by Jane Wong | Contributing Writer
Orient
Nicholas Gulig
Cleveland State University Press, 2018
Nicholas Gulig’s Orient, winner of the 2017 Open Book Poetry Competition at Cleveland State University Press, opens with an epigraph by Lebanese poet Khalil Hawi: âHow can we remain beneath a single roof? / When there are seas between us, and walls, deserts of cold ash…â This desire for connection, despite distance, reverberates throughout Orient. Gulig’s collection is all encompassingâall heart, all terror. Religion, conflict, refugees, the desert, violence, noise, silence, politics, daughters, empire, language, fathers, art, music, orientalism, youth, what we look at and what we turn away fromâall of it. In these poems, Gulig asks: how can we live in a world filled with war and empireâincluding language as empire? And can poetryâas an attempt at languageâdo anything? Moreover, as a Thai American poet, what does it mean to trace oneâs own relation to empireâhere in the West and the East?
The scope here is significant. Throughout the book, we zoom in and out, and empire is shown to be both deeply personal and collective. Gulig’s poems pose large ethical and metaphysical questions around destruction, beauty, and desire, and images (from friend and archeologist, Ian Wallace) move throughout the book, akin to Theresa Hak Kyung Chaâs opening visual image in Dictee. Calling forth the muse in this rubble, Cha writes: “Beginning wherever you wish, tell even us.” Orient echos Dictee‘s beginning, depicting ruins and half-standing places.
In both his first book North of Order (YesYes, 2015) and Orient, Gulig is deeply impacted by landscape and metaphysical questions of the self. George Oppenâs influence, particularly Of Being Numerous, is deeply felt. Gulig reiterates Oppenâs call: âthere are things / we live among âand to see them / is to know ourselves.ââ Yet, I want to suggest other vibrational influences and conversations. I remember encountering Inger Christensenâs alphabet (translated by Susanna Nied) with Gulig as an MFA student at the Iowa Writersâ Workshop back in 2008. From alphabet, Christensen writes: âbracken exists; and blackberries, blackberries; / bromine exists; and hydrogen, hydrogen.â Later in the book, Christensen suggests the close proximity of terror and tenderness: âatom bombs existâ while âlove exists, love exists / your hand a baby bird so obliviously tucked / into mineâŠâ This poem asks: how could these parts of our world exist simultaneously?
Reading Orient, I kept coming back to this singular word âexist,â which feels so close to the word âresist.â Gulig plays with Christensenâs assertion in poems such as âSome Cacophoniesâ: âEmpire exists. A person dreams to walk into the wildernessâ and later: âwe gathered in a room and read / the alphabet together in a circle. Privilege, privilege exists.â In this moment, we must turn inward: whose rights were taken away so that I could have mine? Likewise, I kept coming back to the idea of the conditional. What kind of choices have we made? What kind of ethical boundaries have we crossed? From the opening poem, âAn Image of the Books In Which I Hear You,â the use of the conditional âifâ is eerily accurate:
âŠIf our languages unspool in blue drifts
against the distance, escaping reticence.
If the distance of our reticenceis false. If it isnât crossable.
If we cross it anyway.Who will carry us?â
Migration is constant: âIf we cross it anyway.â Here, the question is not if itâs worth the risk, but: âwho will carry us?â Who will take care of migrants? Who will ensure this safe crossing and arrival? And arenât we all implicated in how we treat all migrants? At its core, Orient reminds us of our entangled histories.
The book unravels with long, serial poems. Poems such as âSome Cacophoniesâ move forth like drifts and waves, a prose poem resembling long threads across multiple pages. This early poem reads almost like a cosmologyâa beginning condition. Yet, donât we know history? What creeps in these beginning relationships: âthe crawl of empire.â Each poem brings forth an aphoristic entanglement: âOften terrifying, the noise reverberates against the tiny bones inside the ear and writes them in the image of its occurrence.â
Yet, this book is not abstraction. The terror of the news is real; survival is real. Each day is real. Orient returns to a series of prose poems with a mother and her daughterâboth refugees. âWhen the tanks were called, you hid beside your daughter in the basement. You began to teach her English. âYou will need this. There will come a day,â you said, âand you will need this.â In this moment, I couldnât help but think of Guligâs own Thai American daughters, of conversations he will have to have with them. Indeed, the personal is tangled with the news. From âThe Landscape of the Secular,â he writes: âI was 21 when the towers fell. My aesthetics failed me.â This poem recycles its language and washes back upon itself, later: âMy aesthetics failed me.â With a deep sense of the unheimlich, Gulig writes of how war begets future war: âYears later, I remember walking up the stairs and waking. I rubbed my eyes. I looked at the television. The mirror of the river, or a screen.â
Orientâs central poem is âThe Book of Originsââan elegy for Guligâs father, Art. Even in the midst of all the violence and war that surrounds Orient, this poemâfor his fatherâexists as solid ground. A kind of ethical baseline. I knew Guligâs father too, and immediately wished he would adopt me as his daughter. He was a reminder that men could be gentle; he believed in loving his children, in asking about their feelings, daily. And donât we all need some sort of tether to a kind, ethical world in all this madness? Donât we need someone to urge us to care for others?
âThe Book of Originsâ calls forth our interwoven personal and political worldsâinsisting that they must exist together. This is a poem of loss and grief, but also about war and border building. In one section, Gulig writes: âI sat on the couch. The news washed over me. Quite specifically, I remember the green-bright traces of artillery, the way the night above the desert trembled. I had never seen a war. I wept. I was at a party. It was a birthday party. My father took me home.â How can war, a birthday party, and fatherhood coexist? One cannot look away from everything. As Gulig writes: âI used to think that it was possible to turn away.â
The emotional depth of this poemâand the book as a wholeâlies within the love between a son and father, and a fatherâs belief in kindness. This poem exists, aptly, in the very center of the book. He writes of spreading his fatherâs ashes, of his gentle ghost:
there, but only
barely, an incandescent
blue, the waves
returning, his scattered form
an old direction
traced, our time together
leaving a certain stillness centered in
our language, leaving.
The beauty of these line breaks is undeniable. These lines sway together; they cradle us in an otherwise terrifying world. Which raises the question: can language make us more gentle? Can language bring us closer to those we love? âThe dead do not come back. / I speak to them // and through them. To bring you // closer.â This moment in âThe Book of Originsâ speaks to later moments in which the speaker writes of his family, of the next generation: âStill, I want to have a daughter. I want for her / a name to be its music, to say beyond the poem / that it has mattered / somehow.â Beyond a poem, language does matter. Language is naming, is being seen. Language is something to hold onto, even in its fraught impossibilities: From the last section of the book, âDenizenâ: âLanguage is a residue. / I cling.â
Orient also reveals what we are afraid to see for ourselves, despite loveâthat empire itself is sickly alluring. From âSome Pornographies,â Gulig writes of the magnetism of empire and our implication in it:
This morning I would like to thank
the loud republic.
Without a history of domination
I couldnât be or want
to put my fingers
there, where it, a mouth, is academic, a crevice
stitched together by a dialect,
the alphabet, or drone.
To want to âput my fingers / there.â Shouldnât we be âashamed, Americanâ? Here, I am also reminded of Cathy Park Hongâs Engine Empire, which throws us into the domain of empire. The quiet riot of Lao Canadian poet Souvankham Thammavongsaâs Light also comes to mind: âUp there, one contains all light // Kept at a distance, as far away as a lost love, a hope long past, an apology / that changes nothing.â
At its core, Orient asks: what will it take for us to actually see and hear each other amidst all this cacophony and noise? Gulig argues, in verse, that we must look at ourselves fully, in all our nakedness and all our gaudy dress. What privileges do we take advantage of? Look at the very fact of war: âthat we are capable / of this. That finally, after everything, we find that we comply.â This is not an easy book. But we must consider what silence builds. We must refuse that steady âcrawl of empire.â Guligâs poetry is one of awareness, of forgiveness, of turning to hold each otherâto really hold each other, despite so much distance.
Jane Wong‘s poems can be found in Best American Poetry 2015, American Poetry Review, Third Coast, jubilat and others. A Kundiman fellow, she is the recipient of a Pushcart Prize and fellowships from the U.S. Fulbright Program, the Fine Arts Work Center, Hedgebrook, and Bread Loaf. She is the author of Overpour (Action Books, 2016) and is an Assistant Professor of Creative Writing at Western Washington University.