Two poems
16 Blessings for the City of Los Angeles
Post-chromatic
Rachel Tang
16 Blessings for the City of Los Angeles
Post-chromatic
Rachel Tang
"Trees" by H. Lyman Saÿen; oil on canvas; 21 1⁄8 x 18 1⁄8 in.; ca. 1912-1914; open source from the Smithsonian American Art Museum
16 Blessings for the City of Los Angeles
Blessed be the bar on la cienega, the meeting place of supercut fantasies and existential seminary, for I am a learned woman
Blessed be the wet edges of skirt hems and the ankles they graze in downtown rooftop pools, may our pleasures be a fractal vision to those above
Blessed be the lights of grand central market and the smallest talks reverberating across dented metal tabletops, may palms continue cupping other palms, with spare change and other gifts
Blessed be the chairs in a circle, for we are all just hanging out
Blessed be each and every grain of sand in the baseboards of the first apartment, may they forever be a testament to the virtue of sentimentality
Blessed be the rideshare drivers delivering impossible lovers in pairs at 1am, for knowledge is not necessarily free will
Blessed be the lanes on the freeway, for they are plentiful and non-binding
Blessed be the texts sent from underneath the cover of moonlight, for they provide constant absence of reassurance
Blessed be every voice that swells above the noise of the karaoke machine at bar nirvana, for they have more songs to sing than money to pay for them
Blessed be every tourist who has ever touched a star on the walk fame, may they one day be clean again
Blessed be the fluorescent lights inside the home depot on wilshire, for their all-consuming illumination of grief and pore
Blessed be the gardens in south central, where the most divine light lives in purple flowers, may those who keep the little things remain
Blessed be the nausea, headaches and hunger pangs had on the mattress on the floor, for we have laid here at different times, somehow together
Blessed be the metro predator and his blighted daydreams, may his legacy die with the words on this page
Blessed be the museums and their inner organs, freestanding interlocutors affixed to white walls, for every inch over eighteen is a dance in their direction
Blessed be this tinseltown, where everything is a symbol for something else, may the signified one day eat the signs
Blessed be the bar on la cienega, the meeting place of supercut fantasies and existential seminary, for I am a learned woman
Blessed be the wet edges of skirt hems and the ankles they graze in downtown rooftop pools, may our pleasures be a fractal vision to those above
Blessed be the lights of grand central market and the smallest talks reverberating across dented metal tabletops, may palms continue cupping other palms, with spare change and other gifts
Blessed be the chairs in a circle, for we are all just hanging out
Blessed be each and every grain of sand in the baseboards of the first apartment, may they forever be a testament to the virtue of sentimentality
Blessed be the rideshare drivers delivering impossible lovers in pairs at 1am, for knowledge is not necessarily free will
Blessed be the lanes on the freeway, for they are plentiful and non-binding
Blessed be the texts sent from underneath the cover of moonlight, for they provide constant absence of reassurance
Blessed be every voice that swells above the noise of the karaoke machine at bar nirvana, for they have more songs to sing than money to pay for them
Blessed be every tourist who has ever touched a star on the walk fame, may they one day be clean again
Blessed be the fluorescent lights inside the home depot on wilshire, for their all-consuming illumination of grief and pore
Blessed be the gardens in south central, where the most divine light lives in purple flowers, may those who keep the little things remain
Blessed be the nausea, headaches and hunger pangs had on the mattress on the floor, for we have laid here at different times, somehow together
Blessed be the metro predator and his blighted daydreams, may his legacy die with the words on this page
Blessed be the museums and their inner organs, freestanding interlocutors affixed to white walls, for every inch over eighteen is a dance in their direction
Blessed be this tinseltown, where everything is a symbol for something else, may the signified one day eat the signs
Post-chromatic
Some fragile rods and cones can’t parse the difference between
indigo and black, windbourne over the Oakland bridge
From water or night, the driver’s concern emerges to say,
I can hear your backseat heartbreak from here and can
you please keep it down, I press a dried mango to my
teeth, a jammy yellow middle between 32 ivory walls
Strangers drift down a seagreen alley to the fray of your voice, telling me
you’ve got a friend on the east coast that cried when you called her
out of the blue, ducks circle a manmade pond, not knowing
the best place to touch down
When our light turns red I confess
I’m looking forward to crying too
Some fragile rods and cones can’t parse the difference between
indigo and black, windbourne over the Oakland bridge
From water or night, the driver’s concern emerges to say,
I can hear your backseat heartbreak from here and can
you please keep it down, I press a dried mango to my
teeth, a jammy yellow middle between 32 ivory walls
Strangers drift down a seagreen alley to the fray of your voice, telling me
you’ve got a friend on the east coast that cried when you called her
out of the blue, ducks circle a manmade pond, not knowing
the best place to touch down
When our light turns red I confess
I’m looking forward to crying too
About the Author
Rachel Mei Ling Tang is a writer and art historian interested in memory, pedagogy, and ekphrasis. Rachel received her B.A. in Art History from the University of Southern California in Art History. She is currently a Ph.D. student in the History of Art at Harvard University.
About the Work
"A few years ago, I left Los Angeles behind and felt a deep sense of loss. In my grief I felt compelled to etch the memory of my time LA deep into my mind, writing about the city as one would write about a lover — unpossesable, transitory, and latent with desire. In other words, I love a good breakup song. I also think that to memorialize something, is to come to terms with the romanticization of your own experiences. These poems are my way of leaning into those feelings, rather than leaving them behind."
Rachel Mei Ling Tang is a writer and art historian interested in memory, pedagogy, and ekphrasis. Rachel received her B.A. in Art History from the University of Southern California in Art History. She is currently a Ph.D. student in the History of Art at Harvard University.
About the Work
"A few years ago, I left Los Angeles behind and felt a deep sense of loss. In my grief I felt compelled to etch the memory of my time LA deep into my mind, writing about the city as one would write about a lover — unpossesable, transitory, and latent with desire. In other words, I love a good breakup song. I also think that to memorialize something, is to come to terms with the romanticization of your own experiences. These poems are my way of leaning into those feelings, rather than leaving them behind."
