My other favorite poem

Several years after I first glimpsed "The Highwayman," it showed up in my life once again—it was one of the many poems in my seventh grade literature book.  (My seventh grade literature book was arguably the greatest compilation of English poetry and prose ever published; more on that another day.)  One of the other poems from that book—I think; I guess; I'm almost sure—was "Oranges," by Gary Soto. 

It is my other favorite poem. 

If "The Highwayman" is beautiful, haunting fire on a windy autumn night (and just thinking of windy autumn nights makes me want to write another thousand words on how much I do adore that poem), "Oranges" is the warm glow of hearth and hot cider after playing outside in the snow.  It is sweet, uncertain—the stilted, honest story of a first date.

"The Highwayman" leaves me with a hint of unhappiness, yearning for something I can't quite place.  "Oranges" leaves me smiling, happy for winter and shy crushes.

They both give me goosebumps.

Seventh grade—we were twelve that year, turning thirteen, and I suppose that's why the poem was included when it was.  Our being the age of the narrator, perhaps, was meant to make us appreciate or identify with the poem.  I don't know that it really worked—some people hated the poem or thought it was boring, some people didn't care at all.  I can only assume I'm not the only person who enjoyed it, but I don't know for sure.  The reactions to "Oranges" seemed about the same as the reactions to any other work we read in Literature or English class.  The people who liked reading enjoyed it; the people for whom Literature class was slow torture didn't feel any different(ly?) than usual.  I doubt being the age of the poem's narrator has much to do with how people felt about the poem itself.  (If I overthink things a bit, I probably identify my former twelve-year-old self with the poem more now than I identified my current twelve-year-old self with it at the time.)

But as for me, yes, I loved it.

The story itself is sweet—a boy on a first date, walking with a girl.  It's not even called a date; that's never mentioned.  Just the first two lines, matter-of-fact, uncertain.  "The first time I walked / with a girl, I was twelve..."  It continues:  "...cold, and weighted down / with two oranges in my jacket."

This is the perfect first sentence.  I would read anything—story, novel, poem, essay, biography, legal document, letter, manifesto, recipe, memoir, plaque, brochure, post-it note—that opened with this line.

This poem enchants me.  Every line—and the lines are short; the longest is the last, and that is only seven words—is an experience, something new, something real—something small, but something significant.  Read it, read it line by line. Slowly.  Savor every word.  It's one beautiful sensory illusion after another.  And everything is created so succinctly—in places, it's almost Spartan.  No flowery language, no purple patches, no self-important words or grandiose visions. 

The poem is detailed, but it is not detail for detail's sake.  The details create the experience, rather than belabor it.  "A dog barked at me, until / She came out..."  Nine words, and we know that the boy has reached her house, he is waiting outside, cold, awkward.  A dog barks at him, again and again, loudly—he's nervous, out of place; she's taking her time, has she forgotten?  A moment of paranoia, fear, desperation (Mister Morton rocks back and forth on Pearl's porch, a nervous wreck)—but ah, she appears!  Finally!  A sense of relief washes over him, everything seems alright, even the dog stops barking.  His presence at her house is justified.

"A dog barked at me, until / She came out..." 

You don't need anything else.  I've been trying to write this entry for three days, and I'm having an awful time of it—how do you write at length about a poem whose very soul lies in its simplicity? 

If you're clever, you don't.

Read the poem.
 

"Oranges"
By Gary Soto.

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 nickel 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.