Acintya Shenoy, Week #15: i tend to forget
i tend to forget
by Acintya Shenoy
i remember the first day it happened. i am sitting in my great-grandmother’s room,
her only room in the house, the only blue room in the house, the only blue room in
the house with a swing. i am sitting on her lap, on the swing, and her hands are made
of branches. her hands are made of branches, and they are holding me, and they are
singing me a song i don’t understand. they are clasping around my chest and whispering
in my ear and swaying in the wind like a dead man and i don’t understand. i don’t
understand the copper around her wrists, i don’t understand the barklike silk covering
her chest. i don’t understand why she is trying to look me in the eye when i am facing
away from her, sitting on her lap, on the swing. my grandmother walks into the room
and eyes her with pity, then carries me to her lap, and her hands are made of branches,
but there are still a few leaves. i can twist the gold rings that are suffocating the
tributary twigs branching from her knuckles but i can’t pry them off of her. i can’t see
her but i know her femurs are trembling still, but she ignores them and tells me stories
of dead men i don’t understand. she is telling me a story of a dead woman when
my mother hears her name called and enters the room. my mother enters the room and
eyes her with pity, then carries me to her lap, and her hands are branches with leaves on
them. there is a watch on the trunk, the wrist—3 a.m. it must be broken, because she says
my grandmothers should go to sleep, because it’s late, but it can’t be late when it’s
morning. i tell her this but she’s not listening because the women are finally tucked under
white sheets and she’s playing piano music for them. i hold a leafy branch as she leads me out
of the room, my only room in the house, the only blue room in the house, the only blue room
in the house with a swing.
A/N: I began this poem over a year ago. As I reformed and reshaped it into what it looks like now, I noticed that its subject matter and voice are reminiscent of Toni Morrison’s Beloved.
Hi Acintya! This poem is beautiful! I always love reading your writings because you have such a unique way of writing that just pulls the reader in and this piece is no different. The repetition of sentences which build on themselves create an elusive tone for your poem and add to the feeling of the recollection of a memory forgotten. Each sentence your memory builds more and more clarity of the facts surrounding the event pulling your readers along with you as we also try to piece together what is occurring. I also love the use of a tree, and its branches, as a symbol for hands. It creates a vivid image of hands, withered with winding veins, like the grooves of trees and their branches. Through these things I can also see the resemblance to the writings of Toni Morrison’s Beloved that you mentioned in your authors note.
ReplyDeleteAs you stated at the end, in your note, this poem was a work in progress for a few years. I wonder how much it has changed since the first draft? Have you noticed any change in voice over the years you have been working on it? I loved this poem and I can’t wait to see what you write next week!
Hi Acintya! You always amaze me with your poetic writing. I’m wondering, what is your process for writing short poems like this? Does an idea randomly pop in your head and you start to write about it, or do you sit down for hours and just.. think? I also used to write poetry, but I never really “got good” at it, so I just kept small poems to myself and I never told anyone because I was insecure in the fear that they wanted to read any of it. Maybe I’ll get back to writing them because I feel like it’s my own diary.
ReplyDeleteI really admire how you illustrate your experience with your great-grandmother and her daughters. I can vaguely remember the times where my grandmother used to carry me, and one key thing I remember is their arms being so incredibly bony and frail. I remember always asking her during meals if that was all she was eating, and seeing the concerned look on my face, she would smile and just say she was not hungry. Even though I didn’t spend much time with my grandparents before they unfortunately passed, I still admire the fragmented memories of their sweet smiles and the way they cared for me by giving me love, comfort, and the best warm hugs ever. Thank you for this amazing blog, Acintya. Thinking about it, maybe I will write a few poems here and there. Hopefully I can write as well as you in the future :)).