Chen Chen

@chenchenwrites.bsky.social

5641 Followers 859 Following

poet, teacher, sometimes essayist. chapbook, Love That For Us, out now @andchangepoetry.bsky.social. craft book forthcoming @noemipress.bsky.social. two books @boa-editions.bsky.social. abolish the police & free palestine. https://www.chenchenwrites.com

Telemachus’ Detachment When I was a child looking at my parents’ lives, you know what I thought? I thought heartbreaking. Now I think heartbreaking, but also insane. Also very funny.
Red by Mary Ruefle I fucking depended on you and you left the fucking wheelbarrow out and it’s fucking raining and now the white chickens are fucking filthy
official Queer Poem-a-Day graphic with author photo (headshot surrounded by green in a park) and poem title (“Ode to the Profoundly Gay Night We Just Had”)
In america, I place my ring on your cock where it belongs. No horsemen bearing terror, no soldiers of doom will swoop in and sweep us apart. They’re too busy looting the land to watch us. They don’t know we need each other critically. They expect us to call in sick, watch television all night, die by our own hands. They don’t know we are becoming powerful. Every time we kiss we confirm the new world coming.
i love you to the moon & BY CHEN CHEN not back, let’s not come back, let’s go by the speed of queer zest & stay up there & get ourselves a little moon cottage (so pretty), then start a moon garden with lots of moon veggies (so healthy), i mean i was already moonlighting as an online moonologist most weekends, so this is the immensely logical next step, are you packing your bags yet, don’t forget your sailor moon jean jacket, let’s wear our sailor moon jean jackets while twirling in that lighter, queerer moon gravity, let’s love each other (so good) on the moon, let’s love the moon on the moon
Don’t Hesitate If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, 
don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty
of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often 
kind. And much can never be redeemed. 
Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this 
is its way of fighting back, that sometimes
something happens better than all the riches
or power in the world. It could be anything, 
but very likely you notice it in the instant 
when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the 
case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid 
of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.
917 Love - is anterior to Life - Posterior - to Death - Initial of Creation, and The Exponent of Earth -
sam & i are sitting on a couch in the unreliable narrator, a bookstore in rochester, ny. behind the couch are very full bookcases. sam & i are wearing matching outfits—white faux fur jackets over black tops; sam then wears black pants patterned with a variety of fruits & black boots while i wear black leather shorts & sparkly boots.
Litany by Rick Barot When any word is called for, say that I am of. When the tornado forms, that is the ruinous kiss. When the bamboo-green field sways, think of tea. When the vines thicken in the heat, this is the medusa head consuming its own stare. When a man committedly steps to the ledge, this is the daguerreotype’s cold glass face. When winter, that is hemlock prominent. When mirror or letter or echo, these are correspondences. When the snow is pink, something has been left motherless. When singing, think of articulating silences. When stars, history. When the sword-gray, fatherly rain, this is I have wandered the earth.
Prognosis at Midnight by Yuki Tanaka I listen to the moon but it doesn’t say much about my life. Quiet night is for my cockatoo. He keeps chattering until my neighbor comes over to complain. Then I read a local newspaper: no murder, no robbery, one grandmother fell down the stairs and broke her hip. I lick my inky fingers and order my imaginary chauffeur to get ready—I’ll visit her and comfort her. I’d say, I read about you, I’m terribly sorry, this is my cockatoo, he’s twelve and loves carrots. We’d share her hospital dinner and be happy. Other sick people gather around us, admiring my cockatoo, who looks proud in his cage, unfurling his light-pink wings like stage curtains, and I’m his assistant. Grandma, worried that I’ve become silent, tells me how tired I look. “I had a series of nightmares,” I say, “my boss returned from the grave and fired me, bats attacked me like slow bullets but bigger, I was bleeding.” She says: “When I’m alone, I paint eyes on a pear and whisper, I’m watching over you. That makes me stronger.” Back home, my body thin and healthy, cooling my feet on a crystal ball like a psychic out of business, I look out the window: I don’t know which leaves will fall first or why. There aren’t many trees left. Not much is left of this little town.
first page of publishing contract
it’s sunny out and i’m standing on the sidewalk, wearing a large white coat with green/blue floral print and black chelsea boots
i’m standing on a stage, reading from my book. behind me, the windows are decorated with pendant stars & a crescent moon figurine sits in one windowsill. i’m wearing a leopard print coat, black trousers, & red sneakers
i’m sitting in a yellow armchair holding a copy of Love That For Us, a collaborative chapbook with Sam Herschel Wein
i’m standing outside & wearing black glasses, a black coat with a checkered pattern on one side, a red shirt with a horse on it, black jeans, & black boots. i’m also carrying a small black leather bag
i’m enjoying soup dumplings at a restaurant with dimsum and conveyor belt sushi. i’m wearing black glasses and a light blue sweater with white/red sailboat pattern
Heated Rivalry by Rachel Reid and Into the Weeds by Lydia Davis
Thank You by Ross Gay If you find yourself half naked and barefoot in the frosty grass, hearing, again, the earth’s great, sonorous moan that says you are the air of the now and gone, that says all you love will turn to dust, and will meet you there, do not raise your fist. Do not raise your small voice against it. And do not take cover. Instead, curl your toes into the grass, watch the cloud ascending from your lips. Walk through the garden’s dormant splendor. Say only, thank you. Thank you.
Write into the smudge in the painting where the pink lays into the green. Write into the plush of his lower lip. Write into the light pouring from the oculus above the baroque courtyard. Write into the whippoorwill that sings each morning, bringing in the morning. The two old balloons caught in the branch outside the fourth-floor window. The sky and its gray flannel suit. Write into the person practicing scales but practicing them out of order. Write into the honey. The story he told about the hierarchies of honeybees. The story he told about the man mummified in honey. Write into his white hands. Write into the smell of pomade. Write into the smell of August, a thug of a smell. Write into each trivial but astonishing trick, like roller-skating backwards or snipping thread with your teeth. Write into the rain. Write into its fall, knowing that the only god you can know is gravity.
i’m standing outside holding a copy of my second book, Your Emergency Contact Has Experienced an Emergency. i’m wearing a black cap, black glasses, a black, partially see-thru shirt, black shorts, white socks, & black sneakers. i’m also carrying a small bag with colorful floral design
nighttime. i’m standing & reading at a mic on a wooden stage in the middle of an amphitheater. trees tower over the stage. string lights provide soft lighting
i’m standing in an auditorium & i’m wearing black glasses, a blue shirt with a dog logo on the chest, white trousers with a sunflower print, & two different sneakers with complementary embroidered floral patterns
i’m yearning at a windowsill in glasses & a grey shirt
i’m standing in a hollowed out part of the trunk of a large tree. i’m wearing a black outfit with gold shoes
i’m standing in front of trees with pink blossoms. i’m wearing a black outfit with gold shoes & carrying a red bag with embroidered fox
a big ol’ fish with a great big face at the toronto aquarium
i’m sitting at a table after dinner, during golden hour (before sunset). my face looks pretty in the light
black & white shot of me adjusting the mic at a podium—at the faculty reading for the pocantico center residency
jeff & i, all dressed up, seated at a table at syracuse mfa graduation (actually not my own in 2015, but the previous year’s). look at our baby faces!
i’m standing between the stacks, holding my first and second books. i’m wearing clear frame glasses, a short-sleeved black button-down shirt with gold/white tree pattern, & black jeans
i’m standing in front of a mural of a butterfly—i’m standing in the middle so it looks like i have butterfly wings. i’m wearing a blue jacket over a lilac shirt, black runner shorts, pale green socks, & grey sneakers with purple laces
i’m standing on a street in downtown toronto, wearing a black cap, clear frame glasses, an unbuttoned long-sleeved green shirt over a black tank top, white runner shorts, pale green socks, and grey sneakers with purple laces. i’m carrying a tote bag and a brown paper shopping bag
i’m standing on a street in rochester, ny, while holding an umbrella in each hand—one black, one purple. i’m wearing black glasses, a long-sleeved shirt with green, maroon, pink, & purple stripes, purple denim shorts, & black sneakers. i’m also carrying a small green cross-body leather bag
being young can be a habit of being wrong, of writing letters only to hear one's own voice. Love is hard because who it affirms is not always the loved one, is not always the lover, so what does it affirm?
The Raincoat by Ada Limón When the doctor suggested surgery and a brace for all my youngest years, my parents scrambled to take me to massage therapy, deep tissue work, osteopathy, and soon my crooked spine unspooled a bit, I could breathe again, and move more in a body unclouded by pain. My mom would tell me to sing songs to her the whole forty-five minute drive to Middle Two Rock Road and forty- five minutes back from physical therapy. She’d say, even my voice sounded unfettered by my spine afterward. So I sang and sang, because I thought she liked it. I never asked her what she gave up to drive me, or how her day was before this chore. Today, at her age, I was driving myself home from yet another spine appointment, singing along to some maudlin but solid song on the radio, and I saw a mom take her raincoat off and give it to her young daughter when a storm took over the afternoon. My god, I thought, my whole life I’ve been under her raincoat thinking it was somehow a marvel that I never got wet. [poem also here: https://poets.org/poem/raincoat]
tree with pink blossoms
i’m sitting at an outdoor table of a cafe in rochester, ny. i’m holding a copy of my first book, standing it up on the table. i’m wearing black glasses, a red floral jacket over a white shirt, blue floral shorts, & gold sneakers
Quintessence: A Kid in Late 90s Western Mass   5th grade Chen, you were so in love with Pokémon trading cards because Brian G. talked every recess about them, about that rarest of Staryu, the one   with the ink spot printing error, the one on sale on eBay for just under $700. Why didn’t you have a job yet, Chen in the 5th grade   at Wildwood Elementary? Why couldn’t you work at UMass, where your parents were studying, or at Herrell’s, where the ice cream was stunning? You knew   all about ice cream, so why not? You asked your parents, who said you were too little, focus on your studies. But what you focused on was God, the one   you weren’t even raised with, couldn’t quite believe in, but overheard your classmates & especially their parents beg or thank over & over— Please God, they whispered,   Thank God, they shouted, eyes occasionally darting upward to where He must’ve lived in His luxury sky condo. God, you said, fuck you for not letting me have a job, I need to buy Brian G.
my second book next to Brenda Hillman’s new book on a table along with poetry society of america t-shirts and a Lorine Niedecker poem on the wall
i’m sitting at a table in chubby cattle, a japanese bbq restaurant in los angeles. i’m pointing my index fingers in the air with a giddiness never before witnessed. i’m wearing black glasses & a green jacket over a purple & white sweater vest
i’m standing in an event space next to a podium at SUNY Geneseo. i’m holding a small jar of yellow flowers & i’m wearing black glasses, a pink & orange cardigan with large strawberry pattern, a white shirt, & jeans
mr. giles the pug in bed with his chin resting on his friend the stuffed turtle
i’m sitting at a table in Leña at Sendero, a restaurant in Los Angeles. the restaurant is located high up and has fantastic views of the LA skyline through very large windows. i’m wearing black glasses, a black shirt, & black jeans
i’m standing in the awp book fair at the only poems booth & holding up a pink poster advertising a generative workshop i’ll be teaching on the contemporary love poem. i’m wearing black glasses, a purple/white/grey sweater vest, a pink watch, & black trousers with white stripes. oh & the awp lanyard of course
i’m sitting on a panel at awp talking about how to write sex poems
If in the Stellar Coast of Evening I Could Only Know My Name by Michael Burkard I think I would hear the passengers, I think I would hear the porch kiss the rain (I know the rain kisses the porch, that I can hear)… I think I would stop hating thinking which is the only feeling I know which survives thinking even more lastly than thinking… and if the car did go by with a messenger within I could eat the somber message of my friend’s painting and thereby turn it into a light by eating it, by feeling the ghost is with me at last, again, as it must have been years and nights ago when the rain and the porch were the same passenger and I the train they chose to travel in.
i am accused of tending to the past by Lucille Clifton i am accused of tending to the past as if i made it, as if i sculpted it with my own hands. i did not. this past was waiting for me when i came, a monstrous unnamed baby, and i with my mother’s itch took it to breast and named it History. she is more human now, learning language everyday, remembering faces, names and dates. when she is strong enough to travel on her own, beware, she will.
bean pie with an ampersand decoration on top
i’m standing in front of some amazing architecture/art at the grand palace in bangkok. also, the sky looks amazing
i’m standing atop some stairs in front of a large art piece in the Buffalo AKG Art Museum. the piece is a sign that reads “you are beautiful.” i’m wearing black glasses & a black velvet blazer over a black tank top
And Suddenly It’s Evening by Salvatore Quasimodo, tr. Jack Bevan Everyone is alone on the heart of the earth pierced by a ray of sun: and suddenly it’s evening.
GC: What kind of advice would you give yourself as a younger writer? MR: I would tell myself — but my younger self would not believe me — that all the things I thought mattered, none of them mattered. The only thing that mattered was writing. In other words, writing is the key to my own personal happiness. But when we’re young, we’re searching for many other keys, right? I think I’ve said this much more eloquently in an essay, but if the only thing you need to be happy is writing, you’ve got it. But you’re looking for community, you’re looking for love, you’re looking for a job, you’re looking for money, you’re looking for attention, whatever you’re looking for — you already have it, if you have an activity that completely satisfies you.
What is Water? by Danielle Legros Georges What is water but rain but cloud but river but ocean but ice but tear. What is tear but torn what is worn as skin as in as out as out. Exodus. I am trying to tell a tale that shifts like a gale that hurricanes and casts a line that buckles in wind that is reborn a kite a wing. I am far from the passage far from the plane of descending them, suitcases passports degrees of mobility like heat like heat on their backs. This cluster of fine grapes Haitian purple beige black brown.
Miss you. Would like to take a walk with you. by Gabrielle Calvocoressi Do not care if  you just arrive in your skeleton. Would love to take a walk with you. Miss you. Would love to make you shrimp saganaki. Like you used to make me when you were alive. Love to feed you. Sit over steaming bowls of pilaf. Little roasted tomatoes covered in pepper and nutmeg. Miss you. Would love to walk to the post office with you. Bring the ghost dog. We’ll walk past the waterfall and you can tell me about the after. Wish you. Wish you would come back for a while. Don’t even need to bring your skin sack. I’ll know you. I know you will know me even though. I’m bigger now. Grayer. I’ll show you my garden. I’d like to hop in the leaf pile you raked but if you want to jump in? I’ll rake it for you. Miss you standing looking out at the river with your rake in your hand. Miss you in your puffy blue jacket. [ran out of space. poem also here: https://tinyurl.com/missyoupoem]