picking oranges in Westminster, CA

i pick jovian fruit in the santa anas
bodies so seeped with gravity
and tugged cells of sweetness that they
gather an orbit of bees like a retinue of moons
—oranges so big
you have to open them outside,
like smoking a cigarette or washing a dog,
on the porch away from rugs, lampshades,
plummeting satin. it's a good thing, too—
they erupt like spice markets,
or the Tigris, post flood.

i break the outer skin with my teeth
bitter as the color of dart-frogs, begin peeling
shelves of skin, annexes, bison tracts.
routine and rhythm in the in the work
toward navel poles, like a couple
in osteoporosis easing back into
a sacred place, practically shy again. the segments cling
like the last days of summer, then cede;
i am forced to eat each in at least
three mouthfuls.

the next-door power hub thrums
like a lion heat and the sky is belted
with the color of old bread recipes, trunk lace
but i find solace in the prospect
of tonight's knockout sunset; the oranges sop up color,
a yucca plant in the yard suffers
scissors and a mother's religion, hot wind,
like the friction of well-ropes on pulleys, chaps
away the citrus taste,
turns it all to common spice.

past the city,
wildfires rage into orchards,
driven up from the ocean by offshore winds
like a japanese movie monster.
we gather oranges quicker,
keep them in cool places, worry
about their freshness,
try to eat them all at once.

An opportunity once again Kylan. Let's enjoy this, shall we?

Title- Action in selected location, a play on words itself intending for immediate familiarity, even if the reader has never done such, never been there, etc. Regardless, attempt to pull in by common nature, simple aspects of the writing. Confidence, I take. Yes, very much a man, a writer, a thinker of the people, though your writing always complicates that relationship. However, that's why we read, no? To get those complicated things and subdivide them endlessly. Like an orange, peel the skin, separate the pieces, chew and spit out what we like.

Oranges- cheap, common fruit, easy to obtain. Many people can enjoy them in many places. Location, truly an essential part here? Or rather, the implicit action mentioned. The experience, the satisfaction of being there. That emotion, that familiarity. All said, the concrete, the tangible, the realistic will be needed.

Split by stanzas.

Kylan wrote:i pick jovian fruit in the santa anas
bodies so seeped with gravity
and tugged cells of sweetness that they
gather an orbit of bees like a retinue of moons
—oranges so big
you have to open them outside,
like smoking a cigarette or washing a dog,
on the porch away from rugs, lampshades,
plummeting satin. it's a good thing, too—
they erupt like spice markets,
or the Tigris, post flood.

Extrapolation, micro, to macro and back again. A revolving cylindrical sphere. Conceptualize that. Quite a trip here. Always nice to see, your alliteration is not forced, your breaks are normally not awkward, and your wordplay and rhymes flow nicely. However, your first four lines, by the end you then introduce the familiar to the reader. Now think. They came expecting oranges. You give them Santa Ana. Look at the distance. Look at the language. Is this compelling diction or are you trying too hard? I enjoy your control of word choice, of lines, but then I question at times your decisions of images. We literally have history, mountains, physics, biology, astronomy, etc, and finally fruit in merely five lines. Five lines.

So the title is a metaphor? A boondoggle. Not your writing, but the expectation this poem can hope to contain itself. It's exciting to see how you build up, though at times you laboriously try too hard to make the simple grand.

Now, the second part of this stanza (it's one, that emdashe to "oranges so big" is a break that connects, I believe your point to parallel the stanzas) seemingly makes my review as if now pointless, but I digress. Let's remember this poem is in first person marginalized, broadened, wider aspect, etc., as to the "i". A purposeful decision which is debated to this day, as to make the narrative element and perspective more open, less in your face, and what not and so forth.

To the content of this stanza, Kylan, is nicely done to personalize and "open" the idea of the orange. Before the orange is a concept, a philosophy nearly. Now we have a snapshot, a photo in an album of the orange. To be open to many different readers, a broadened audience. All of this said, I'm beginning to think you struggle with tone, immensely. Most of your poems I read can be read in a monotone drawl, no offense that's fine if you like that tone, that is strung together quite nicely with your technical choices, sans emdashe before. However, if you start using parallel structure or irony, jar us. Imagery and the words themselves are not tone enough if you have an "i" perspective. Look at Dickinson, look at H.D., look at Pound, look at Lawrence, etc. See how they tackle tone. Look at Ginsberg, look at Atwood (god forbid if you must), look at Carlos Williams, etc. I hesitate to list Bukowski, or someone like him, because his style is so singular, so defined, it's almost pigeon holed to eternity in its "I am tragic tone" and its peculiar rhetoric. Whereas, you have a dynamic rhetoric, though it is grounded.

Kylan wrote:i break the outer skin with my teeth
bitter as the color of dart-frogs, begin peeling
shelves of skin, annexes, bison tracts.
routine and rhythm in the in the work
toward navel poles, like a couple
in osteoporosis easing back into
a sacred place, practically shy again. the segments cling
like the last days of summer, then cede;
i am forced to eat each in at least
three mouthfuls.

Now I want you to try something. I advised someone else to do this recently. I'm disappointed in your segway here, this opening is "eh" and not exactly awe inspiring. Very Kylan-esque. If you can have imagery that's interesting, if you can have word flow and control that's easy to follow, why do you choose to have poem flow and narrative flow so simple? So predictable? My suggestion is this: print out this poem, cut out the lines as they are in each stanza. Move them around. See what happens. See what's necessary. There's a problem in how you've presented all of the content, namely: familiar place/action in title --> large ideas --> familiar action --> familiar action to jarring imagery, grounding at end of stanza...

I'm worried that at the expense of your reader, you're trying to juggle being interesting to a large readership but forgetting why they're reading this in the first place: oranges. To be totally clear: don't tell us you're eating the orange now when you introduce so much imagery before, it's like putting off payment for a car because the store gave a terrible no payment plan while you go rack up more debt on your credit card. Get to the point and communicate with your imagery so we readers can appreciate your efforts so much more.

Kylan wrote:the next-door power hub thrums
like a lion heat and the sky is belted
with the color of old bread recipes, trunk lace
but i find solace in the prospect
of tonight's knockout sunset; the oranges sop up color,
a yucca plant in the yard suffers
scissors and a mother's religion, hot wind,
like the friction of well-ropes on pulleys, chaps
away the citrus taste,
turns it all to common spice.

Now we're leaving the personal, to a larger situation. Bit of toeing about here. Same with your imagery. Diction Kylan. Count how many themes and ideas you introduce here (and really the entire poem). Are they all necessary? No really, count them all. That's one hell of a complicated orange to peel, part, chew, and swallow. I enjoy the "i", but I struggle to see how your additions of the scenery development really help you get to where this poem is taking itself. The every man's situation is a full on worldly venture, but is it truly inviting? Or a marvel to gawk at, but not digest? Don't you think that's part of the point of your poem as well?

Kylan wrote:past the city,
wildfires rage into orchards,
driven up from the ocean by offshore winds
like a japanese movie monster.
we gather oranges quicker,
keep them in cool places, worry
about their freshness,
try to eat them all at once.

Conflict now. And conflict shortly before it's all over. Hmm. So here we are, a sense of desperation after a carefully constructed intro on the task of something familiar. I would highly advise you play with the order of this poem. The progression, the development, all of it seems both in flow to one another yet it's many faceted. Too much, to the point it loses its cohesion and impact due to deep elaboration on the experience which is then tied behind the back in the final lines. I find it intriguing at the end, but this is where I think your tone hurts you. Anyway, this is long enough now, hope it helps.

Well, I checked this out because I live down the road, and I was very impressed.

The power with which you describe eating an orange (but I'm sure there is something deeper here) is very sweet.

The gravity at the beginning is a exquisite trick there, but I don't really understand the second half of the stanza--


you have to open them outside, oh wait nevermind, open them outside, not open them ON the outside, my bad!
like smoking a cigarette or washing a dog,
on the porch away from rugs, lampshades,
plummeting satin. it's a good thing, too—
they erupt like spice markets,
or the Tigris, post flood.

Great imagery


"the next door power hub thrubs" do you mean some kind of factory? May want to clear that up. And if it is, then that is a great job of offsetting the agricultural feel with an industrial feel, I as any real person should, prefer agriculture and plants to smoke and factories, and love any poem that puts the latter down.

The words of the first two stanzas are immaculately clear, but I think you unravel a bit in the third, things like

of tonight's knockout sunset and like a lion heat and the sky is belted
with the color of bread recipes


"Like a lion IN heat?" and I don't really understand what color are bread recipes?


But you return to form and power with the last stanza, that leaves and indelible mark on the reader.

Well, I hope this helps, I don't know how long you've worked on this but I can tell you've worked on it and it's already very good.

But maybe reign in the language a bit, just to make sure you don't blurry your own very powerful image, you don't have or need to change the image obviously, just clean it up, but it's your poem, and since nothing these days makes sense neither does poetry.

Ha! Just foolin.

it's a good thing, too—
they erupt like spice markets,
or the Tigris, post flood.

BEST PART, incredibly powerful.

Did what I can. Westminister is a nice place, better than Santa Anna or Costa Mesa or Riverside or Anaheim, good mall there, and I enjoy the dog show...

You are the best poet on this entire website. I'm not even joking. You inspired me

Hey there Kylan. So, to be perfectly honest, I'm a fan, so I'm probably not going to have a lot to say. (But yay for California!)

i pick jovian fruit in the santa anas
bodies so seeped with gravity
and tugged cells of sweetness that they
gather an orbit of bees like a retinue of moons,

You begin first with space imagery. We have planets in the very first line, gravity... this is cliche imagery though, Kylan. Not entirely, because of your language itself, but I honestly think that you could probably create a stronger beginning as the rest of the piece doesn't incorporate it.

—oranges so big
you have to open them outside,
like smoking a cigarette or washing a dog,
on the porch away from rugs, lampshades,
plummeting satin. it's a good thing, too—
they erupt like spice markets,
or the Tigris, post flood.

The em dashes you have here make this feel separate from your beginning, but this is very much related, almost cause and effect. Don't divide it so clearly. Let this one be, as the concepts you have here are very much intertwined with one another.
Next thought (just a nitpick or two): "plummeting" satin feels weird. You give us no context, no reason, and right now it just kind of feels like an extra word awkwardly hanging there.
Spice markets. Hm. I feel like if you wanted to, the business of seeds amongst stringy flesh might be a better comparison because to be perfectly honest, the spice markets that I think you're referencing to (Indian/Turkish-style ones) don't erupt as much as they writhe. The Tigris is a much better image for this, though I do think you could/should definitely incorporate spice markets somewhere. (though it is a bit odd feeling to make a comparison of one food with another thing dealing with food)

i break the skin with my teeth
bitter as the color of dart-frogs, begin peeling
shelves of skin, annexes, bison tracts.
routine and rhythm in the in the work
toward navel poles, like a couple
in osteoporosis easing back into
a sacred place, practically shy again.

First line: I've seen this line before. Many times, actually. And it always kind of bothers me, because it seems like it's a go-to line when someone is eating something, but we've been expecting them to eat whatever food they're talking about (usually a fruit with the word "skin" there) and so why not play with it? Have fun with this-- don't use go-tos because they detract from the originality that you put in your poetry otherwise.
Next: Dart-frogs always feel acidic to me, and I think that acidic, considering that this is an orange, would work much better here. Honestly, I don't think it's sounds as good, but it works much better conceptually. I think that the second "skin" is redundant, and while bison tracts makes for good imagery for the peel, it fits awkwardly with the other images you've created, and it tastes odd with the mix of oranges.
Now, I like the image of navel poles for this-- I think that you could probably play with the rest of the stanza in that quote though, below "bison tracts" as the tone feels a bit different from the rest of the piece. Not really knowing what to do with this, so I'll let it be. You can figure it out.

the segments cling
like the last days of summer, then cede;
i am forced to eat each in at least
three mouthfuls.

I feel like you're trying to make a connection here with the reader and have some vague cause-and-effect, but to be perfectly honest, it isn't working for me.

the next-door power hub thrums
like a lion heat and the sky is belted
with the color of bread recipes, trunk lace
but i find solace in the prospect
of tonight's knockout sunset;

I do like the contrast of a industrial tone, though I think that you leave this in such a hasty manner that it kind of detracts from it. You generally draw out imagery (almost more than you should, at times) but this is just such a quick taste that it doesn't have time to hit. Extend the contrast, take out the extra stuff that's in this little bit, and it'll much be stronger.
At one point I feel like you're just creating some tones because you can; they don't particularly fit with the rest of the piece, but it's like you almost get caught in it right here.

the oranges sop up color,
a yucca plant in the yard suffers
scissors and a mother's religion, hot wind,
like the friction of well-ropes on pulleys, chaps
away the citrus taste,
turns it all to common spice.

I feel like you feel obligated to mention religion in all of your poems. Again, you've skated quickly past quite a large reference and I don't feel like it quite works here.
This bit wasn't quite as effective as the rest, I think. The friction here felt like it was supposed to be almost a conflict, but it's passive. It's there, and it's not doing anything.

past the city,
wildfires rage into orchards,
driven up from the ocean by offshore winds
like a japanese movie monster.
we gather oranges quicker,
keep them in cool places, worry
about their freshness,
try to eat them all at once.

I was waiting for the reference to an orchard! I'm surprised it took you this long. Because of this expectation, I would suggest either removing it or expanding on it.
There were many mentions and ties of California in wildfires and winds and oceans and then, all of a sudden, here's Godzilla and we're rushing about to gather oranges because of the Godzilla winds? This... didn't quite work for. At all, actually. This completely lost me, just with that small reference. I beg of you, take it out. Yes, yes, original imagery, all that stuff, but... yeah. Godzilla. As awesome as he might be, he does not belong here.

Small nitpick for an overall: Which POV are you in? The majority is first person, there's a small acceptable mention in second POV, and then a rather larger on in the last stanza. There's even third person feeling type of stuff. Might consider picking at this a bit, though it's not terribly noticeable, but it's really up to you.

This was lovely, again. You probably don't need any more praise, but your descriptions and the way you tie concepts together is wonderful. You might consider you images a bit more sometimes. Consider... not quite their relevance, but the way in which you use them. I tend to pound in themes and symbolism, and that's another extreme, but watch out for things like Gozilla and trunk lace wandering into your words.

I really like this. I love this very descriptive style of poetry.

I also love that you did not use any capital letters. It makes it seem sort of loose and ramble-ish but in a good way.

You're technique here is really good. You've been able to isolate a certain event in a certain place and really make it universal.

So good job.

All I can say is wow. That was written really well. I don't usually like poetry that doesn't have capitalization but how could I not like this? You put such depth and emotion into it. I could almost taste the orange. Wonderful job.

Kylan,

Two things:

1) you need jazz
2) I hope you're not getting lazy

Do something about the rhythm in this, because at the moment there isn't one.


Navita