A cup of fine tea: Anna Yin’s “Raspberries”

Anna Yin’s “Raspberries” [Read the poem here]
(First published in Issue #9 of Cha)

–This post is written by Tammy Ho.

There is not a wasted word in Yin’s “Raspberries”. The poem is a concise exploration of a moment; a modern interpretation of the kind of classical Chinese poems in which a specific scene, thought or feeling is condensed and captured in the most economic way. Yet, despite its focus on a particular instant, Yin’s poem still allows for any number of interpretations.

The poet’s inspiration is clearly nature in this work, and throughout the poem, she uses different natural elements in simple yet powerful images. But people are present too—we see a world in which the natural and human spheres are closely blended. Take, for example, the first lines: ‘On our bed / we lie like flatfish’ (L1-L2). Already, the mixture is evident, even if the exact meaning of these lines is not entirely clear. Does the metaphor suggest post-coital exhaustion? Or does it reveal a sense of apathy and laziness as the couple rest motionless, the way certain species of flatfish lie on the ocean floor? The lines may also contain the obvious double meaning of telling lies, which may suggest that the relationship is somehow tainted. Is the poet imagining a couple who no longer love each other but continue the relationship out of sheer habit?

Next, Yin takes us out through the bedroom window into the night air: ‘Outside, stars grow old. / A white cocoon / casts its image on the river’ (L3-L5). The notion of stars, entities which have a life span of millions of years, growing old perhaps reveals a certain arrogance on the characters’ part. Are they projecting their own weariness onto the stars? Considering its placement next to the stars, it seems likely that the cocoon being described is the moon. This is also suggested in at least two other ways. Firstly, one can imagine that a white crescent moon resembles a cocoon when it is reflected on the water. Secondly, there is a kind of subtle poetic rhyming slang in which ‘cocoon’ immediately suggests ‘moon’.

In the next lines, the poet continues to conjure the natural night-time scene: ‘In sparse shadows / a willow dangles. / Along the thorn fences / raspberries bleed’ (L6-L9). With only a handful of carefully selected words, Yin manages to evoke a strong sense of atmosphere, transporting the reader to the still river’s edge. Yet, although very little seems to be happening, there is a sense of unease and violence filling the night air. ‘Sparse’ and ‘dangles’ suggest a certain limpness and helplessness, perhaps taking us back to the ‘flatfish’ of the second line and echoing the characters’ feelings for each other. The more violent language of ‘thorn’ and ‘bleed’ increases the tension. But it is not an active form of aggression; instead, it is more passive as the raspberries slowly rot on the bush and bleed their juices. That the reader is supposed to identify the bruised fruit with the couple is indicated by the fact that ‘Raspberries’ is the title of the poem. Like the berries, they too are slowly decaying on the fence.

The slight violence of ‘bleed’ and ‘thorns’ also provides emotional foreshadowing for the final section of the poem, which reads: ‘They remember -  / once being the fire  / drawing the moth / flapping its wings / to flames’ (L10-L14). Here, we are presumably transported back to the passionate start of the characters’ relationship in which each of them was self-destructively drawn to the other. But if they had imagined being consumed by the heat of their relationship, they were wrong. Instead, as we see in the opening lines, their love does not end in a great conflagration but ebbs into motionless regret.

A cup of fine tea: Phoebe Tsang’s “Song for a Commuting Gravedigger”

Phoebe Tsang’s “Song for a Commuting Gravedigger” [Read the poem here] (First published in Issue #6 of Cha)

–This post is co-written by Tammy Ho and Jeff Zroback.

In Tsang’s bleak but beautiful “Song for a Commuting Gravedigger”, we see the experience of someone going to work on a winter’s day. Whether this person is actually a gravedigger or whether the title is more metaphorical is uncertain. We tend to fall on the side of the metaphorical. In our reading, the gravedigger seems like a commuter who is slowly seeing his or her life go by through work and travel; he or she is slowly digging his or her own grave. Or perhaps the poem reveals a death wish in the persona, a desire to escape into the frozen wilderness, never to be seen again.

In the opening stanza, we see that the commuter in question is a slave to daily routine. ‘Tethered to track and schedule’ (L1), the individual is sitting on the bus to work watching as ‘the highway rattles past’ (L2). That this trip is associated with death becomes clear in the rest of the stanza. The commuter sees ‘white fields and hillsides scarred / by trees so thin you can see / right through their ashen bones’ (L3-L5). Tsang’s imagery here is beautiful. Anyone familiar with a snowy climate will easily be able to envision the leafless tress of winter, which look like the skeletons of their summer selves.

The commuter longs for freedom outside of the bus and routine: ‘I want to be free of time and machines’ (L9). For the persona, this freedom will take the form of getting off the bus and scattering ‘footprints for snow to swallow later / like signs of rabbit and deer’ (L7-L8). Maybe the narrator longs for a temporary respite from responsibility, a wish to make childish tracks in the snow; a fleeting moment of abandon which would slowly disappear. Or perhaps his or her fantasy is something closer to “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening“, a desire to give in completely to death, swallowed by the snow, forgotten like covered footprints. Regardless of the form this fantasy would take, the speaker is too frightened to give in entirely to his or her desires. ‘[A]fraid of just being jobless’ (L10), the commuter carries on to work.

The final stanza thus takes us back to the bus where the commuter is continuing the journey to work. For the persona, death will not come today. Instead, he or she can only fantasise about escape: ‘Only my eyes will cross the frozen / shoulder into the embrace of / leafless skeletons’ (L11-L13). The word ’shoulder’, presumably that of the road, takes on a nice double meaning when put next to ‘embrace’. Again, there is not only a continued sense of the narrator’s death wish in the desire for the embrace of ‘leafless skeletons’, but also an echo of the earlier description of the trees as ‘ashen bones’. As the poem ends, the commuter escapes further into fantasy and a desire for anonymity and imagines a different journey, wandering ‘bough after bough / through sleeping woods like a homeless ghost’ (L14-L15). Tsang’s reference to Frost’s poem is made even more explicit in the use of ’sleeping woods’. And like in Frost’s poem, the narrator still has miles to go before sleep. He or she does not escape into the cold oblivion of the snow today but will instead continue to watch death slowly approach through the window.

A cup of fine tea: Divya Rajan’s “Factory Girls”

Divya Rajan’s “Factory Girls” [Read the poem here]
(First published in Issue #8 of Cha)

–This post is co-written by Tammy Ho and Jarno Jakonen.

‘We work hard / to kill people we don’t know. / The ones who can afford / to die.’ (L35-L38) Thus ends Rajan’s poem “Factory Girls”, a depiction of a moment in harsh reality of poor factory workers in a developing economy. It is not as if the tedium and prison-like depressing mood of the factory is not disquieting enough, the particular products that the protagonist puts together are cigars (L32) instead of shoes or electronics; a luxury item for upper classes and nothing but a detriment to one’s health.

The cigar-factory workers’ life is indeed a bleak one: strictly regulated, they can only have pre-approved breaks of pre-determined lengths. This is highlighted in the poem by example of a washroom break: ‘The rules say, once in four hours, / so we, the ladies from the country / don’t drink water.’ (L1-L3) The same rigidity presumably applies to lunch breaks, but the choice of using a toilet break for the poem evokes a stronger sense of sympathy for the protagonists in the reader’s imagination. The break lasts for exactly ten minutes (L5) and is a highlight of the day for the girls at the factory, as they leave with their ‘minds and hearts lighter’ (L9). This is not just because of the physiological relief, but also due to a moment’s escape from their regular lives into daydreams: sometimes they forego the right to pee altogether and just gaze out the bathroom window (L10-L12).

Outside the factory, there are ‘odors of acid salts and chimney fumes’ (L14) and dried leaves that hint of trees farther away. The thoughts of the girls in the bathroom drift from the very nearby sensations of the factory yard into acacia trees that are imagined to flourish a mile away (L15-L17). Then the focus switches to visual stimulus and what can be seen from the small glass window: ‘tall steel buildings, megaliths / with stretched spines, / new ones preceding the old’ (L19-L21). Just as with the odors, the description moves from reality to fantasy, as the narration depicts the buildings kissing the sky, making love with each other (L22-L24). The fumes from the factory chimneys (these chimneys may also be a reference to the cigars that the girls make) become a metaphor for the narrative’s flight of fancy, as they dissipate to the grey skies ‘that’ll never be auburn again’ (L27) the same way the factory workers’ toilet break fantasies are doomed to dissipate at the end of the ten-minute deadline. The uniform skies have no stars or clouds (L28-L29), but the girls grab the sun in their “timid fists” before heading back to the factory floor. The daydream ends.

Under the watchful eye of the inspector the girls continue their work, and the contrast between their work and their dreams is emphasized by the revelation of the products they make. The poor factory workers from countryside cannot afford to dream more than ten minutes every four hours, while the customers of the cigars they make live lives of luxury and leisure. Unfair as it may be, there is no choice for the protagonists. They must work hard because that is all they have, and try to savour the whatever brief dreams of a happier life they can afford.

Don’t we all?

A cup of fine tea: Steven Schroeder’s “Guidebook Says”

Steven Schroeder’s “Guidebook Says” [Read the poem here]
(First published in Issue #5 of Cha)

–This post is written by Tammy Ho.

Schroeder’s poem “Guidebook Says” accurately captures the atmosphere which permeates a city before a typhoon strikes: the tension, the expectation, the danger in the air. In the opening lines, we see a storm approaching Southern China. For Schroeder, the typhoon announces its arrival in a kind of language. Like a bird sings, a cicada chirps or a wolf howls, the storm speaks a language which is natural to it: ‘Typhoon mumbles something / about coming to Guangdong / in a language of waves / and steady rain that grows / stronger as the day passes’ (L1-L5). Its syntax is water – it mumbles in waves and rain. As it comes closer, will it then yell in wind?

But the storm hesitates before choosing a place to land: ‘It hangs offshore, feet shuffling like a tourist / running out of time / torn between sights / the guidebook says must not be missed’ (L5-L9). The idea that there is a ‘guidebook’ for the storm to consult is thought-provoking, suggesting that even natural forces tend to follow certain predestined paths. Is the poet simply saying that the storm is guided by physical rules of the natural world? Or is he imagining something more philosophical and theological? Whose suggestions is the storm considering? Schroeder’s personification of the storm as a tourist also encourages the reader to imagine other perspectives on the typhoon’s approach. For example, one can envision a tourist new to the city in question, nervously consulting his or her guidebook and judging the sky to see if there will be enough time to take in one more sight.

In the final section of the poem, we see the reaction the typhoon causes in the people of the city. Although the storm has not chosen its final destination, it keeps ‘talking rain’ (L10-L11). Unable to ignore the storm’s voice, people play it safe and carry ‘umbrellas and anticipation’ (L12). They know, however, that ultimately umbrellas will not protect them as the storm speaks increasingly loudly. Their thoughts, therefore, turn to ‘what has to be tied down / before the wind rises’ (L13-L14).

In the end, beyond its depiction of an oncoming weather event, Schroeder’s poem may also provide a description of life in general. Don’t we all spend time ‘thinking / about what has to be tied down / before the wind rises’? Aren’t we all ‘carrying / umbrellas and anticipation’ of rain? Whose guidebook are we reading?

A cup of fine tea: Grace Chin’s “The Clothesline”

Grace V. S. Chin’s “The Clothesline” [Read the poem here]
(First published in Issue #5 of Cha)

–This post is co-written by Tammy Ho and Jarno Jakonen.

Life is bleak, dreams are futile. That is the underlining theme of Grace Chin’s “The Clothesline”. The poem depicts a poverty-stricken domestic setting of a mother carrying out her chores on the yard, and a small boy who accompanies her.

The first stanza establishes the somewhat gritty circumstances that they are in; on the clothesline in the yard ‘grey rags hang / twisted on the line; the daily / hand washings cannot completely erase / the years of dirt and grime’ (L4-L7). Meanwhile, the woman’s son sits naked on the ground with a ‘bloated tummy’ (L11), an obvious sign of malnourishment (L17-18). The mother picks up the child and they head to the kitchen where a dreary breakfast — leftovers from last night’s dinner, which itself consisted of salted fish and rice – is being ’stir-fried in a grease-blackened wok’ (L16). The boy whimpers in hunger and the mother attempts to sooth him with ‘a broken tune from her childhood’ (L22).

The poem is mostly about the mother, having lived her life and seen her dreams tarnished like the clothes that she washed. The ‘years of dirt and grime’ apply equally well to her aspirations in life. The last stanza emphasises this notion: ‘Tomorrow, the clothesline will stir again, strung / with the hopes and half-remembered dreams / that flutter, defiantly, in the stillness of the day’ (L26-L28). The reader is left wondering if there is still some hope in those dreams of hers, a defiance that still survives day by day. It would appear futile for the mother to entertain her childhood dreams, yet she does: the song she uses to sooth her son is another reminder of her own childhood, or better days when her dreams were still fresh.

The son, on the other hand, is still in a state of innocence and has his dreams intact, or even yet to form. While his mother hangs the clothes, he ’squats in a corner, thrusting / naked buttocks into the brown earth, claiming / the small patch for his own’ (L8-L10), a metaphor of his ambition in life, to have something of his own and to make a mark in the world. However, reality dispels this notion of autonomy soon enough from his mind, when his mother swoops him up and he tries to seek sustenance from her breast, yet finds none. The disappointment and hunger ‘contort his youthful visage’ (L25) just as life is sure to contort his dreams.

There is very little romanticism in Chin’s poem. The family did not deserve to be poor, yet they are. They work hard and do what they have to do to survive, and if one is to look for any optimism in the poem the only thing one finds is that at least their situation does not seem to deteriorate, but is rather going to stay the same the next day. But then again, perhaps it is the reader who is used to live in relative luxury who perceives this situation as miserable, despite the fact that such conditions are what the majority of human race has endured tens of thousands of years. The mother’s and subsequently the son’s expectations from life may have tarnished, but not vanished, and they still live on, and the beginning of the poem seems to even imply a certain level of pride: ’The clothesline stirs slowly / in the stale morning heat, dripping / with the sweat of an honest / woman’s work.’ (L1-L4)

Honesty, perseverance, caring for one’s family. Behind the realism of the poem, a faint glimmer of humanity shines through.