Gary Soto - "Oranges"
The first time I walked
With a girl, I was twelve,
Cold, and weighted down
With two oranges in my jacket.
December. Frost cracking
Beneath my steps, my breath
Before me, then gone,
As I walked toward
Her house, the one whose
Porch light burned yellow
Night and day, in any weather.
A dog barked at me, until
She came out pulling
At her gloves, face bright
With rouge. I smiled,
Touched her shoulder, and led
Her down the street, across
A used car lot and a line
Of newly planted trees,
Until we were breathing
Before a drugstore. We
Entered, the tiny bell
Bringing a saleslady
Down a narrow aisle of goods.
I turned to the candies
Tiered like bleachers,
And asked what she wanted Light in her eyes, a smile
Starting at the corners
Of her mouth. I fingered
A nickle in my pocket,
And when she lifted a chocolate
That cost a dime,
I didn't say anything.
I took the nickle from
My pocket, then an orange,
And set them quietly on
The counter. When I looked up,
The lady's eyes met mine,
And held them, knowing
Very well what it was all
About.
Outside,
A few cars hissing past,
Fog hanging like old
Coats between the trees.
I took my girl's hand
In mine for two blocks,
Then released it to let
Her unwrap the chocolate.
I peeled my orange
That was so bright against
The gray of December
That, from some distance,
Someone might have thought
I was making a fire in my hands.
I've always loved poems that deal with memories - particurally childhood, the first time is
usually the sweetest for anything - they always make me nostaligic. I also, for some
reason that I have yet to figure out, love poems about oranges. I think that any poem
about oranges automatically becomes much better (for example: Wallace Stevens'
"Sunday Morning" and Frank O'Hara's "Why I am Not a Painter"). I think oranges holds
some sort of good memory for me - and whenever I think about oranges I relate it to
whatever this is. I don't know what I correlate oranges with, but it must be something
good. Or maybe it's not a correlation issue, but instead oranges are just a happy fruit.
They are brightly colored, taste good, and their smell is intoxicating... hmmm, if I'm ever
in therapy this would be an interesting subject to explore further. I wonder why I've never
written a poem about oranges if I like them so much? I'll have to try that sometime...
But I've gotten off topic and must get back to the poem.What really strikes me about this
poem is its subject matter (as I mentioned above). There are a few strong memories that I
have of my childhood in which every detail is still as fresh as though it had happened
yesterday. I usually write down these memories as poetry, but often have the problem of
being too detailed and the poem is far too long and loses it's interest / point in the length.
Conversely, I find that Soto does a wonderful job of keeping his poem short, while also
conveying that the details are etched in his memory. Soto also did a great job of retaining
the 12-year-old voice, not pretending that he understood or felt any more or less than he
probably actually did. He also does not try to analyze his feelings, relying instead on
memories and actions to convey the feelings, and what was going on. I love this about the
poem, and after reading it thought back on a lot of my poetry and think I've figured out
why his works and mine don't.
Coming back to oranges - they are my favorite part of the poem. Using the orange
metaphor at the end of the poem is one of the most beautiful (and effective) uses of
figurative language I've read:
I peeled my orange
That was so bright against
The gray of December
That, from some distance,
Someone might have thought
I was making a fire in my hands.
Oranges are rare enough in the winter that their wonder may mimic that "first time I
walked / With a girl," those first wonderful encounters seem so precious. Finally, I love
the metaphor in the final lines (quoted above) because they're so right. They convey that
powerful feeling that your godlike when in love. Miracles.