Soul Choj Vang was born in Laos into the nomadic Hmong tribes who originally roamed China. The Hmong are now scattered throughout the world because of political turmoil. True to his cultural root, Soul has wandered through much of the United States and Europe while in the U. S. Army. He now lives with his wife and two daughters in Fresno, California. He uses poems as guideposts to find his way home.
The Sierra Nevada at dawn:
Running through thin fog:
A white cap, forgotten
In the fall, leaves cling
Through the Peace Garden,
Looking towards the Sierra Nevada at sunrise,
Layers of hills merging
like curtains.
Pebbles playing underfoot;
I dance around them.
on a fence post, looks
like a bird roosting.
to wet walkways,
leaving their images.
where yesterday Klansmen gathered,
one student leads another who is blindfolded.
I see layers of hills merging into the sky,
like curtains of heaven.
From my tinted fourth story office window
I watch two blue jays laughing
on the pine tops, watching
students hurrying to class--
trying to beat the ticking minutes
of the clock.
I smile,
then freeze, and look around:
I feel eyes.
Love,
house,
land,
country
are all for rent,
so why
not
this
body
of
mine:
But how
much
(what)
for
a life
time?
Just now I realize
that for months--no!--
years, I haven't looked
anyone squarely
in the eyes. I see,
rather, the curve
of lips, the shape
of nose, or deep into
some fantasy
brewing in
my mind. Even
when someone tries
to lock gazes with me,
my soul turns
sideways.
I wonder what I'm
avoiding: pain,
naked as Autumn trees;
beauty, fresh
as newly dug earth;
or fear, heavy
as the ocean.
Running in the bike lane
against traffic,
three miles done, two
to go. My lungs labor
to take in the oxygen
tainted by cars
brushing by within a foot.
It would be so easy
to stop--just one step
to the right. But
then I am distracted
by a bunch of low-hanging grapes,
that had escaped picking
machines and human hands,
living on into winter,
refusing raisinhood.
In the evening,
when shadows come out
to play with the light
of the setting sun,
chasing one another
across marble walls,
new-planted courtyards,
virgin fountains,
the architect says good-bye
to his precocious child,
already too busy
with life
to reply.
In the aisles of men's clothing at Ross,
But I took hold
Then his father walked up,
I bumped into a little Mexican boy,
maybe four years old.
He looked up long at me
in fear, it seemed. Then he
put his fingers on the outside
corners of his eyes and pulled
out and up, slanting his eyes.
And he said to me, "Chino! Chino!"
My hand reflexively
swung to wipe out the little
superior smile from the bold
brat's face.
of myself. I scrutinized the boy.
His handsome face--a blend
of East and West--was glowing, happy
almost, but the disease had
set in: a meanness already glimmered
in his eyes. My heart ached
for him. I wanted to reach out
and hug him before hate
has eaten his soul.
I wanted to say to him: "Yes, little brother, my eyes
are slanted, and rather beautifully, I think.
And yes, I am a Chino, and so
are you. My ancestors came from China,
and so did yours. My many times
great grandfather and yours,
they probably played and rode
through the vast steppes
together as boys. Maybe they
were even cousins, who cried
on each other's shoulders when yours
rode east on the land bridge
and mine was left behind. My little
cousin, who has taught you
to hate a part of yourself so?"
an older version of the boy, but
gnarled like a wind-twisted vine.
He gave me a measuring look,
then a copy of his son's
superior smirk, as if to say:
"I am Spanish, I may look
half Indian but I'm all
European."
So I turned
and walked away.
All text and images in The Central California Poetry Journal are copyrighted. Copyright by © by Scott Galloway 1998. All rights are reserved. See main Journal page for
copyright information.
Authors and poets submitting original materials to this journal retain all rights to their
original work, except those rights specifically assigned in writing to Solo Publications including the right to publish the submitted work in The Central California Poetry Journal. The poems on this page are copyrighted by the author. Copyright © Soul Choj Vang 1997.
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