The third chapter stands out for its brevity with only two poems, the theme seems to emulate the coexistence of a pair of lists: a backwards litany of pain, followed by a forwardly moving, progressive instruction manual for hope. This poem is also where the novel’s title is derived: the thought-provoking, ripened line “Time is a mother” grows stronger by the refrain revisited later in the poem, immersed overwhelmingly in grief for his own late mother: “Time is a motherfucker.”
In a series of short, sardonic snippets, “Not Even” examines a journey through the caverns of time, traversing culture, queerness and identity. Within the second chapter, a spotlight shines brightest on the poem “Not Even.” Previously published as “Not Even This,” the already striking piece of work takes on new life with its two years maturation, a rumination on time and its endless agenda of progress. The second, however, returns to his familiar flowery cadence as the weaving pattern takes effect, slowly unraveling vivid themes of time, loneliness and love. The book is cleaved into four chapters, each slice emitting its own tone: the first holds itself to a more conversational sound than Vuong has previously put out, but he masters the voice effortlessly. Yet, however high Vuong previously set the bar, it is more than surpassed in his most recent work, a poignant, earthshaking elegy once again for his mother, who is now deceased.
Prior to the book’s release, the Vietnamese-American writer had already garnered colossal praise for his 2019 debut novel “On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous,” an epistolary novel in correspondence to his illiterate immigrant mother. An architect of words and practiced in perfervidity, Ocean Vuong deftly weaves together a vibrant canopy that is dizzyingly breathtaking in his newest poetry collection “Time is a Mother.”
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