PHAYVANH LUEKHAMHAN

How does one forget 30 years’ time?  It happened to me.  During a recent conversation, I realized that my family had been in the US for 30 years now, as of this winter.  As of Thanksgiving, actually.  I have no recollection of our arrival in America, which city we landed in, how long we waited in lines, or who met us at the airport.  How strange it must have felt, scanning the metal and concrete buildings for something familiar: a scent of greenness, sun-warmed wood, broad brown faces and dark, tender eyes.  Maybe my parents we listening for a few words they might understand.  I have no memory of any of this.  I imagine I was probably either fast asleep or crying.  Crying in my sleep, perhaps.

What I know from others is that it was a very cold winter.  There was already snow on the ground.  Snow.  The world must have unzipped itself in my parents’ minds when they stepped into the icy air outside.  To grow up all your life in a tropical village you’ve never dreamed of leaving, then muck through the detritus of war to end up in a crowded refugee camp.  So many bodies, so many lives on hold.  And then to make the impossible decision: to leave, possibly forever.  This haunts me when I think about it.  The pain of making such a choice.

But soon we were flying like a bird through the air.  And then landed at the noisy airport, some Americans coming towards us, trying to pronounce our names.  And probably somebody bowed.  And then perhaps someone said, “Sabaidee.”  And a new life began.  The world expanded all around us.

from The Brattleboro Reformer, copyright may apply.

Our sponsors tried their best to teach us English, show us how to work the light switches, the faucets and toilets.  The stove.  They helped arrange jobs for my parents–a janitorial position for Dad, and a bakery job for Mom.  They also gave us our first Christmas.  I wish I remembered it.  Perhaps someday it will all flood back.  But for now, all I have is this newspaper photo of Dad with a box in his hand.  I think the spine says “Monster Puzzle”.  Maybe it’s for my brother or myself.  My mother is letting Dad choose and open the gifts.  My brother and I are on the floor, waiting for something.  What?  Our small tree is leaning under the weight of handmade ornaments.  Hanspeter, one of our sponsors, leans in, elbow on the table.

I gather it was a joyous party, our family the honored guests.  There was probably cider and cookies, nuts and cheese.  Some coffee.  I’m sure it exhausted us, and confounded us.  We’d been in America for a month.  We were the only Laotian refugees in Brattleboro, though that would soon change.  And though we were far from our family, we’d found ourselves in a close group of people who seemed to love one another.  They didn’t speak our language (except for a few) and they had no reason to love us.

I suppose that was the greatest gift we received.  Love.  Welcome.  Hope.  Kindness.  A Future.  All those new friends we’d made in the early 80’s were so generous.  Beyond the gifts of clothes and toys.  Beyond what we can touch.  They gave us their hearts.  I speak for my entire family when I say we are truly grateful.

Late-Breaking News: Patricia Hampl is not able to make it to Vermont College of Fine Arts’s writer’s residency and so Kwame Dawes will be her replacement.  I’m going to leave the VT Poetry Calendar as is. But you can call the college for more info on lecture / reading times.

Every year, my friend Cynthia sends me a Solstice card–it’s her holiday card.  No Christmas or New Year’s greetings.  I guess her recent visit inspired her to make a more graphic cartoon drawing for this year’s illustration.  I’m so glad about that.  I love her drawing style.  Her sense of humor really shines through this piece.

We share a wonderful correspondence.  Actual letters, I mean, posted with beautiful, collectible stamps on the envelopes.  I am in love with people who still write handwritten letters.  I know they are rare people in this age of instant digital contacts.  I admit I have fallen off the letterwriting wagon.  Since Facebook has taken up a lot of my time, and made keeping in touch really easy, my letter-writing has come to a screeching halt.

I am not one who often feels guilt.  But in this respect, I am guilty.  I have abandoned my pen pals (many of whom I am not digitally connected to).  In return, they have let me go.  Rarely now do I find that personal note in my P.O. Box.  Now I know what it is like to open the mail and find only bills.

Well, postage stamps are made for using.  So use them I will!  My goal for this coming year is to write, write, write!  Not just poetry and blog posts, but letters.  Lots of letters.  I hope all the addresses I have are still active.  I had tried to continue my weekly martini might at the bar when I moved to Montpelier.  And at the bar, I would scribble my confessions into my letters while I got drunk.  My handwriting would start out neat(ish) and ramble on until it tumbled over itself and scarcely readable loops.  That’s when I knew I was done for the night.  I love doing it this way.

But the schedule didn’t work for me as it did when I lived in Brattleboro.  And I guess I gave up.  Last week when I walked to a different bar (one I rarely visit), I realized I just hadn’t tried hard enough to find the right place and time.  I found it last week, at a hotel bar down the street, in the afternoon.   The bar is long and shiny.  The servers are pleasant and beautiful.  The atmosphere is quiet.  This is not a place to be seen.  I can think and read and write here.

So I’ve found it, Cynthia.  My new letter-writing place.  I wrote you a letter while eating lunch there.  And I’ll do it again, and again.   Once a week, starting January.  Keep me to it.

girl on the platform meditating

Seems like ages ago that I wrote this poem, and just as long that Jennifer Karmin put it into action as part of her “Walking Poems” project in Chicago.  It’s recently published on How2.  Check it out.

I know I’ve grown so much as a poet since the writing and submission of this poem, but it still retains sentimental value for me.  I wrote during my brief little tour of New York City in January of 2006.  A country girl from Vermont in the big City for a weekend, I sent short emails home to my friends of my first impressions:

Finally got a taste of a real chocolate souflee, which I'd been dreaming 
about since the dessert party this summer, where it was noticably absent 
from the menu...found myself in an apartment with two guys playing Go, and a 
woman about to leave for Bejing early the next morning.

the smell of take out lingering in elevator carriages, the sounds of 
unidentifiable languages, people so familiar yet not my own. I could walk a 
long time down these hard gray streets before I needed rest. Bent pizza 
boxes, posters weathering off the walls, jewel-colored lamp shades in the 
park, the ghost of myself in the windows I walk past. So much tactile 
sensory information.

I had taken the trip to New York to read at a Kundiman-sponsored event at Verlaine.  I stayed with another Kundiman fellow, Rona Luo.  I had drinks at the Telephone Bar, where fellow Kundis were reading.  We went to Chinatown for dinner and ice creams.

I was broke and dreamy-eyed.  I had been practicing daily meditations on gratitude and love.  And as I waited for the train, I closed my eyes…

Slept in, per Rona's suggestion. Squatted on the station platform and 
meditated in the sun. Gorgeous no jacket day. Perused bookshops, killing 
time before lunch. Mongolian pepper steak, halo halo, Thai iced tea, gossip 
and poetry shop talk with one of the most beautiful women I know.What do I 
want? Someone who is comfortable in his body, and who can cherish mine. We 
ate next to fish the size of my head in their blue tank.

Oh, how young and dreamy I was then.  And in love with every new experience!

Illimnation at VCFA

Also happening last night was the annual Illumniation Night at the Vermont College of Fine Arts campus.  I heard it had very high attendance.  I wish I had remembered about it and found my way there, instead of where I actually was–down the hill in the center of town, where Art Walk was happening–not.

At the risk of offending some hard working folks, I admit I was utterly disappointed with last night’s quarterly Art Walk.  In contrast to September’s Art Walk, which showcased not only a large number of different working artists, but a wide variety of styles and media, this month’s event was badly attended (we only ran into a handful of other Art Walkers) and confusing.  I’m sure this had nothing to do with the fact that I handed the brochure to my friend and told him to lead.  Since I did not study the offerings beforehand, I followed. ..

We started at The Lazy Pear Gallery at the corner of Main and Spring Streets, with a show called “A Partridge in a Pear Tree”, featuring holiday themed ornaments / gifts by Beth Robinson and Mary Jo Krolewski.  While Krolewski’s soft, fuzzy sewn food replicas were charming, they seemed to be the same pieces I saw on my last visit (admittedly over a year ago).  This exhibit was confined to a small corner in the front gallery.  The rest of the space was dedicated to the usual mix of LPG’s stock artists, a few pieces each.  Boring.  Highlights: Robert Hitzig’s new shellac paintings on wood–the artist with the most work on display (beside, maybe, Jan Van Fleet)–they are contained and neat, each one an elaboration on the next.  Also, Timothy Fisher’s fabric scenes, which I always enjoy for their fairy tale-like quality.

We worked our way downstreet.  Too late to visit the library, which closed at 5:30 (when we finally started).  It’s okay, though, since they’ve already had separate events to talk about/showcase the art on display.

Up next: City Center complex.  The Skinny Pancake was displaying new work by Arthur Zorn, messy, abtract, but colrful still life paintings.  Distinct contrast to September’s show, which displayed his collaborated works with Sandra Bissex, a series of spare graphic swooshes in a limited color palette.  The biggest problem with viewing art at the Skinny Pancake is that it is relegated to the area above the customer’s heads.   Actually, this is a major problem at most venues that are a part of this walk.

An aside about this “up over our heads” trend in non-galleries displaying art:  As a viewer, I find it inconvenient and difficult to maneuver around diners, their tables, the servers in restaurants and eateries.  There is no way to get close enough to the pieces to really understand the brushstrokes, etc.  It’s so frustrating!  Suggestion: Venues, please consider only art that compliments your space!  Artists, please carefully consider how people view your work when choosing venues and specific pieces for your exhibit!  Why go to all the bother of a badly arranged show that will only be seen by a few people?

Glad I got that off my chest.

The halls of City Center displayed an varied and cliche collection of pieces from members of Central Vermont’s Art Resource Association.  None of the dozen of so artists were available for discussion and the cookies and cider were hidden in afar corner, beyond Santa’s display (where I imagine he will be this afternoon). [ I had forgotten that ARA also had a show at the T.W. Wood gallery that night, where there was also a silent auction. ]

Something was happening at The Artisans’ Hand, but we couldn’t tell where the Art Walk display was, though we did find the fruit bread, cider and snickerdoodles.

The Shoe Horn on Langdon Street is another place that puts art too high for proper viewing.  There we found Linda Wooliever’s batik on silk paintings.  I enjoyed the pieces in the first room, which were splashes of bright tropical colors.  The silks were not only dyed, but also embellished with sequins and such (I couldn’t tell).  The second room featured a series of about midwifery.  Together, it seemed an artists’ sketchbook on the way to a final piece.  None of these were embellished, and held on to dark jewel tones throughout.  A definite let down after the promising start.  At the Shoe Horn, one feels compelled to walk through the show beginning at the entry door, ending at the 2nd room.  Since there is no exit there, one must walk all way back to the beginning.  I don’t really like doing it this way.

Global Gifts, across the street from TSH, had nothing of note, though the brochure promised Katherine Davis’s first photo show in Vermont.  This is the second time I’ve Walked to GG and found the art not on display.  Last AW’s display was too high to see.

Over on State Street, the group at Capitol Grounds seemed like a private party, and only a couple of them said hi to us as we looked at the show.  It was an eclectic mix of fun colors, small graphic collages and paintings.  I enjoyed the small-sized animal paintings, which utilized bright colors.  My friend liked the more subdued coffee-colored mixed media pieces.  One piece was already sold–the one I liked the best.  There were garish-looking cupcakes for the crowd, though since there were plenty left, and no one partaking, we chose to leave them be.

To the Jennifer Palkowski and Robyn Peirce’s credit, they invited quite a few friends to the opening (they seemed the only people there)–and those friends SHOWED UP!  I think it was really sweet.

We had tried to go to the Langdon Street Cafe (but as usual) I got to the door, the odor eminating from the closed door repelled me.  We peered into the window of the packed cafe and saw a few multi-media collages hanging on the walls.

Over at the Governor’s office, Elizabeth Nelson’s display was the most disappointing of the night.  Most of the photo/paintings shown were in September’s show in the cafeteria.  It was just the artist and the security guard chatting it up.  This was so not worth the rigamarole of having to show ID at the door.

Also not worth it was the Victorian Christmas tree in the State House.  It was late when we got there, and the cafeteria was closed.

Thankfully, the best show of the night (that we saw) awaited us at Restaurant Phoebe, where Graham Burmeister had a wonderfully cohesive showing of portraits, landscapes, and other paintings spanning over 70 years of work.  We did arrive after 6 pm (their official end time, so diners can eat without interference), but Phoebe was gracious and let us wander through.

I know of Graham since he had been painting with Billy Brauer’s group on Thursdays, where I sometimes model.  So personally, I enjoyed viewing the work of someone I knew.  Graham’s colors and compositions harken back to a time gone (or going) by.  His renderings are highly realistic and evoke, in a Hopper-like way, lonely and untalked about stories.

This is the second time I’ve Walked through RP.  September’s photo show also appropriately used the available space AND fit the personality of the venue.  I am definitely going to be returning to this venue to see what other surprises I find.

We continued up Main Street, to Rhapsody, where Mark Chaney’s digital collages lined the walls.  They were mostly medium-sized pictures in muted monotones of layered nature images.  Eh.  Chaney was very active in talking about his work, a refreshing change.

The Drawing Board was our last stop.  Lark Upson’s portraits hung behind the register.  They were flat characters on flatter backgrounds.

Actually, our ultimate stop was The Black Door, where the bar was full, and the blonde barmaid was glad to see us.

In Retrospect:

Since we did not go up to the College, I’m guessing we missed a party (I hate that!).  Not only was it Illumniation Night, but ARA also had a show at T.W. Wood gallery, which hosted a benefit for Craft Emergency Relief Fund.  Had I remembered about it, I might still have decided to stay in town.  The reason?  It’s not in walking distance.  we had parked at LPG, and would have to walk back to drive to the campus.  Not very convenient.  I think it’s great that this is a part of AW, but it’s too far from town to Walk it.

A little disclosure: I am spoiled by Brattleboro’s monthly Gallery Walk.  Having grown up there and seen the GW movement grow from a group of ten merchants to almost 50, I knew how much an event like this can become a beautiful part of the downtown culture.  People PLAN for Gallery Walk.  So of course, I cannot help but compare my experience.

I admit, though, that I have never been to either Burlington’s Monthly Art Walk (or Art Hop?), or Bellows Falls’s Third Friday Gallery Walk (which I can’t find info on).  They are too far for me to drive, except occasionally.  I had been thinking about going to see The Word Show at Flynndog though.  Until then, I can just read this review.

Addition:  Brattleboro’s Gallery Walk photos are up now on ibrattleboro.com

It’s been a while since I’ve been on Goodreads.com–my reading life having slowed to a halt these past few months.  But there I found my friend Jee Leong Koh’s review of our mutual friend Neil Aitken’s first book, The Lost Country of Sight (Anhinga Press, 2008), which I am currently reading.

Not only a great coincidence, but also very helpful to me in my further reading of it.  We are all past Kundiman Fellows and meet each other at one of the summer retreats.  Check it out.  Check them all out.

Today I read page 12, “The Art of Forgetting”.

“…how to voice/my own name in my mother’s tongue, each sound/a hard and pitted salt plum I marry to my teeth,/but cannot break open.”

Spent most of last night updating the Vermont Poetry Calendar (there’s a link on the sidebar).   Obviously it will be updated as often as I get info about upcoming readings and other news interesting to poetry-lovers in this area.

Not that there aren’t other calendars of events for “Vermont poetry” on the Web.  They just are not very comprehensive.  I hope to solve that problem.  And in doing, help those of us writing alone in our snow-covered cabins to feel a bit more connected.

Please send any events information or updates to: yes [at] phayvanh.com