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The city where Grandma splashes spices
In her vessel. 3 tablespoons of flour and oil, 1/2 pound smoked
Sausage, sliced to fit, 1 pound boneless chicken thighs
Cut in bite-size pieces, and 2 cups of frozen cut okra,
The creation is almost finished.
Poured in a plastic wrap the soup
Flows like a flush,
Until the white grain is added.
Yum!
The city where the different cultures had intercourse,
Birthing a child later named jazz.
Where on every corner instruments told a story,
A story we second lined to, to celebrate death, marriage,
And birth.
The city that’s stuck in a bowl with oceans crowded around for miles,
Until the water embraced it
Cleansing the sins away, creating a new beginning,
This is my city, the city I call home.
I love lists in poetry. It takes an impressive attention to detail to create a meter that its continuous throughout the work but still not sacrificing enough of the list to make sense.
ReplyDeleteSo I loved the section in the beginning about your grandmother's recipe. The words created their own bounce that I wish would have continued throughout the rest of the work. Perhaps trying spreading the recipe out. In fact, I found this to be the most home-familiar part of the work. Who doesn't understand the smells of home-cooking? Mom or grandma blowing up the house with all those savory smells? I think these memories create familiarity without being heavy emotionally.
I understand you're from New Orleans, if I remember correctly? (I could be way off base of course, if so, forgive me.) I think you can find a way to combine the New Orleans flavors more thoroughly with that wonderful Louisiana flair.
I think this got me excited.
What I liked: The recipe for one. I thought the recipe added a lot of interest to the beginning of the poem--both because you bring in a grandma figure, and because you refer to the recipe as a "creation," before you equate it to a flush. Of course, the flush makes the entire ordeal sound utterly disgusting, but it is followed up by "Yum!" which did throw me off at first. I usually don't put exclamations in my poems, or in my writing, and I have always thought that it really must serve a purpose when used. As for this, it could work as a kind of backlash against the recipe, which sets up questions about the rest of the poem: is it all an illusion to the city, or are you trying to juggle two pieces?
ReplyDeleteImprovements: I am not sure I like how many fragments there are--I understand this is poetry, and you are allowed to play around with language a lot more freely than with prose, but I just don't think the fragments do anything for me. The opening line is a fragment, and then the first line of the second stanza mirrors that with another fragment. I am not saying that it has to be a complete sentence but, as a reader, I feel like it could be better if those were formed into complete thoughts. In the second stanza, you mirror yourself in a different way: you use the phrase "a story" back-to-back, and it is obviously done on purpose. I think in a way, the same phrase back-to-back idea is a little bit on the cliche side. I know it is supposed to have a bit of a dramatic effect, but I just don't know that it works in the poem right now. Another thing is that right after that, you say "A story we second lined to, to celebrate death, marriage, / and birth." but, I don't know what that even means. It seems like a sentence fragment that maybe you mistyped and it was supposed to say something else. As it stands, I get lost there.
All Around: I like it--especially the beginning. I think the idea to mix the recipe with the beginning of a poem was nice, but from the flush on, it all seems to kind of go down a level or two--which could have been intentional. If I was going to say anything to that effect, it is that you could capitalize on the flush being an image of descent, and then focusing the rest of the poem into a downward spiral. However, there is a sentence I don't know what to do with, and places where the fragments become a bit much in terms of the inner workings of the poem itself. I would suggest looking at everything past the first stanza, stepping back, asking what you want to do with the piece, and then fleshing it out some more. Maybe by doing the downward spiral idea that I suggested, or perhaps by giving a bit more poetic background about New Orleans--filling it with the color of the city. I've been to New Orleans--after the floods--and I've never encountered a city as unique as that place. You've lived there. Show us how you see it. For me, it was a wonderful sensory experience--sights, colors, sounds I'd never heard, a unique city that felt at once ancient and new. Pack all of it into a poem when you talk about home--especially one that's been destroyed. Don't hold back.
I just have to say that I never thought the word "yum" could ever be employed as brilliantly as it is in this piece. That one three-lettered word separates the former half--the recipe--and the latter half. I keep reading it back to myself aloud, testing to see how it would sound without the word "yum." It really makes all the difference. It is simple, quick, and easy; but you've employed it in such a way that it--and it alone--allows the piece to flow neatly without sounding choppy or disproportionate.
ReplyDeleteMy favorite is line 11: "...a child later named jazz." Two things strike me immediately: one, jazz isn't capitalized; and two, the delay between "child" and "named." By not capitalizing "jazz," it begs a series of questions related to identity and personification. If "jazz" was a person, then it would mean that the "child" was named some time after birth. It makes me wonder, "Exactly what is this thing called humanity, and what holds it together--culture? music? practices? food?"
This is just simply beyond brilliant, and I'm so glad that I finally read through it. Keep editing and polishing, and this will surely become a beloved piece by many. Bloody brilliant.