“Hope, to me, is the audacity that we can do more than just survive…” Carmin Wong’s Life@ GWN

Carmin lives and breathes poetry. Her unwavering commitment to both the art form and her community is truly inspiring. She recognizes the strengths and talents of young people, empowering them to speak, write, and see themselves as active participants in the ongoing literary conversation. Carmin reminds emerging poets that poetry is not only a powerful tool for self-expression but also a catalyst for radical change.

Carmin’s journey with Girls Write Now spans over a decade—first as a mentee, then as a mentor, and now as an instructor. Her continued presence reflects the very heart of the Girls Write Now mission: to help young writers build a future through the transformative power of the arts.

In the classroom, Carmin leads with curiosity and care, constantly asking the critical questions about how we define poetry. She fosters a nurturing, inclusive environment where exploration, collaboration, and creativity thrive.

Her dedication to uplifting and amplifying voices is essential to cultivating a community where everyone feels seen and heard. This spring, Carmin brings her scholarship, empathy, and deep love for Black poetry to the Poetry Journey program, where she teaches Poetics: Black Poetry in the American Canon from the Furious Flower Poetry: Seeding the Future of African American Poetry anthology. 

A poet in every sense of the word, she tells her story best. 

Tell us about your life@GWN.  

I share this history with care and gratitude because over the years, I’ve had the privilege of witnessing the organization grow—expanding its mission, broadening its reach, and deepening its commitment to inclusivity. What began as a program serving girls has evolved into a vibrant space that now supports girls, and gender expansive writers. Its transition from in-person workshops to a virtual model is just one example of its inclusivity and transformation.

I first joined Girls Write Now NYC as a teenage mentee. The program provided some of my first opportunities to publish both in print and online, share stages with youth and professional writers, and develop confidence in my voice. Each month, I attended weekend workshops focused on genre writing and met regularly with my mentor, with whom I formed a bond. 

Through one of Girls Write Now’s workshops, I was introduced to slam poetry, which led me to Poet-Linc NYC and eventually Urban Word NYC. This experience was transformative, helping me understand poetry as not only written but spoken and embodied—a shift that continues to guide my artistic and teaching practices.

After graduating high school, it felt only right that I would return as a summer mentor, guiding younger writers through college application workshops. These workshops make all the difference in students’ careers  and the future of their artistic lives. 

I’m currently a doctoral student, practicing poet and playwright, and a 2025 Teaching artist with Girls Write Now. 

What’s your superpower? How does that inform the work you do at Girls Write Now?

I wouldn’t call it a superpower, but I do believe empathy is central to both my writing and teaching. It allows me to approach stories, narratives, myself, and students with the understanding that our experiences are varied and layered. The complexity of those experiences is far more compelling than reducing them to mythic monoliths.

Empathy doesn’t feel like a superpower to me because it comes naturally—poetry and teaching do as well. Still, I recognize that not everyone possesses this quality, and I’ve come to appreciate it as something important. I’ve come to acknowledge this as a gift—to take care of it. It allows me to connect deeply with my students and their work, which is necessary because classrooms without care are violent. 

The theme for our upcoming anthology is “Hope Lives in our Words.” What does hope look like to you?

I think hope is closely related to dreaming. And I believe it’s hard to dream when you’re living in extreme poverty. Poverty often strips us of our imagination—or worse, it commodifies it, putting a limit on what we’re able to dream of and for ourselves. Hope, to me, is the audacity that we can do more than just survive. It’s the assertion that, in the midst of our struggles, we can still imagine, play, and reconnect with our  inner child that gives us permission to dream and reimagine our futures.

This month we’re celebrating national poetry month. Who is your favorite poet and why? 

I have so many favorite poets, each of whom, in my mind, is iconic. The challenge is where to begin. I’ll start with Lorna Goodison, whose work I deeply admire. I never imagined in a million years that I’d get to meet her, but I did, at the Furious Flower Poetry Center Conference, which takes place once every 10 years.

Then there’s Kai Miller. His poetry and prose have profoundly influenced me—so much so that I wrote about him in my application to graduate school. I still can’t believe we met last September at the same conference. It was a pivotal moment for me, as it was the first time I saw global Black poets come together, not just celebrating American or African-American poetry, but embracing poetry across the diaspora. In that tradition, there’s also Tanya Shirley, a writer I encountered during my time at Howard University.

I’m also deeply grateful to Niyi Osundare, who was my advisor and an extraordinary influence. I like to think that I’m cut from his cloth, as an educator, scholar, and poet.

I look up to the artistic activism of Nikki Giovanni, Sonia Sanchez, and Ntozake Shange—they’ve all reshaped the way we approach poetry on the page and stage. Shange, in particular, embodies the anti-disciplinary and inclusive approach that poetry can reel in a myriad of audiences.

And of course, I have great respect for dub poets and artists, as well as all the calypsonians. The list is long, and mighty.

Poetry comes in unexpected forms. Who is someone in your life who may not consider themselves a poet, but informs your approach to reading and writing poetry? 

I believe everyone is a poet, whether they realize it or not. I have friends who express themselves so poetically, yet they identify as writers of other genres. Often, it’s because they haven’t been introduced to—or fully embraced—the craft of poetry. Growing up in a Caribbean household, I was surrounded by adages, proverbial language, and the sermonic sound of church—these are all poetic elements. The way we empathize, feel deeply, and care for one another is, in part, an act of poet-ing. So, in my view, everyone is a poet, some realized and some unrealized.

You’re facilitating the Girls Write Now poetry journey with Azia Armstead. What is something you’ve learned from the mentees? 

There is so much to learn from students, particularly their patience. A perfect example of this came with the Furious Flower: Seeding the Future of African American Poetry. We had hoped to distribute the books to our students well before the start of class, but unfortunately, they didn’t arrive in time for our first session. Knowing this, I adjusted the lesson plan, shifting our focus since we wouldn’t be able to dive into the deep analysis I had originally intended.

While waiting for the books, this delay created an unexpected opportunity to address one of the most important foundational conversations when engaging with these texts: the politics of representation. This conversation led us to discuss how anthologies and print culture shape the representation of poets and their work. A question that stood out, one that has stayed with me since, was, “How do we define contemporary poets?” This question was particularly meaningful because I always begin by emphasizing that everyone in the class is a contemporary poet. They’re not aspiring to be part of the conversation—they are already part of it.

When I had the chance to speak with Dr. Gabbin, the founding director of the Furious Flower Poetry Center, I shared with her that we were using the Furious Flower anthology in the class. I asked her how she would define contemporary Black poets, and she confirmed that the anthology itself was created, in part, in response to this very question. 

Another key aspect of this course has been my effort to de-center the traditional classroom hierarchy. I’ve worked hard to make sure that the students’ knowledge—both individual and collective—is acknowledged and valued. Teachability isn’t just about student identity; it’s about creating a space for collaboration and mutual learning. Our conversations show me that we’re not just writing poetry—we’re theorizing it. We’re reflecting on how we show up in the world and how our identities shape the spaces we occupy in our work. The students’ critical thinking has been incredible.

The creation of the syllabus, the monthly lesson plans, and the teaching itself have truly been a labor of love. But I also want to acknowledge the crucial support I received from Azia, who coordinated with Girls Write Now and the publishers so that we could intentionally support Furious Flower—a center uplift Black poetry and cultural memory, especially in the face of the current assault on Black literature and education.

In poetry, sometimes less is more. Tell us a bit about your experience with Girls Write Now using only five words. 

Don’t wait for a seat.

If you were to write your own “letter to a young poet” what would you say? 

Oh wow, I think I’d say, Dear Carmin…

I didn’t see a future for myself as a young poet—because I didn’t see a future for myself at all. That’s what pulled me deeper into poetry. And I think that’s true for many young artists today. They’re not creating because they feel seen in this world—they’re writing because they don’t. Some don’t see themselves in the future of this world. Others don’t see a future for this world at all.

Compared to other art forms, I think people turn to poetry because they’re trying to free something inside themselves—because they’re carrying something too big to hold, and language becomes the only tool they have to release it. Poetry makes feelings feel significant to others. Through chant, rhythm, sound—we begin to name ourselves, to make meaning for ourselves.

There’s joy, acceptance, and entertainment in that. But I want to acknowledge too that there are young writers right now for whom poetry isn’t a first choice—it’s a last option. They’re turning to it because it’s the only space that makes room for all they’re carrying. And that matters.

What is your favorite tool for creating (writing, etc.) pencil, pen, keyboard, app?

Books–I like to read other poems and writings. 

Recordings—I like to listen to other poems or record without writing. 

Art inspires other art, so music and visual pieces are great too. 

Aside from necessities, what one thing could you not go a day without?

You know, it depends. I think I’d say I live a very content life. I’m grateful for where my life is right now. I just hope to wield the power to maintain abundance—in spirit, in art, in community, love, and all the important things. 

Are you a morning person or a night owl?

3 am writing is a whole lot better than 8 am–I’ll tell you that.