Under the Same Sky: A Conversation With Poet Jaiden Geolingo
In this interview, poet Jaiden Geolingo discusses the writing process for his chapbook collection, serving as an editor, and more.
Jaiden Geolingo is an award-winning teen poet, author, and editor who seeks to peel away the layers that define us—who we are, who we are expected to be, and all the nebulous space in between. When I first met him in a youth writer’s group, I was struck by his evocative imagery, and the way it left me lingering with something nameless and beautiful. It’s been wonderful to follow his artistic path as he continues to publish, hone his craft, and engage with the literary community.
I spoke with Geolingo about his philosophies on exploring subjects such as migration, masculinity, and kinship. He approaches the complexity of human experiences and identities from his own unique lens, with an attentive eye for the ghosts we all harbor.
You recently published your debut poetry chapbook, How to Migrate Ghosts (kith books 2025). What was your writing process like for this collection, and were there any specific people or experiences that inspired you?
First off, thank you so much for interviewing me! I love the work you are doing, Ren, in highlighting young writers. Thank you for giving us a podium.
Prior to writing How to Migrate Ghosts, there was a resurgence of crisis in my cultural life. I had immigrated to America around two years ago, and that fluctuation came with anger, reverence, confusion, rejoice, and even fear. Many forces skirmished against each other, and for a moment, I questioned whether or not my time in the country would be well-lived. To this day an answer hasn’t arrived, but I’ve always felt it hover arms-width like a near comet.
The writing process was unexpected: 95% of the month it took to write the first draft was spent on my bed, in the soft dark, writing about haunts in poem form. Ghosts—at least in the metaphorical sense—were always something that lured me in because of its fluidity; so many intangible things in my life can be shape-shifted into a haunting backdrop, and I wanted to transform that onto the page. Not surprisingly, a good amount of these “ghosts” were anchored to the idea of immigration.
One piece of inspiration that lasted throughout the writing process was Night Sky With Exit Wounds, by Ocean Vuong. Vuong is deemed a powerhouse in the literary circle—and for good reason. This book in all its marvelousness pushed me to create my own; Vuong writes with such intimate nuance that underscores the immigrant experience in a fresh and unconventional methodology. Additionally, reading literary magazines helped me settle into the writing mindset.
The poems in your chapbook often center around migration, diasporic identity, and belonging as a Filipino-American. What is your philosophy on approaching such personal subjects with the care and nuance that you do?
My identity as a Filipino-American has gone through both perforation and restoration. I’ve never found belonging to be a one-way path; there will be turbulence in a corner somewhere.
When it comes to writing about these themes, I always consider the effect on both the readership and the poetic ground. What does the thematic role of migration play? What is the bigger picture of diasporic displacement? How can I write about things like this and avoid distancing myself from the truth? I realize everyday how nuanced immigration is, so to uphold that sophistication is the goal of my philosophy.
My favorite poem in the chapbook, Elegy in Farmer’s Market, surveys the role of Asian supermarkets in immigrant families and how it attests to the synthesis of Asian-American families across nationalities. Our second home is in an Asian market. Our lighthouse is located in an Asian market. To see fellow Asian-Americans in the same building to re-construct their home through cuisine brings me warmth and an inkling of kinship; it is these miniature moments in the immigrant experience that I wanted to foreground in How to Migrate Ghosts.
In your piece “Boyhood Requiem,” featured in The Shore Poetry, you call upon the reader to “suppose there’s no finish line by my boy-body except more wiring.” What draws you to explore masculinity—boyhood, especially—in your poetry? Do you think there are certain voices on the subject that are often overlooked by mainstream poetic canon?
I think a lot of people tend to portray masculinity as a congealed concept—it’s not a homogenous being, nor is it a universal experience for everyone. I’ve been friends with a lot of men that are scattered across that spectrum of “manliness”: some are more flamboyant, some are more rigid, and it’s eye-opening to witness how broad masculinity is in anyone. Unfortunately, people like to isolate the “correct” concept of masculinity to being fully grounded in a fixed and dispassionate demeanor (i.e: the ideology of men don’t cry).
In this poem, among other similar poems of mine, I wanted to touch on the antithesis of the alpha male archetype. We see this term floating around everywhere in the media— where a “real man” is commonly described as a tuxedo-bearing and physically-adept character. However, it’s important to dismantle this perception; personality isn’t monolithic, and it is not tied to gender culture. We all live under the same sky.
A good book that perfectly immortalizes these outlooks is The Man Grave by Christopher Salerno—a great poetry collection that deserves so much love!
You also serve as the editor-in-chief of Hominum Journal, an online creative arts publication with a focus on the corporeal. What has this experience been like for you? Has engaging with art and literature from the lens of an editor given you insights into your own craft?
Being offered the position of Editor-In-Chief for Hominum was one of the best blessings in my career. Evan—the previous In-Chief—had reached out to me and asked if I was interested in the position. Initially, I was reluctant, because I wasn’t positive if I was ready to take on such a mantle; however, Evan encouraged me to test the waters and to widen my perspectives in different sides of the writing world, so I was the executive poetry editor for a short time.
Being an executive and reviewing poetry that held different voices and thematic weight had pried my eyes open—both to my craft and my interpersonal relationships. I remember reading comedic poems and grieving poems in one sitting; it’s truly beautiful how the psyche can produce work this delicate. I want Hominum to be that solace for various forms of art.
I will admit: it’s been difficult keeping up, given that I have to balance junior year of high school, college preparation, social life, and other taxing work. But, I do know that I am still dedicated to giving artists a platform—a mission Hominum upholds that Evan and I both share. I can’t thank my wonderful team enough for their amazing cooperation throughout the editorial processes; my heart goes out to you all.
How do you see cultural representation shaping contemporary poetry? In your view, how can the community better support young writers to express their stories genuinely?
There's no doubt that contemporary poetry—and art in general—is rapidly shifting. We are in an epoch where artistic integrity and nuance is under risk, given the upsurge of Artificial Intelligence, and it’s paramount that we don’t let our personal culture slip away amidst that tsunami. I’m a young writer. I’m friends with so many other young writers. We all share the same belief that culture should slither its way into our words, whether it be directly or indirectly. In an era where we are slowly feeling the restriction of that liberty, I find myself writing about culture more often than not.
Like mentioned earlier, my debut poetry chapbook gravitates around my identity as an immigrant, and that comes with so many different cultures. It’s cathartic to preserve these heirlooms so that you don’t lose them in the near future where it can inch closer to a possibility. Culture is rooted within us—diasporic, gendered, racial, interpersonal, etc.—and for higher powers to strip us of this self-rule and to re-fragment us is distraughtly.
I always say that poetry is one of the most accessible and intimate art forms, how to me it’s almost akin to true love. We, as writers, are always pulled to confrontation with syntax, with nature, and with our own psyche. It’s almost impossible to avert your gaze from that tick. Even more so, young writers are more in-tune with the world in the sense that they feel the most; we go through a multitude of firsts and that becomes fodder for the things we write about. And, usually, culture lingers somewhere in those margins. So many things U-turn back to cultural declaration, even if it doesn’t seem like it, because young writers are so full of ideas. Everything is somewhat a confession. Everything is somewhat a profession of love. It’s warming to see that still holds truth.
Check out Jaiden Geolingo's How to Migrate Ghosts here:
