My focus this week is on a poem by Adrienne Su, Savannah Crabs. Su's poems in this anthology are all written about what seems like her personal experiences, yet she has a way of pulling me in and making me feel my personal story in her poems.
Savannah Crabs pulls my southerner out and reminds me of the many, many, many stories I could share around the event of live crabs being brought into my house. From the time I was three I played with live blue crabs, learned to put them to sleep, and, like Su, would watch as "the first mute batch reddens and stills." Su takes me back to those times and to times when I was older and passed my blue crab lessons on to the younger kids in the family.
The fact that this poem is about more than just blue crabs really comes out in the last line of the poem when she reveals the prophecy of the hermit crab, "You'll find joy, but you must leave the family." Right here, I just grabbed my chest -- she punched me. I won't go into my personal family stuff on this blog, but I will say that I wanted to stand and applaud Su for this landing.
Other elements of this poem that really stood out to me are:
1.she titles the poem "Savannah Crabs" which makes me think of Savannah, Georgia -- a beautiful coastal city near Jacksonville, the last Florida city I lived in. Georgia and Florida share a border on the north east side of Florida yet Florida is known for its oranges and Georgia for its peaches, so the choice that Su makes to say the crabs were "packed tight as oranges" is an important one, I think. You can't really pack peaches tightly or they will bruise -- which I think says a lot about the conversation under the words about family and home.
2. the way Su moves us in time is really important in this piece. We start in the present "they come from the coast in the iced trunk." Then she moves us to the future, "She does not think / of her mother, who'll die this fall..." Then back to the present and a shared moment between siblings and parents -- she and her brother crouching and poking the crabs as the parents chase two across the lawn. Then the crabs predict the future, "You'll ache; you'll smother; you'll never be able to talk to each other." Then back to present, "It sits on the dryer." Then finally the last line gives us a glimpse of the future (as proper prophecies should). The use of time in this piece gives a greater picture of the family Su is profiling in this poem. Not only do we get the story that is happening with the crab, but we get the future stories of the relationships between siblings and between family in general. It's a powerful use of chronology.
3. Her verbs are amazing in this poem. Here are the ones that struck me most:
packed tight (S1:L1)
sunk in thoughts (S1:L3)
dread that will stain her (S2:L1)
tends a back pain (S2:L2)
crouch by the crate (S4:L2)
poke slow ones (S4:L3)
scuttle and flip (S5:L2)
we salt them (S5:L4)
reddens and stills (S8:L1,2)
I peer (S9:L1)
Su is my new favorite, this week. Her ability to make the personal seem universal is a powerful moment of a poet (if that is your goal). I look forward to more of her work in my future.
peacelovelight
Kiala
Showing posts with label Adrienne Su. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Adrienne Su. Show all posts
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Adrienne Su is my favorite new poet for this week. Each of her four poems packed so much, and I read them several times—first for language, then deeper, for theme, allusion, imagery, then deeper once again, to try to read into where she was trying to leave us with the poem. But particularly in the final two poems, her language & imagery seduced me the most.
“Female Infanticide: A Guide for Mothers” was like a slap in the face, each time, each roman numeral, over and over. But there was a change from one section to the next. The last three sections are the most disturbing—imposing psychological torture to keep the daughter from moving forward in society or with her life. The last line is most unexpected, most disquieting, “In old age a daughter is fine good fortune.” Suddenly the idea of a daughter’s value is completely manipulated; though she is worth little as a child or growing woman, if her spirit is broken down enough, and if she proves impossible to expend, she will eventually gain a purpose of servitude. This last stanza suggests the concept of care—that the unwed daughter will care for her parents when they age, though they have not cared for her (or have, but only by keeping her alive). This is the least expedient option, and yet the only time in which a relationship of caring (even love?) between parents and a child has been suggested. I was particularly taken by the subtitle of this piece, “A Guide for Mothers.” Why mothers and not fathers? Does the responsibility fall on the mother (a woman herself, once a girl baby herself) to decide if her daughter will live or die? This calculated list is insidious, inhuman, and I think it is telling that the message is to a woman, with regard to another woman. The speaker in this poem is clearly neither, but a man, a representative of patriarchal power, one whose life was never considered in this way, who would never have to make this choice himself.
“Savannah Crabs” took on the narrative of immigration and assimilation with a particular potency. The language took so many turns throughout and revealed several layers of themes. First, the colors stood out to me throughout this piece: bluish and thirsty, oranges, blue Buick, African violets, pink bedclothes, white birds, off-yellow shell, reddens and stills. These colors carry us through the poem—the crabs are blue (asphyxiated) like the very American Buick, drained of life, color, originality. The pink bedclothes are soft, feminine, childlike, but they ironically hold the lonesome, loveless death of the grandmother. She escapes the bedclothes, the bed and the world in which she resides, on the prophetic wings of the white doves.
Prophecies are strong throughout this piece. The first appears on the eyelets of the grandmother’s gown. Next, unexpectedly, one rains down with the salt poured on the sinkful of blue crabs. “When it rains it pours,” the children chant the motto of Morton Salt. The brand announced the slogan after having developed a salt whose granules wouldn’t stick together in humidity. Rice kernels are often used to keep salt from clumping and sticking. But, with Morton salt, no rice was necessary, the salt will pour freely all over the bodies of the crabs. I can’t escape the image here of Americanized ways of living that supposedly make lives easier, but are in fact slowly killing (burning, dredging) the lives of those who must change & conform. The children are taken with the gymnastics of the very much alive crabs, but pour the salt over them, nonetheless. The next prophecy comes from the crabs: “You’ll ache, you’ll smother;/you’ll never be able to talk to each other.” This is a warning to the children, of what and whom they might lose if they continue on with this assimilation.
Finally, we return to colors, with the yellow crab. This crab is only saved because she is forgotten; it is pure chance that she is left behind while the others are “waving hello/” break “and goodbye. The mass of crabs turns deep red as their lives end. At first, I was unsure whether the yellow-shelled crab was alive (as it is just referred to as a shell), but I decided that it is. She is injured, has suffered, is far from the familiar sand of her home, but she survives. Is the life she will live worthwhile; at what cost has she escaped the fate of her salted brothers and sisters? The poet calls the crab “he” but I believe it is “she” (represents narrator). She is ugly (injured, different looking than the others); she is a hermit (alone, separated from her pack); she is threatening (she carries the knowledge of this history on with her—she threatens the stability of the world in which crabs are salted).
The final prophecy is a message from the surviving crab to the narrator: “You’ll find joy, but you must leave the family.” This is the path she must take, and it could be a path leading to love, prosperity & success—but these words carry with them the chill of the other crabs’ prophesy (“never be able to talk to each other”), as well as the sad final words with which the grandmother left the world (“loneliness, lovelessness, white birds”). In this poem the voices are many: the narrator’s (from the poet’s experience?), and the messages she has gathered living between two cultures. Her instrument is her food, which is also perhaps her family’s livelihood. Perhaps the crabs are a great delicacy, or perhaps they are the food they need to survive. Perhaps they represent the bounty one can find in Georgia, or perhaps they are a food that the two cultures have in common. This poem is about survival—aligning the lives of animals with human is common (as with “Animal Liberation” & the duck), but the idea of a family’s nourishment as representation of their loss of culture/loss of self is more radical, and closer to the bone.
I am eager to hear other interpretations of Su’s work—to hear how it may have affected others in a way I missed. What do people think about the significance of using crabs as an instrument? And what about the mention of the aunt and her violets? I have trouble weaving those two lines into my interpretation of the poem. Thanks for your thoughts!
“Female Infanticide: A Guide for Mothers” was like a slap in the face, each time, each roman numeral, over and over. But there was a change from one section to the next. The last three sections are the most disturbing—imposing psychological torture to keep the daughter from moving forward in society or with her life. The last line is most unexpected, most disquieting, “In old age a daughter is fine good fortune.” Suddenly the idea of a daughter’s value is completely manipulated; though she is worth little as a child or growing woman, if her spirit is broken down enough, and if she proves impossible to expend, she will eventually gain a purpose of servitude. This last stanza suggests the concept of care—that the unwed daughter will care for her parents when they age, though they have not cared for her (or have, but only by keeping her alive). This is the least expedient option, and yet the only time in which a relationship of caring (even love?) between parents and a child has been suggested. I was particularly taken by the subtitle of this piece, “A Guide for Mothers.” Why mothers and not fathers? Does the responsibility fall on the mother (a woman herself, once a girl baby herself) to decide if her daughter will live or die? This calculated list is insidious, inhuman, and I think it is telling that the message is to a woman, with regard to another woman. The speaker in this poem is clearly neither, but a man, a representative of patriarchal power, one whose life was never considered in this way, who would never have to make this choice himself.
“Savannah Crabs” took on the narrative of immigration and assimilation with a particular potency. The language took so many turns throughout and revealed several layers of themes. First, the colors stood out to me throughout this piece: bluish and thirsty, oranges, blue Buick, African violets, pink bedclothes, white birds, off-yellow shell, reddens and stills. These colors carry us through the poem—the crabs are blue (asphyxiated) like the very American Buick, drained of life, color, originality. The pink bedclothes are soft, feminine, childlike, but they ironically hold the lonesome, loveless death of the grandmother. She escapes the bedclothes, the bed and the world in which she resides, on the prophetic wings of the white doves.
Prophecies are strong throughout this piece. The first appears on the eyelets of the grandmother’s gown. Next, unexpectedly, one rains down with the salt poured on the sinkful of blue crabs. “When it rains it pours,” the children chant the motto of Morton Salt. The brand announced the slogan after having developed a salt whose granules wouldn’t stick together in humidity. Rice kernels are often used to keep salt from clumping and sticking. But, with Morton salt, no rice was necessary, the salt will pour freely all over the bodies of the crabs. I can’t escape the image here of Americanized ways of living that supposedly make lives easier, but are in fact slowly killing (burning, dredging) the lives of those who must change & conform. The children are taken with the gymnastics of the very much alive crabs, but pour the salt over them, nonetheless. The next prophecy comes from the crabs: “You’ll ache, you’ll smother;/you’ll never be able to talk to each other.” This is a warning to the children, of what and whom they might lose if they continue on with this assimilation.
Finally, we return to colors, with the yellow crab. This crab is only saved because she is forgotten; it is pure chance that she is left behind while the others are “waving hello/” break “and goodbye. The mass of crabs turns deep red as their lives end. At first, I was unsure whether the yellow-shelled crab was alive (as it is just referred to as a shell), but I decided that it is. She is injured, has suffered, is far from the familiar sand of her home, but she survives. Is the life she will live worthwhile; at what cost has she escaped the fate of her salted brothers and sisters? The poet calls the crab “he” but I believe it is “she” (represents narrator). She is ugly (injured, different looking than the others); she is a hermit (alone, separated from her pack); she is threatening (she carries the knowledge of this history on with her—she threatens the stability of the world in which crabs are salted).
The final prophecy is a message from the surviving crab to the narrator: “You’ll find joy, but you must leave the family.” This is the path she must take, and it could be a path leading to love, prosperity & success—but these words carry with them the chill of the other crabs’ prophesy (“never be able to talk to each other”), as well as the sad final words with which the grandmother left the world (“loneliness, lovelessness, white birds”). In this poem the voices are many: the narrator’s (from the poet’s experience?), and the messages she has gathered living between two cultures. Her instrument is her food, which is also perhaps her family’s livelihood. Perhaps the crabs are a great delicacy, or perhaps they are the food they need to survive. Perhaps they represent the bounty one can find in Georgia, or perhaps they are a food that the two cultures have in common. This poem is about survival—aligning the lives of animals with human is common (as with “Animal Liberation” & the duck), but the idea of a family’s nourishment as representation of their loss of culture/loss of self is more radical, and closer to the bone.
I am eager to hear other interpretations of Su’s work—to hear how it may have affected others in a way I missed. What do people think about the significance of using crabs as an instrument? And what about the mention of the aunt and her violets? I have trouble weaving those two lines into my interpretation of the poem. Thanks for your thoughts!
The English Canon by Adrienne "BadAss" Su
There are a number of poems in this week’s reading that I find exciting and worthy of further exploration. The one I keep coming back to, however, is Adrienne Su’s “The English Canon” in the AAP book (this anthology is such a goldmine for me this semester). Her work is shockingly fresh. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve read a feminist poem that didn’t make me roll my eyes or turn the page feeling as if it had been done a million times before? Or done better? I think, literarily, feminist poetry or feminist-themed poetry has hit a plateau. Whether that’s because we’re at an impasse politically or because we haven’t found a new angle for the old argument, I’m not sure. Even in the Intro to Poetry class I’m TAing for, most freshwomen believed Joan Larkin’s Vagina Sonnet (ridiculously radical at the time it was written) was old hat. One queer student even said, “If I hear one more poem that uses the word ‘vagina’ like it’s revolutionary or something, I’m gonna gag.” I just about fell out of my chair. We, as women, are living in a totally different climate of gender-politics than has ever existed before.
All that said, I think Adrienne Su bypasses all that is “old hat” and addresses feminism, academia, power structures, and even cultural differences (not just among people, but among women) in a way that is fresh-faced, effective and downright radical. This poem moves me. I love first and foremost that the poem is called “The English Canon,” not just “The Canon,” as we (or rather, I) often refer to it, hierarchically assuming that everyone will understand it to be the English one. I don’t think she does this to suggest that canons in other languages are necessarily more inclusive, but rather to point out these levels of access. Excuse the generalization (or call it out), but I’m not sure folks of the English canon (white, male, educated) really believe there are other canons. Or, if they do, that they could ever imagine which poets might inhabit them. At the same time, this poem is showing up in an anthology of Asian American Poetry, written by an Asian American poet, allowing us to assume that maybe this is a book (or poem) that folks of the English canon might not even read; perhaps the designation of “English” is a signifier to those reading this book (Asian American poets or otherwise) that she is not talking about them, per se, but standing in solidarity against this huge oppressive literary establishment of exclusion.
She begins both the first and second stanzas with the phrase “It’s not that…” letting us assume that she’s narrowing the dimensions of the poem’s focus. She says it’s not that women were portrayed seldom and only in a certain light, it’s not that folks of color were ignored except when their exotification added humor and triumph to the poem – but by bringing these things to the forefront of the poem and negating them, we not only know that they happened, but that they do matter. It is about exotification of varying heritages, it is about sexism and the power dynamics between genders. It is exactly that.
What she really means, she says, is that those portrayals have outlasted their time and, where literature is supposed to be a place of access to knowledge for everyone (who can read), the lessons the English canon teaches have perpetuated this marginalized experience for her (and everyone else, let’s be honest). We recognize the power of the English canon and the implications of being published in something like The Norton Anthology or something equally boring & best used as a doorstop. Doorstop or not, we recognize that power, and in recognizing it, understand it to be true on a level beyond our say. Whether or not it is actually true, doesn’t erase its authority.
The way Su ends the poem is sharp and twists hard. She knows we are, in light of the 2nd and 3rd waves, allowed to and obligated to own our autonomy and demanding it. Still, a woman has to be part of the (capitalist) system and make money, a system that still holds up the English canon as The Canon. “Because what do her teachers know, living in books, / And what does she know, starting from scratch?” I fall out of my chair for real at these lines, know so intimately that inbetween point of being part of the system in order to change the system, as the same time that we must question what has come before while simultaneously building up our own classic history from scratch.
All that said, I think Adrienne Su bypasses all that is “old hat” and addresses feminism, academia, power structures, and even cultural differences (not just among people, but among women) in a way that is fresh-faced, effective and downright radical. This poem moves me. I love first and foremost that the poem is called “The English Canon,” not just “The Canon,” as we (or rather, I) often refer to it, hierarchically assuming that everyone will understand it to be the English one. I don’t think she does this to suggest that canons in other languages are necessarily more inclusive, but rather to point out these levels of access. Excuse the generalization (or call it out), but I’m not sure folks of the English canon (white, male, educated) really believe there are other canons. Or, if they do, that they could ever imagine which poets might inhabit them. At the same time, this poem is showing up in an anthology of Asian American Poetry, written by an Asian American poet, allowing us to assume that maybe this is a book (or poem) that folks of the English canon might not even read; perhaps the designation of “English” is a signifier to those reading this book (Asian American poets or otherwise) that she is not talking about them, per se, but standing in solidarity against this huge oppressive literary establishment of exclusion.
She begins both the first and second stanzas with the phrase “It’s not that…” letting us assume that she’s narrowing the dimensions of the poem’s focus. She says it’s not that women were portrayed seldom and only in a certain light, it’s not that folks of color were ignored except when their exotification added humor and triumph to the poem – but by bringing these things to the forefront of the poem and negating them, we not only know that they happened, but that they do matter. It is about exotification of varying heritages, it is about sexism and the power dynamics between genders. It is exactly that.
What she really means, she says, is that those portrayals have outlasted their time and, where literature is supposed to be a place of access to knowledge for everyone (who can read), the lessons the English canon teaches have perpetuated this marginalized experience for her (and everyone else, let’s be honest). We recognize the power of the English canon and the implications of being published in something like The Norton Anthology or something equally boring & best used as a doorstop. Doorstop or not, we recognize that power, and in recognizing it, understand it to be true on a level beyond our say. Whether or not it is actually true, doesn’t erase its authority.
The way Su ends the poem is sharp and twists hard. She knows we are, in light of the 2nd and 3rd waves, allowed to and obligated to own our autonomy and demanding it. Still, a woman has to be part of the (capitalist) system and make money, a system that still holds up the English canon as The Canon. “Because what do her teachers know, living in books, / And what does she know, starting from scratch?” I fall out of my chair for real at these lines, know so intimately that inbetween point of being part of the system in order to change the system, as the same time that we must question what has come before while simultaneously building up our own classic history from scratch.
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