18 pages • 36 minutes read
“Aubade with Burning City” is a free verse, unmetered poem of varying line and stanza lengths. Following a modern impulse, Vuong makes liberal use of enjambment, stanza breaks, and indentation throughout the poem. The most regular feature of the poem is the italicized song lyrics and dialogue, although this choice is most likely meant to reduce confusion rather than provide any sort of scaffolding. The irregular lines and stanzas invoke a naturalistic feeling, as if the poem is being composed in the moment, a choice also supported by the use of present tense. The lack of order is appropriate for the chaos and confusion of the Fall of Saigon. Looking at the page from a distance, the lines create the effect of falling here and there on the page like ash, petals, or snow.
The poet doesn’t use enjambment according to a formal rule. Vuong has spoken in interviews about the incongruity between oral storytelling and the notion of an orderly line break, so it is not surprising that Vuong would take an unregimented approach. Enjambment serves the mood of the poem by contributing to the visual structure, creating short and long lines, and by refusing to establish formal order as a solution to the chaos of the moment.
The title of the poem, “Aubade with Burning City,” does little to establish the date and location of the poem. If the reader encounters this poem outside of the context of the collection, the phrase “burning city” establishes a vibrant yet unspecific image. The epigraph, dense with facts and figures, does the work of rooting the reader in the poem. Note how the month, date, year, and country all appear in quick sequence at the beginning of the epigraph. The name of the composer, the song, and the code name for the evacuation operation are all also included. This level of specificity is contrasted by the poem itself, which avoids naming any of its characters or even using the name of the city. By frontloading all of this information, Vuong frees the poem itself from the burden of exposition. “Aubade with Burning City” crafts a scene based on all of the facts presented in the epigraph, illustrating a strange, terrifying, wonderous mood that gives emotional weight to the historical event.
Without the epigraph, the poem would still be legible to a certain audience. Milkflower petals, “White Christmas” lyrics, the soldier’s reference to a war, and tanks and shell blasts are all telling clues. If the reader were familiar with the Fall of Saigon, they could glean the basic facts of the epigraph from the text. With the epigraph, the poem becomes understandable to a much wider audience, and it serves the more familiar reader by alleviating the detective work required to unearth these facts from the poem itself.
An aubade is a song or poem greeting the dawn, particularly in the context of lovers leaving one another at dawn. An aubade typically has a bittersweet mood—there’s anguish in the lovers’ parting, but there’s so much joy from having been in one another’s presence. A burning city, in contrast, is categorically terrifying, disastrous, and far from intimate.
Taken in isolation, the lyrics from “White Christmas” quoted in the poem are bittersweet and reflective: “May your days be merry and bright…” (Line 3); “May all / your Christmases be white” (Lines 9-10); “The treetops glisten and children listen” (Line 26); “I’m dreaming. I’m dreaming… / to hear sleigh bells in the snow…” (Lines 49-50). The speaker in the "White Christmas" song is unconcerned with the present and disconnected from his body, absorbed in the world of happy memories. The disconnect borders on delusional in the context of a city siege. At the same time, there’s something understandable about this impulse in this moment. The soldier in the hotel room uses similar mental gymnastics when he encourages his love to worry only about tomorrow. Again, disconnecting from the present moment when the ground is shaking underneath one’s feet seems foolish, but choosing to have an optimistic disposition does have its own benefits.
While the images described in “Aubade with Burning City” can edge on the fantastic, they are far from nonspecific. The speaker takes care to avoid generalizations about the city of Saigon, entire populations of people, and the events taking place. When rubble falls, it falls in a specific place, such as when the “snow crackl[es] against the window” (Line 33). When the song moves through the city, it takes on the disposition of a lone “widow” (Line 30). Individual people fall in the street, and the footsteps of people running "fill the square like stones fallen from the sky" (Line 9). These images have a mundane, comprehensible scale. The surrealism comes from their peculiarity.
Throughout the poem, "petals" and "snow" fall. The "white" in the poem landing on the city, the window, a dog, and the street all refer to these two symbols. At moments when gunfire rages and buildings fall, the color seems to refer to a third thing—ash and dust, or something similar. When strange images collide, the bizarre contrast creates the surreal effect. Consider the sentence, “A white… A white… I’m dreaming of a curtain of snow // falling from her shoulders” (Lines 31-32). The snow, the white, and the girl all come together in this moment, leaving the real world behind to imagine something impossible. The contrast of this moment, the wonder it produces, and the questions it evokes of what belongs in this moment and what doesn’t is the intended effect of surrealist imagery. In a way, this refusal to allow the reader to feel rooted in the moment and accept what is happening is a way of deeming the horror these people endure unacceptable. It refuses to tie the moment up neatly for the reader, implicating them in the legacy of the Fall of Saigon.
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By Ocean Vuong