reality,

Paradise was nowhere much; we were
Baked by the sun. Days were long
And there was nothing to do at night.

vi.

Mornings here are lovely, on the other hand,
And the world’s words, I never tire of them –
Of Mans First Disobedience, and the Fruit

Would I like to return, you ask,
Just once for a short visit
To re-live old memories?

No, but I would like yesterday to come
Again, wash itself over us,
Fondle us with its shredded beauty.

vii.

In his temper that day, when God told
Us what time would mean, I understood.
I saw the days longing for each other

In a future ready to forget. I alone,
I saw, would register each one,
Like something to be forgiven

And then held up, a bright example,
As we were, when we came into the world,
And lived our disappearing days.

viii.

Adam died two years ago, a night
When the moon was sickle-shaped
And thunder-clouds had cleared.

I was glad of that. I wanted
Adam’s fading eyes to see the sky,
Linger on the thought of what we tasted,

A beyond-place that had no end, that might
Have bored others, but we tolerated it
Because what else did we know?

What else do I know now?
I know that God learned to repeat
The word regret ad infinitum

Until silence fell. Then he changed.
I wish I could comfort him,
As the world wears out.

Colm Tóibín

Việtjazz Sample

While driving and listening to Donny Trương Presents Việtjazz, I came up with a sample for Vietnamese Typography. I picked out my 10 favorite pieces from my collection. Each song gets a typographic treatment. I also paired each song with a painting from the late great Đinh Cường. Link to each song is included on the artwork for your enjoyment. Take a look.

Prayer to St Agnes

O holy St Agnes, cure me of metaphor!
Make me say exactly what I mean
Without trickery or recourse
To words that are not clear or clean.

O martyr and saint, let life be dull
And make our verses unadorned
And let next year’s poems be plainly full
Of signs that lessons have been learned.

The flowers grow, as appointed, from the soil
And do not paint the meadow with delight.
They wither or get picked, which serves to spoil
Our notion, so mistaken on first sight,

That they are sprightly, dancing in the breeze,
Then taking applause, their heads all bowed.
I swear, in all mention of flowers, these
Rich, false words will never be allowed.

In return, please open heaven’s gate
So I can see what really is
With no sweet terms to mask my fate
To live in true, unsweetened bliss.

Colm Tóibín

Sauder’s Eggs

Sáng nay nhìn thấy xe tải có ký hiệu Sauder’s Eggs khiến tôi bùi ngùi nhớ đến mẹ. Những ký ức chợt ùa về làm tôi vừa nghẹn ngào vừa nở một nụ cười. Ngày xưa mẹ làm cho hãng trứng Sauder’s 10 tiếng mỗi ngày với mức lương tối thiểu. Thế mà mẹ vẫn cảm thấy may mắn có được việc làm. Mẹ thường đùa rằng mẹ sẽ không bao giờ bị thất nghiệp vì ai cũng ăn trứng rồi ỉa ra. Giờ nghĩ lại mẹ nói đúng. Nghề thiết kế website của tôi chả ai cần.

Nhớ lại thời đó mỗi buổi sáng tôi phải thức sớm đưa mẹ đến hãng. Mùa đông lạnh thấu xương ngủ chưa đã giấc cũng phải bò dậy. Giờ đây ước gì được trở lại thời gian đó được đưa đón mẹ mỗi ngày. Thời đó mẹ làm chung với một bác gái người Việt. Lúc đầu hai người thân thiện nhưng rồi trở thành kẻ thù. Mỗi chiều về nghe mẹ kể chuyện xích mích giữa hai người mà khiến tôi xót xa. Lúc đó còn trẻ trâu và luôn đứng về phía của mẹ nên tôi bị lôi vào trận chiến với những đứa con của bác. Họ đã trưởng thành vậy mà vẫn ăn thua với thằng nhóc như tôi.

Người Việt làm chung với nhau đếm không qua đầu ngón tay vậy mà phải tranh cãi nhau. Nghĩ lại buồn cười thật. Giờ đây mọi chuyện cũng đã qua. Có hối tiếc cũng quá muộn. Hy vọng nếu có tình cờ gặp lại, mấy anh chị đó không trách móc chuyện xưa.

Mỗi khi nghĩ đến mẹ, lòng thật buồn và cuộc sống như vô nghĩa. Tôi không thể nào vượt qua được nỗi đau mất mẹ. Cuộc đời này còn lại của tôi sẽ luôn thiếu mẹ. Thiếu đi những tiếng cười của mẹ. Thiếu đi những lời lẽ của mẹ dù trách móc, giận hờn, hay nhắc nhở. Sau khi rời cõi tạm này tôi sẽ gặp lại được mẹ hay không?

Tarriona “Tank” Ball: Vulnerable AF

Tarriona “Tank” Ball is indeed Vulnerable AF. In this collection, she reflects on her past relationships and her realness came through on the page. You can feel her heartbreaks, emotions, and infatuations. “Expectations,” “Sudden Truth,” and of course “The Ass” are some of my favorites.

Canal Water

I am in Venice,
Dreaming of what

It was like
When painters,

Knew which way
To turn

When they had need
For commissions

Or when they sought
Salvation.

There is fog
In the morning

To cloud our
Spirits,

And then sunlight.
In Venice,

Faces in paintings
Are alive with need,

Not just
The main players

But the others
Who stood by

Hardly caring
Who preached sermons,

Who lived
Or who died.

They were busy,
These figures

At the edges,
And did not often think

About redemption,
Much less about

Salvation.
Their faces

Then, and ours now,
Look as though

We are meant, in fact,
For commerce,

Working out margins,
Rates of return.

It is harder,
As the man said,

To imagine
The end of capitalism

Than the end
Of the world.

We hunger, however,
For glare and splash,

An opening
Of the spirit,

The urgent end of
Anything at all.

In the meantime,
I am waiting

For a boat
To take me

To the sanctity
Of the Salute.

The engine
Of the vaporetto

Is grinding
Towards a silence

Like the very first one,
To be broken

Only when
the end
Of capitalism

And the end
Of the world

Appear on the water,
Pursued by the panting

Populace,
The first laden

Down with contracts,
Anti-trust laws,

Overdraft statements,
Old software.

The second
Filled up

With painters
In possession of the new

Colours that
Will be used

To render finality
In all its garishness.

They join forces
Under the domed sky

As the Giudecca
And the Grand Canal

Meet close to
Where I stand

And flow into each
Other, drink

From the waters of the
Exemplary lagoon.

Colm Tóibín

Simone White: or, on being the other woman

Simone White’s ex-husband called her an “ignorant fucker” because she “will not support any white people with [her] work.” Her poems explores critical theory, motherhood, trap music, and sexual freedom. The collection is a captivating read.

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