by Elaine Chen

Sitting in a cozy coffee shop on the corner of Valencia and 21st Street in San Francisco’s Mission District, I begin a two-hour excursion with renowned poet Truong Tran. Even at first sight, it is obvious that Tran projects a positive force. A teacher as well as a published poet, Tran motivates both his students and readers to take a positive perspective. For example, he cites the idea that “in order for viable art to exist in our society, there has to be some level of marginalization.” Now how’s that for positive thinking?

Through his visual poetry, Tran challenges us to rethink modes of perception. To illustrate, during our conversation I remarked that the “box” metaphor often relates to something claustrophobic and confining and Tran contrasted that view by saying that the metaphor of the box is instead something positive. “I’m fascinated with boxes,” says Tran. Translating the box as a mystery that can “hide things in plain sight,” Tran connects the box metaphor to the idea of “home” and further, with Going Home, Coming Home, his recently released children’s book that he worked on in collaboration with illustrator Ann Phong.

In addition to Going Home, Coming Home, Tran has published numerous award-winning works of poetry including The Book of Perceptions (1999), Placing the Accents (1999), and Dust and Conscience (2002). His latest book, Within the Margin, both challenges and invigorates readers to not only “read” but actually “visualize” poetry in a whole new way.

NHA: Can you tell us a little about yourself?

TT: I am a teacher here in the city. I teach in the creative writing dept at SF State, poetry in particular. I’m also one of the visiting professors at Mills College. I teach poetry there as well. I came over from Viet Nam in 1975 and grew up in San Jose. I have been in San Francisco since 1992 and pretty much have made SF my home. In terms of my writing, I’m really interested in this idea of how to convey the meaning of poetry in a very visual way. Lately I’ve been obsessed with visual arts, particularly with Joseph Cornel in the visual arts movement.

NHA: The meaning of poetry in a visual way? Can you elaborate on that?

TT: My poetry doesn’t have art, but it’s very heavy with how the text plays and immerses itself on the page. So in that way, I consider my poetry very visual. In my newest work, I only have one line per page and the words seem to cascade. All the white space surrounding the words is very much a part of the poem and I try to get as much meaning out of the white space as possible. Dust and Conscience is written in blocks and the blocks were very physical for me and they literally were being constructed as bricks. I literally meant for the physical nature of the bricks to convey meaning as well.

NHA: What are your inspirations, what first inspired you to write?

TT: It was something that I gravitated towards. I love language and I love how it sounds. I love the capacity of pictures versus words. It’s all fascinating. I love being caught in the existence between languages, specifically between English and Vietnamese. In some way, you construct your own rhythm between dual existences.

NHA: What role does the Vietnamese language play in your poetry?

TT: The Vietnamese language has a rhythm all its own and that rhythm comes into my poetry even though I write in English. So I think the Vietnamese language plays a big part.

NHA: Specifically, how does your own Vietnamese background tie into your work?

TT: Okay let me tell you a story. I have a friend who teaches Asian American Studies and who once said to me, “I really want to teach you, but I can’t teach Dust and Conscience because the students aren’t going to get it. There’s just not enough content.” But actually the content is embedded in the form. People always gravitate towards my first book as the book that embodies the Vietnamese American experience. But the reality is that every book I’ve written embodies my experience as a Vietnamese American growing up in this country. Not just growing up, but existing as a Vietnamese American in the context of society.

Regardless of whether I choose to write about dinosaurs or wizards or experimentation of language in sound and rhythm... all these things are inherently a part of who I am and being Vietnamese is a part of all of that. Because I bring to that exploration my rhythm, all my little quirks of being Vietnamese show up in that. Do I write about being Vietnamese as a theme or motif? No, I don’t think that’s necessary.

NHA: As a Vietnamese American, how do you negotiate and balance your dual identity and cultures? How can the problem of the “generation gap” be solved?