Acintya Shenoy, Week #13: Soured
This poem isn’t about any memory in particular.
I saw the picture you showed me, of a lemon sponge cake with chrysanthemums and
Hydrangeas sitting politely on the supple top, and zest of grapefruit clinging
to the sides like droplets on oily skin.
I really liked it. I think we should come together one day and make it real.
My mother showed me how to make chicken curry last night,
and I wanted to try it with you. I know you love the blank, white taste,
How the blood vessels turn brown and tender near the bone and the pillowy flesh
is stained golden with spice. But I prefer your sponge cake. It feels
lighter.
Yesterday I walked into your home and I saw lemons on your front porch,
so I helped you pluck the fruit from the tree in the back and drag the ripped
paper bags to the front. Of course I’ll help. I don’t mind spending
some extra time with you.
When I went home I made your chicken curry again and sent it to you
but I think you were busy picking lemons
so I closed my phone and slept.
When I woke up the next morning I think I saw something crawling
over a wing, so I threw the thing away. You called again,
and we picked chrysanthemums, pink and purple spikes
poking out of paper bags on the front porch. I tried something new tonight,
chicken noodle soup. I added lemon, because I meant it for you.
The smell of fungus fills my nostrils at an ungodly four in the morning
when I descend the steps of my home and see
ants
crawling over my kitchen. I don plastic gloves and a cold metal knife and see
ants
crawling, infesting, invading the lemons I had set aside
for you. There are ants, black, moldy, stinking, rotting, infesting
in the jars, in the cupboards, in the oven, there are ants
in my shirt, in my skin, in my ears, in my nose,
there are ants
everywhere everytime everyplace in every way everything
The pot is sliced open, and the lid clutters on the floor, and I see
the chicken untouched.
I wipe down the sides and wait.
I run to your house and see fading chrysanthemum petals and not
your face.
There’s a stigma around poetry for us high schoolers, that it’s hard to read and even more difficult to understand. I think we all forget the only rule in poetry: there are no rules. You can do whatever you want, and you have done whatever you want and done it well. I love how you focus on constants in a changing world to show how the same thing can change as time passes. One constant is lemons, and they start as an ingredient to sponge cake then travel to the front porch. They’re picked from the tree and again become an ingredient, but this time in chicken noodle soup. In the end, they go bad. They’re infested, as if signaling the end of something. I love the way that you choose to indent the last couple stanzas, as they give the feeling that events are moving faster and that they are trying to “run away” from the reader. Another constant is chicken. It starts out in chicken curry, then chicken noodle soup, and then simply chicken. In a way, it is going through a journey opposite to the lemon as it follows a singular path as an ingredient in a “heavier” food, then in a lighter one, and then lastly, to its simplest form. I love the parallel that shows different journeys. I honestly don’t know if I understood this poem in the way that you intended, but that’s the fun in poetry. Every single person is different, and therefore will interpret the same text differently. I’m extremely curious to know how other people would understand this poem and would love to know what you wanted to portray through this beautiful poem.
ReplyDeleteHi Acintya! I really enjoyed reading your poem, and I love the loads of sensory details you added especially on the foods you mentioned. I’m sorry if I interpret your poem in a shallow way, but I couldn’t help but be reminded of my sister when I was reading your poem.
ReplyDeleteSometimes I ask my sister to make me food even though I can make it myself, and one phrase I always say to my sister when she asks why is “you make it better. I just prefer your (insert food)”. Even though the food may taste the same, the experience is different. I get to spend more time with my sister and make new memories with her. Being a recent college graduate, my sister is looking for a place to move out. This has been hard for me because I have lived all my life with her and I have gotten really close with her these past few years. There’s not a day where I don’t talk to her, and it also helps that she’s just one door away. However, realizing that I really only have a few months left having her in the house has made me value every experience with her.
I really resonate with this mystery figure that you talk to throughout the poem because I of course I “don’t mind spending some extra time” with my sister, and I often also do the same things she does (in my mannerisms or the way I cook) unintentionally because they remind me of them, like how you “added lemon, because [you] meant it for [them]”. When you later mention the rotting lemons that you had set aside for your mystery figure, I found that as something I would soon experience with my sister once she moves out of the house. The gifts I give her, the leftovers I save for her, and the food I make for her once she comes home will all soon expire. Because she’s not coming back every day anymore. It serves as the hard truth that we are growing up, and I won’t be able to experience that same close sibling bond that we had ever since we were kids. And I only have the experiences that I so desperately valued to look back at.
Do you have any siblings, and if so, do you feel the same way about them leaving or yourself leaving the house (depending if they are older or younger)? I’m really curious of what your thought process was behind the poem and what your personal meaning in the poem is. Thank you again for a very lovely poem, Acintya! :)
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ReplyDeleteWhat an intriguing piece! The imagery is strong in your poem, and if you don’t mind, I would love to share my interpretation of what it all means.
ReplyDeleteBlank, white taste is an interesting choice of diction to describe curry, which I associate more with spice and strong flavors. What about the curry feels blank and white to the person you address? Do they like bland foods more, hence unseasoned chicken and “lighter” sponge cake? I think that this speaks more to the person being pure in your eyes.
The ripped paper bags feel like a Beloved reference. Lemons and chrysanthemums signify your love for the individual, a thick love which breaks anything that tries to contain it. At the same time, the bags are your sense of self and being, which has been damaged because you devoted too much to them.
I love your description of “ungodly four in the morning.” It resembles the phrase “ungodly hour,” a wicked time of day. The indented scene in your poem seems to have moved away from purity and love, instead conjuring feelings of disgust. The decomposed lemons symbolize your rotting love.
Finally, who sliced the pot? Was it you, holding the cold metal knife? I think that you became overwhelmed by “everywhere everytime everyplace” and descended into a rage by which the pot was destroyed.