A History of Particles: Ash, Wood, Shrimp
Unsettled and predisposed
to flight, they
rise. Or, awaiting the process, receive
the glow as prelude to transformation, a
nocturnal exegesis inscribed in flame
and black swirls. Death in the air,
settling upon us. The bitterest
taste. But how to explain
the tongueβs sweet tremor? And the narrow
margins between the transition
from wood to smoke?
At 250 degrees
their pale shells redden,
become vessels of radiant
heat and its attenuated function,
moisture retained so as
to delay and heighten the
delectable flesh, once freed, become
virtue, become fate
sliding down the throat,
the course of deterioration hastened
and endured in perpetuity.
This first appeared on the blog in June 2015.
I could have never thought the death and the cooking process of shrimps could be poetically portrayed. Thanks you for this experience.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, Pradita. Poetry is all around us, if we look.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Absolutely! And you have a wonderful way with words to remind us of just that π
LikeLiked by 1 person
You are very kind.
LikeLiked by 1 person
My pleasure π
LikeLiked by 1 person
I do need to read more of you. “Become virtue, become fate…..” Rare as meat. Wonderful.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, Ruth Ann. But not well done and served with ketchup. π
LikeLiked by 2 people
Hah. Always somewhere red and w a little butter….!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Perhaps a compound butter with herbs and garlic. Mmmmm.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Reblogged this on O LADO ESCURO DA LUA.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks for reblogging.
LikeLike
Interesting how the poet can write the sense from cooking or taste, but we seldom, if ever accurately depict the moments of eating, the chewing etc.
LikeLiked by 1 person
That is interesting. I’ll have to work on that. Hmm.
LikeLiked by 1 person
i thought this for a while but just haven’t found myself getting round to it, like so many things.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I know that feeling!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Reading this while heating up lunch. Somehow I don’t think my kitchari will send me into poetic thoughts, but I’ll look out for them π
LikeLiked by 1 person
The spices alone could do that! I’ve never made kitchari. Maybe it’s time!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Yes, I underestimated the poetry in the spices! Cumin, coriander, mustard, tumeric, asafoetida…enjoyed on a sunny autumn afternoon watching the hillside across my verandah being revealed as the delicate sheets of fog rolled past.
LikeLiked by 1 person
There you go!
LikeLike
Gotta say, shrimp poetry was a nice surprise.
LikeLiked by 1 person
That should be a new category of poetry!
LikeLike
Best title to a poem… ever!!!
“My name is Okaji-mandias, king of things:
Look on my lime grilled shrimp and despair….
Nothing beside remains… because they were so delicious they have been snapped up by my guests before you arrived!”
LikeLiked by 2 people
Boundless and bare, the lone and level plates stretch far away… π
LikeLiked by 2 people
The sizzling shrimp are captured beautifully by your words!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, Maria!
LikeLiked by 1 person
I’m so there. The smoke, the salt, the experiential sweetness. Delicious.
LikeLiked by 1 person
It has been years since I smoked shrimp. Hmm.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I like the nocturnal exegesis and the margins between the transition
from wood to smoke. The most profound exegesis on bbq I’ve found! LOL.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks, D. The art of bbq is profound!
LikeLike
Nice thanks
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you!
LikeLike
https://avoicefromiran.wordpress.com/2017/08/25/a-memorable-friend%db%8c%da%a9-%d8%af%d9%88%d8%b3%d8%aa-%d8%a8%d9%87-%db%8c%d8%a7%d8%af-%d9%85%d8%a7%d9%86%d8%af%d9%86%db%8c/
LikeLike
Great thanks
LikeLiked by 1 person
https://avoicefromiran.wordpress.com/2017/08/25/a-memorable-friend%db%8c%da%a9-%d8%af%d9%88%d8%b3%d8%aa-%d8%a8%d9%87-%db%8c%d8%a7%d8%af-%d9%85%d8%a7%d9%86%d8%af%d9%86%db%8c/
LikeLike
!
LikeLiked by 1 person