Biography of Tina Chang
Tina Chang is an American poet, teacher, and editor. In 2010, she was named Poet Laureate of Brooklyn.
Chang was born in 1969 in Oklahoma, to Chinese immigrants, who had met in Montreal, where her mother was working as a nurse and her father was earning his doctorate in physics. The family moved to New York when she was a year old. She was also raised in New York City. During her young age, Chang and her brother were sent to live in Taiwan with relatives for two years. “I started questioning even at a very young age, well, what is language?” she said. “What is the role of words?”
She later attended Binghamton University. She received her master of fine art's degree in poetry from Columbia University.
Tina Chang Poems
The Future Is An Animal
In every kind of dream I am a black wolf careening through a web. I am the spider who eats the wolf and inhabits the wolf's body. In another dream I marry the wolf and then
The Idea Of Revelation
It wasn't holy so let us not praise gods. Let us not look to them for bread, nor the cup that changed water to wine.
I am haunted by how much our mothers do not know. How a republic falls because of its backhanded deals, stairwell secrets. My mother does not know I am lying
Infinite and Plausible
It is the smallest idea born in the interior will, that has no fury nor ignorance, no intruder but stranger, no scaffold of a plea,
Evolution of Danger
I'm the one in the back of the bar, drinking cachaça, fingering the lip of the glass. Every dream has left me now as I wait for the next song: Drag and drum.
Origin & Ash
Powder rises from a compact, platters full of peppermints, a bowl of sour pudding.
On an island, an open road where an animal has been crushed by something larger than itself.
Empress Dowager Boogies
Last night I found my face below the water in my cupped hands.
My son rubs his skin and names it brown, his expression gleeful as I rub a damp cloth over his face this morning. Last night, there were reports that panthers were charging
Perhaps I hold people to impossible ideals, I tell them, something is wrong with your personality, (you're a drinker, you're too dependent, or I think you have
My son rubs his skin and names it brown,
his expression gleeful as I rub a damp cloth
over his face this morning. Last night,
there were reports that panthers were charging
through the streets. I watched from my seat
in front of the television, a safe vista.
I see the savannah. Sometimes, though,
my son wakes to a kind of nightmare.
He envisions words on the wall and cannot