AES Birthday Ed.
And for whatever reason, Oranges.
When I lived in the mountains,
I thought the same color meant the same taste.
Tangerines, oranges and the sun. Citrus.
When I saw my great-grandmother peel a tangerine with her bare hands
while men used knives for oranges, she became God.
I imagined what she could do with the sun.
-from Yasica, Puerto Plata by JP Infante
I peel oranges neatly.
The sections come apart cleanly, perfectly in my hands.
When Emily peels an orange, she tears holes in it.
Juice squirts in all directions.
“Kate,” she says, “I don’t know how you do it!”
Emily is my best friend.
I hope she never learns how to peel oranges.
- Oranges by Jean Little. And in (Janani’s) imagined response,
this quote from We Are Okay by Nina LaCour.
‘She peels an orange, separates it in perfect halves, and gives one of them to me. If I could wear it like a friendship bracelet, I would. Instead I swallow it section by section and tell myself it means even more this way. To chew and to swallow in silence here with her. To taste the same thing in the same moment.’
At lunchtime I bought a huge orange—
The size of it made us all laugh.
I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave—
They got quarters and I had a half.
And that orange, it made me so happy,
As ordinary things often do
Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park.
This is peace and contentment. It’s new.
The rest of the day was quite easy.
I did all the jobs on my list
And enjoyed them and had some time over.
I love you. I’m glad I exist.
The Orange by Wendy Cope.
And more imagined conversations; Oranges by Fred Babbin.
She peels an orange for us
and gives me half
to squash between my teeth.
The juice runs out
and gives such satisfaction
the gods must look in envy,
for it is the satisfaction
only found in love.
Adore this playful allusion, plus a bonus rant about the poem ‘trending’ on social media.
Cut one, the lace of acid
rushes out, spills over your hands.
You lick them, manners don’t come into it.
Orange- the first word you have heard that day-
enters your mind. Everybody then
does what he or she wants- breakfast is casual.
Slices, quarters, halves, or the whole hand
holding an orange ball like the morning sun
on a day of soft wind and no clouds
which it so often is. “Oh, I always
want to live like this,
flying up out of the furrows of sleep,
fresh from water and its sheer excitement,
felled as though by a miracle
at this first sharp taste of the day!”
You’re shouting, but no one is surprised.
Here, there, everywhere on the earth
thousands are rising and shouting with you-
even those who are utterly silent, absorbed-
their mouths filled with such sweetness.
-Oranges by Mary Oliver, and (below) Abundance by Amy Schmidt in memory of Mary Oliver.
It’s impossible to be lonely
when you’re zesting an orange.
Scrape the soft rind once
and the whole room
fills with fruit.
Look around: you have
more than enough.
Always have.
You just didn’t notice
until now.
It’s been one year since I started this little love letter-esque substack to share quirks, verses, and photographs. With no defined promise, purpose or intent, I’ve made it incredibly easy (and difficult) to judge how far I’ve come (if at all). But as I was painting this slice of cake with a friend (love you, Flor) on a sunny London evening, chatting, giggling, laughing, I realised this has been the purpose of it all along - small pockets of lovely incidences.
So far so good.
Happy birthday to us; to you and me and An Evening Scroll. I’ll go eat some leftover chocolate cake. Here’s a strawberry one for you.
As always, thank you for trusting the process. Thank you for being here. (And tell your friends about it.)
Yours, Janani.