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Oedipal dreams
- GenresPoetry
95 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1992
37 people are currently reading
94 people want to read
About the author
Evelyn Lau
23 books78 followersEvelyn Lau was born July 2, 1971 in Vancouver, British Columbia to Chinese-Canadian parents, who intended for her to eventually become a doctor. Her parents' ambitions for her were wholly irreconcilable with her own; consequently, her home and school lives were desperately unhappy. In 1986 she ran away from her unbearable existence as a pariah in school and tyrannized daughter at home.
Lau began publishing poetry at the age of 12; her creative efforts helped her escape the pressure of home and school. In 1985, at age 14, Lau left home and spent the next several years living itinerantly in Vancouver as a homeless person, sleeping mainly in shelters, friends' homes and on the street and often supporting herself by selling her body to much older men.
Despite the chaos of her first two years' independence she submitted a great deal of poetry to journals and received some recognition. A diary she kept at the time was published in 1989 as Runaway: Diary of a Street Kid. The book was a critical and commercial success. Topics and individuals discussed in the book include some of Lau's various relationships with manipulative older men, the life and habits of a group of anarchists with whom she stayed immediately after leaving home, Lau's experiences with a couple from Boston who smuggled her into the United States, her abuse of various drugs, and her relationship with British Columbia's child support services. The film The Diary of Evelyn Lau (1993) starred Korean-Canadian actress Sandra Oh.
Lau had a well-publicized romantic relationship with University of Victoria creative writing professor and author W. P. Kinsella which led to the filing of a libel case against her[3]. She currently lives in Vancouver, where she freelances as a manuscript consultant in Simon Fraser University's Writing and Publishing Program. For invitations to poetry readings and festivals, the author may be contacted through Oolichan Books.
Lau began publishing poetry at the age of 12; her creative efforts helped her escape the pressure of home and school. In 1985, at age 14, Lau left home and spent the next several years living itinerantly in Vancouver as a homeless person, sleeping mainly in shelters, friends' homes and on the street and often supporting herself by selling her body to much older men.
Despite the chaos of her first two years' independence she submitted a great deal of poetry to journals and received some recognition. A diary she kept at the time was published in 1989 as Runaway: Diary of a Street Kid. The book was a critical and commercial success. Topics and individuals discussed in the book include some of Lau's various relationships with manipulative older men, the life and habits of a group of anarchists with whom she stayed immediately after leaving home, Lau's experiences with a couple from Boston who smuggled her into the United States, her abuse of various drugs, and her relationship with British Columbia's child support services. The film The Diary of Evelyn Lau (1993) starred Korean-Canadian actress Sandra Oh.
Lau had a well-publicized romantic relationship with University of Victoria creative writing professor and author W. P. Kinsella which led to the filing of a libel case against her[3]. She currently lives in Vancouver, where she freelances as a manuscript consultant in Simon Fraser University's Writing and Publishing Program. For invitations to poetry readings and festivals, the author may be contacted through Oolichan Books.
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Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews
January 17, 2022
at this corner of 7-11's, parking lots
grocery stores with apartments upstairs
the dust of the evening sits in her nostrils
the wind slides down the back of her shirt
she watches women walking their dogs and each other
cars that roll towards her with firefly eyes
she waits fora car with one broken headlight
this was the instruction, this is all
she knows
pairs of headlights sweep yellow silk down the sidewalk
missing her feet like a wave
she sees now why he has chosen this part of town
the only corner of beauty
is near the airport, where the planes fly out
and bugs fly up in a golden storm from roads and bushes
here he watches the planes escape
into some blue place of vanishing
when they are high and lost he turns the car around
follows the lines in his mind, all pointing away from her
* * *
there is a moment of flight in your throat when the key
turns in the lock, and fits
and you follow him inside
a strangled christ dangles on the wall
toy soldiers rally between the banisters
he keeps a sword beside his empty bed
who is the enemy? how can
the enemy enter and not be frozen
by the blue and white snowflake of this home
a kitchen out of some magazine where kitchens stay
sunny and pine, where the wood is blond
and clusters of dried things smell - herbs, spices, flowers
your pupils spin as if you have stepped
from a black shelter into light
you do not see the three wedding photos on the dresser
where his arm holds a woman who looks happy
even though she is standing in a park by the edge pf a cliff
with a good view
* * *
he called it the year of the long hallucination
this storm in the brain, this storm in the sky
this storm of words in the blue room
where patients sat in different positions on the couch.
it was the year undefined
until his analyst failed to fall in love with you
he saw the unworthiness of what he loved.
you would call it the year of lies.
mirrors smoked on every wall down the hallway
when he returned to his office
his face the colour of bone
and a storm rose on the horizon of his consulting room.
you saw afterwards he had drawn coffins and steeples
on the inner leaves of your file, around your words,
that his pen was angry.
if it was your hallucination, on the final day
the storm of words would falter and silence at the door
as patient after patient walked away
* * *
you fall through a shower of splinters and light
you dance with glass embedded arms
ten feet tall in my dreams, disguised perhaps
but look at how small I have become
in this bathroom stall
beside a man with blood on his elbow
the striped belt on his bathrobe braces my arm
the needle bounces in my flesh
for the first time you leave my thoughts
you who crowd my dreams wearing different bodies
you who walk through doors of glass
and survive
you who fall through skylights
I walk naked through many rooms
you stand cold as a vision
you leave me
I push you through glass doors in my dreams
through skylights
my father with the dark face, you appear more handsome
in dreams than in life, I hold up to you the handle
of a child's mirror
* * *
coming home, you counted one person dead
for every year you were away in Singapore
eating rice and vegetables, standing by the side of the road
where the thinness of the people swelled to fill the streets
under a hood of heat.
you returned with a camera and a pair of socks slowly stained
the colour of your shoes, expecting nothing,
not the rain that lay like glass outside the motel window,
or the cold through your cotton shirt. seeing nothing
but one friend hanging by a leash from the bridge,
puffy as a purple fig.
listen, you said in the parking lot outside,
the silence, listen to it, and I saw it cut you
with its high horrible delicacy, its vicious thinness,
so much silence to shatter you could hardly stand it.
so this my country, you said,and your eyes pulled tight
and your laughter forced sound after sound in the air.
grocery stores with apartments upstairs
the dust of the evening sits in her nostrils
the wind slides down the back of her shirt
she watches women walking their dogs and each other
cars that roll towards her with firefly eyes
she waits fora car with one broken headlight
this was the instruction, this is all
she knows
pairs of headlights sweep yellow silk down the sidewalk
missing her feet like a wave
she sees now why he has chosen this part of town
the only corner of beauty
is near the airport, where the planes fly out
and bugs fly up in a golden storm from roads and bushes
here he watches the planes escape
into some blue place of vanishing
when they are high and lost he turns the car around
follows the lines in his mind, all pointing away from her
- Waiting for a Ride Out of Here, pg. 19
* * *
there is a moment of flight in your throat when the key
turns in the lock, and fits
and you follow him inside
a strangled christ dangles on the wall
toy soldiers rally between the banisters
he keeps a sword beside his empty bed
who is the enemy? how can
the enemy enter and not be frozen
by the blue and white snowflake of this home
a kitchen out of some magazine where kitchens stay
sunny and pine, where the wood is blond
and clusters of dried things smell - herbs, spices, flowers
your pupils spin as if you have stepped
from a black shelter into light
you do not see the three wedding photos on the dresser
where his arm holds a woman who looks happy
even though she is standing in a park by the edge pf a cliff
with a good view
- Eight Months Later: His House, pg. 27
* * *
he called it the year of the long hallucination
this storm in the brain, this storm in the sky
this storm of words in the blue room
where patients sat in different positions on the couch.
it was the year undefined
until his analyst failed to fall in love with you
he saw the unworthiness of what he loved.
you would call it the year of lies.
mirrors smoked on every wall down the hallway
when he returned to his office
his face the colour of bone
and a storm rose on the horizon of his consulting room.
you saw afterwards he had drawn coffins and steeples
on the inner leaves of your file, around your words,
that his pen was angry.
if it was your hallucination, on the final day
the storm of words would falter and silence at the door
as patient after patient walked away
- Last Year, pg. 47
* * *
you fall through a shower of splinters and light
you dance with glass embedded arms
ten feet tall in my dreams, disguised perhaps
but look at how small I have become
in this bathroom stall
beside a man with blood on his elbow
the striped belt on his bathrobe braces my arm
the needle bounces in my flesh
for the first time you leave my thoughts
you who crowd my dreams wearing different bodies
you who walk through doors of glass
and survive
you who fall through skylights
I walk naked through many rooms
you stand cold as a vision
you leave me
I push you through glass doors in my dreams
through skylights
my father with the dark face, you appear more handsome
in dreams than in life, I hold up to you the handle
of a child's mirror
- Father, pg. 57
* * *
coming home, you counted one person dead
for every year you were away in Singapore
eating rice and vegetables, standing by the side of the road
where the thinness of the people swelled to fill the streets
under a hood of heat.
you returned with a camera and a pair of socks slowly stained
the colour of your shoes, expecting nothing,
not the rain that lay like glass outside the motel window,
or the cold through your cotton shirt. seeing nothing
but one friend hanging by a leash from the bridge,
puffy as a purple fig.
listen, you said in the parking lot outside,
the silence, listen to it, and I saw it cut you
with its high horrible delicacy, its vicious thinness,
so much silence to shatter you could hardly stand it.
so this my country, you said,and your eyes pulled tight
and your laughter forced sound after sound in the air.
- Coming Home, pg. 70
November 29, 2017
I read and loved Lau's (more recent) book "Treble" previous to finding this collection, and was interested in reading more. The author's talent, grit, lyricism, and emotion come through in "Oedipal Dreams", but it's clear that this is an early work. The writing is unpolished at times, and some pieces longer and more cluttered than they might be. The focus of the first half is on an affair between a young speaker and older man, which carries interest to the degree that it is new, but some elements become repetitive, in my opinion. Perhaps a worthwhile read for fans of Lau's poetry, but I wouldn't suggest this collection as an entry into her work.
Here are the poems I most appreciated /
feel are important to the movement of the loose narrative:
In Search of You In Search of Freud
The Lost Hours
Waiting for a Ride Out of Here
The Second Waiting Room
Bruises
The Other Woman
Isolation Rooms
I Never Promised You
Into the Blue Room
Last Year
Tuesday Afternoon
We Thought Ourselves Unmoveable*
Telephone
Waking in Toronto
Dressing Up
Room of Tears*
Night After Night
Indian Summer, 1991
Afternoon #1
Here are the poems I most appreciated /
feel are important to the movement of the loose narrative:
In Search of You In Search of Freud
The Lost Hours
Waiting for a Ride Out of Here
The Second Waiting Room
Bruises
The Other Woman
Isolation Rooms
I Never Promised You
Into the Blue Room
Last Year
Tuesday Afternoon
We Thought Ourselves Unmoveable*
Telephone
Waking in Toronto
Dressing Up
Room of Tears*
Night After Night
Indian Summer, 1991
Afternoon #1
May 11, 2017
Another recommendation from my Gramma. This poetry collection was absolutely breathtaking. It was bitter, painful, resentful, sad, revolting and sharp. I found it full of loneliness and memories. It was so beautifully written I reread many of the poems. Loved this.
November 19, 2025
she gets it
November 4, 2014
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June 12, 2023
Incredible book of poetry. Sex, drugs, love, hate, mother, son, father, daughter, abuse, adoration, life, death.
Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews