Poem for Poetry Thursday
Happy Poetry Thursday!
I did not follow this week's prompt, but decided to revise an old piece, one that has not appeared on this blog.
The following is the first poem I thought, "Gosh, this is a real poem." Since I wrote it about 12 years ago, I don't feel as strongly about the message as I did originally. But I think it still holds up. When I was in grad school, I thought that this would be my signature piece. So for me, revisiting the poem is a walk down memory lane. And, I think it paints a palpable picture.
If you enjoy eating chitlins (or chitterlings), then you may want to stop reading now.
Chitlins
It came in 10-pound container from the meat section
next to the hog jaws and hog maws and cow’s tongue and scrapple.
Mom used to clean them mid-day when I wasn't home
and when I was, I tried to get out. The acrid mustardy smell
of intestines boiling coated the house. I wondered
if our neighbors thought we were re-enacting a tribal ritual
with animal sacrifices, maybe we were.
Dad just liked the fleshy taste and mom was indifferent.
It was something they did out of habit rather than tradition.
I watched her from the front yard as she’d take
a hunk like rope and scrape the fat, let the froth
simmer to the top of the pot like wet paper.
She’d boil a pan of water with vanilla flavoring
next to the chitlins to fool us but who was she kidding?
Nothing covered the stench of that pork mush.
I imagined that this smell was evil, like boiled human entrails,
and I’d get sick from my own thoughts;
thoughts conjured from a time before me,
of never having enough but using every part what remained.
Pasty as wet paper, I thought this is what it came down to:
choice—my father eating the viscera,
and my mother poised to offer me a bowl,
the off-ramp of a swine’s innards,
knowing that this was all a part of me.
I did not follow this week's prompt, but decided to revise an old piece, one that has not appeared on this blog.
The following is the first poem I thought, "Gosh, this is a real poem." Since I wrote it about 12 years ago, I don't feel as strongly about the message as I did originally. But I think it still holds up. When I was in grad school, I thought that this would be my signature piece. So for me, revisiting the poem is a walk down memory lane. And, I think it paints a palpable picture.
If you enjoy eating chitlins (or chitterlings), then you may want to stop reading now.
Chitlins
It came in 10-pound container from the meat section
next to the hog jaws and hog maws and cow’s tongue and scrapple.
Mom used to clean them mid-day when I wasn't home
and when I was, I tried to get out. The acrid mustardy smell
of intestines boiling coated the house. I wondered
if our neighbors thought we were re-enacting a tribal ritual
with animal sacrifices, maybe we were.
Dad just liked the fleshy taste and mom was indifferent.
It was something they did out of habit rather than tradition.
I watched her from the front yard as she’d take
a hunk like rope and scrape the fat, let the froth
simmer to the top of the pot like wet paper.
She’d boil a pan of water with vanilla flavoring
next to the chitlins to fool us but who was she kidding?
Nothing covered the stench of that pork mush.
I imagined that this smell was evil, like boiled human entrails,
and I’d get sick from my own thoughts;
thoughts conjured from a time before me,
of never having enough but using every part what remained.
Pasty as wet paper, I thought this is what it came down to:
choice—my father eating the viscera,
and my mother poised to offer me a bowl,
the off-ramp of a swine’s innards,
knowing that this was all a part of me.
Comments
Love the poem though because of the tradition you wove through the tale. It links the generations and shows the family rituals that are passed down as talismans. Heritage is a powerful emotion.
While I love this poem, I feel as if I'm stepping on my heritage. Chitlins are a big part of black culture so I post this poem with a bit of trepidation. But I still stand by it.
(I added you to my list of links. Hope that's okay.)
Heritage poems work though, because you have the emotion to drive you. My wife is part Irish and every year she eats corned beef and cabbage for St. Patrick's day. She is always disappointed, but tries the next year.
Yesterday I was at the blog lorcaloca and I linked to Sean Hill's poem from there - like yours it is about pork and heritage and conflict...it's also very good. Incidentally, he just got a Stegner!
http://www.cavecanempoets.org/pages/poems/uncle.html
And of course, GOOD LUCK on your manuscripts!
This poem also reminded me of when we were in Barrow, Alaska and walking around the town after a successful walrus hunt- they were cleaning the intestines, then salting them, and eating it raw! They asked if we would like to try some, but we thought better of it...
Seems like this certain tradition is world wide!
An excellent poem, indeed...
gautami
Soul