Kevin Young is only the Steven King of poetry in his level of output and thickness of books. There are two sections in his collection Dear Darkness that are made up entirely of odes to food. While every section of his book is excellent, and I want to come back and do another interaction or two with it, I also really enjoyed writing about food as opposed to love or family. I'm also planning on posting a remix of this poem, in the vain of Kevin Young's To Repel Ghosts, which I read before I knew who Kevin Young was. Ode To The Alligator In Pirate Soup
Adam Stone Living in Florida didn't teach me anything about The South. Except that every job interview asked my religion before my qualifications. And if you put on a play making fun of the KKK, a dozen white men will walk out. But there are racists in The North, too. Missing home, I found a seafood restaurant with New England Clam Chowder on the menu. What came out was red and thinner than the chef's excuse Of course it's New England Clam Chowder. Let me show you the can it came out of. Refusing the obviously Manhattan Chowder, I ordered something forgettable with alligator. Did not remember the dish for years. I am sorry I forgot you alligator. Sorry our next encounter was a joke about the food cycle as Simon, Maybe, and I got drunk and fed hot dogs to the baby alligators in the caged moat of a mini-golf course before crossing the street to eat gator nuggets. Disrespectfully fried reptiles kept frozen in the back and on the menu until tourist season. I am sorry our second meeting was so cheap. That I forgot you every time I left that flaccid peninsula. I was in a panic when I saw you in the exotic meats aisle of the fancy food retailer. I was surprise cooking a thirteen course meal with mostly improvised recipes based on the titles of Dr. Who episodes. Silurians! I thought. They are reptilian. Alligators are reptilian. And I pulled stack after stack of you from the refrigerator. Bagged you with lamb and beef and sausage and all the common beasts. I bought too much of you. Split you into recipes you shouldn't belong in. But you were the perfect accent in a stew. Held your own in a flavor battle against chicken in the battle of bay leaves. I couldn't stop inventing reasons for you to appear in my kitchen. It was Dean who suggested I open up a roadside alligator restaurant. How you sriracha bleeding off my menu. How you pepper toothed in stew. How you oyster sauced and brown sugared. How you sweet. How you spice. All these roles usually cast for beef and chicken you could fill. I can open a roadside diner like I can open waterpark in Manitoba. I can. I just don't know how. Or why. But I've started stupider ventures. None of them starring as dependable partners as you.
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April Penn's response to Dear Darkness, like my own, involves food and hunger. Maybe don't read this book while fasting. Reader Response Poem to Kevin Young’s Dear Darkness
April Penn So this is what the past tastes like ~ Kevin Young, “Ode to Cushaw” You search everywhere in the cemetery, but you can’t find your great grandfather’s grave. Instead, you delight in odes of the food he may have eaten. Hunger never leaves, craving always the next poem for okra, grits, crawfish, catfish, black eyed peas, Gumbo, sweet potato pie, watermelon… You say, “like rice/ you rise,” (Ode to Boudin) -- the transcendence of food, not magic but history trying to taste your tongue. Eating your most edible story, figs of smoke. So sweet and vanishing an author, a lost uncle memory of a man burning too bright. I forgot how much I enjoy remixing poems. Here's the restructured ode from my Kevin Young interaction. This may inspire more remixes later. Ode To The Alligator In Pirate Soup (Remixed For Stew)
Adam Stone You Silurian You reptile walking out out of forgettable Winner of the battle of bay leaves Brown sugar toothed Sriracha bleeding off your dependable I feed you hotdogs and open The South in your Florida (that flaccid peninsula) Pull you out of freezers stacked with common beasts You are the missing in my job interview a roadside attraction a religion for tourist season You panic bagged in perfect accent missing common peppered waterpark of qualifications You are thirteen courses of refusing Crossing the street to exotic Fancy surprising in a caged moat of oyster sauce Never frozen disrespectfully or fried joke I'm sorry I forgot you bagged you in recipes with lamb and sausages I couldn't stop inventing stupider reasons to split you from my kitchen |
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