I’ve never liked meringue.
Always have.
The way it stiffens being whipped,
lingers on the lip like a fish hook,
exotically sweet like India
in 1930’s romantic movies,
the sari draped girl wearing dark eyes,
and her young lover, a raj or something,
wearing a jeweled turban and gold satin suit.
Looming behind the garden wall,
the British viceroy of the Windsor king,
who, with a stiff collar and stiff upper lip,
granted them the privilege of living well
in their own country while being stiffed
as a colony of a foreign realm.
At the bar the viceroy ordered a stiff drink.
He fretted over empire now that Gandhi was gone,
a stiff body on a funeral pyre. Holy smoke.
When I was a kid racing down the aisle
of my father’s church; he would shout,
“Where’s the fire?”
Dad could be formal and stiff
especially when God was around.
He didn’t notice God was running
from me.
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The poem is not difficult to understand but it does mount a vigorous resistance to
explanation. It is playful. You’ve got to work at it. I had to. You may not want to work
that hard. But if you want to, I’m willing to help.
To understand this poem you must be alert to the subtle connections. The main linking
word is ‘stiff’ found throughout the poem delivering several meanings.
The poem begins with jarring syntax:
I’ve never liked meringue.
Always have.
Already you know this poem is going to disturb the ordinary business of managing your
world. You would not state your dislike for something by saying the negative positively.
i.e. ‘I have always not liked meringue.’ You would customarily say, ‘I have never liked
meringue.’
Moving on. The words ‘stiff’ and ‘meringue’ connect. When egg whites are whipped up
with a little sugar they stiffen into meringue.
The way it stiffens being whipped,
lingers on the lip like a fish hook,
Meringue and fish hook is a jarring juxtaposition. Meringue is sweet. Delicious. Human bait.
Once the sweetness gets its ‘hook’ in you, it’s hard to shake. You want more. You’re hooked.
exotically sweet like India
in 1930’s romantic movies,
the sari draped girl wears dark eyes,
her young lover, a raj or something,
wears a jeweled turban and gold satin suit.
Looming behind the garden wall,
the British viceroy of the Windsor king,
who, with a stiff collar and stiff upper lip
granted them the privilege of living well
in their own country while being stiffed
as a colony of a foreign realm.
The sweetness of the meringue is compared to the exotic ‘sweetness’ of India as
depicted in old movies produced by romanticizing colonizers with the elegant natives
allowed to be in their own country at the indulgence of the empire. In this passage
there are three more users of ‘stiff’; collar, upper lip, and the verb being ‘stiffed’
meaning cheated out of what is rightfully theirs.
At the bar the viceroy ordered a stiff drink.
He fretted over empire now that Gandhi was gone
a stiff body on a funeral pyre. Holy smoke.
The scene shifts and so does the usage of ‘stiff’, a strong alcoholic beverage.
The viceroy, a representative of the dominating foreign power, has a feeling
the empire will not stand much longer. The provocative nonviolent revolution
of the Mahatma Gandhi would dissolve the empire. Now ‘stiff’ refers to the
cadaver of a national hero who is being cremated in native Hindu fashion on
a funeral pyre.
The scene shifts abruptly from 1940’s India to my childhood.
When I was a kid racing down the aisle
of my father’s church; he would shout,
“Where’s the fire?”
I’m running down the aisle of a church sanctuary. Consider the connection
between the holy smoke of the cremation fire of the Hindu saint and my
father referring to fire in the church. What does ‘fire’ mean as a metaphor?
My father considered running an inappropriate in a sacred space. “Where’s the fire?”
was a 1950’s colloquialism parents used to tell children to stop running. The only
reason to run would be if the building was on fire. It wasn’t.
Dad could be formal and stiff.
The use of ‘stiff’ as a synonym for ‘proper.’
especially when God was around.
Those were the euphoric post World War II days when God was still popular and it was
considered unseemly not to believe.
My father didn’t notice God was running
from me.
God, the divine mystery, fearful of being caught and domesticated by good people
recently triumphant and on top of the world, ran from me.
If you have enjoyed working through this poem, you might retry Emily Dickinson, or
try John Ashberry or Anne Carson for the first time. Frederick Seidel’s poems in his
book Ooga Booga would be challenging fun.