A [sort of] formalized analysis of Mesh Toraskar and his poem, “fresh terror to love.”
I have a history of analyzing the utterly brilliant and soul-touching poetry of Mesh Toraskar. It seems I’m unable to read his poetry and move on with my life, as each line, each half-line, each word is so rich with imagery, references, concepts, et cetera, that it requires taking slow, quiet time to fully appreciate it all. He took quite a long break at the beginning of the year before returning in April with the stunner, “fresh terror to love.” He has published two more pieces since then, one poem and one Feast narrative, both of which I highly recommend. You’ll quickly deduce that I will recommend everything this man has written. Anyway, I promised to come back when words were no longer failing me and I did not. A lot has happened to me and it simply has not stopped, yet this is no excuse for being mute to the following beauty.
I’m here to remedy my broken promise.
Before I begin my newest dissertation of Mesh’s work, I urge you to go read the poem in full, as I’m sure you’ll find this essay boring and very confusing if you don’t. (You might still find it boring, I suppose, but at least you won’t be lost!)
Stanza One
We open with the image of a full mouth, then read “famine”: “woefully unprepared with my mouth full of | famine.” Already, we’re set up for contradicting images. Then, we see empty hands followed by a second contradiction, this time through an intentional line break: “famine, hands empty but my future | beyond March.” Here, the speaker seems to be indicating that all he holds is his future. I don’t know about you, but I pictured them empty. This does two things: We see the speaker, at the outset, lacking both food (famine) and productivity (empty hands), and yet we actually see them in their opposites: the mouth full and the hands holding the future. This is setting a very specific tone for the rest of the poem; we will see a surface that does not match, and may be in conflict with, its true foundation.
If a mouth is full of famine, what besides hunger does this mean? The mouth is full of what, exactly? Of want, of complaints, of begging? Is it full of emptiness, a kind of resignation to its starvation? And the empty hands; if hands represent action—doing things—and they’re empty, what about the implied holding of the future correlates to productivity? It’s like the speaker is simultaneously hopeful that the future beyond the last month of winter is full of food, and cautious that it might not last. A mouth full of famine is one that has been starving for far too long and that knows how fleeting satiety is.
The speaker also describes himself as being “woefully unprepared,” as though the arrival of something unspecified is remarkably abundant for the mouth and the hands. Given the title, we can safely assume the abundance is related to terror, love, or even an inextricable connection thereof. Love, and its terror, correlate nicely to a famine that seems to be ending, or winter turning to spring, or a lack of food changing into a season of yield. In other words, we have been subconsciously inducted into a complex love metaphor.
Indeed, we see this idea be subtly validated in the following lines: “beyond March | when the nights leave with no warning | but with recollections that under the sun | there is never and nowhere a time to cry.” With “March” and “nights,” we are reminded of winter, April being the first month of spring. If winter is the season of short days and long nights—perhaps even hibernation—then the speaker is looking past it to longer days.
“Beyond March,” carries with it memories that when there is sunlight, crying can find no space to exist. On its own, this idea is beautiful, as sunlight is generally symbolic of joy. Yet how these lines are framed makes it hard to accept: “never and nowhere” are so definite, seeming to suspend the act of weeping without anywhere to land; a kind of suppression. Again, we’re falling into contradicting ideas that still, impossibly, make perfect sense. Perhaps the speaker does not trust the abundance of opposite emotion to the winter. Where once there was too much darkness and much crying, how can there now be no space for these things?
From the beginning of stanza one through to its end, a tone of mistrust in future love is starting to make itself known.
Stanza Two
With the very first line, we see yet another moment of how a line break can create a richer meaning. Enjambment, the continuation of a line into the next without an endstop, is utilized here: “there is never and nowhere a time to cry” into “every morning, a recurring epoch.” Here, we see these lines validate the idea that weeping is being suppressed. The “every morning” tells us the frequency of the speaker’s urge to cry. Read them together: “there is never and nowhere a time to cry | every morning, a recurring epoch.” The enjambment adds speed to the first line’s reading, making the reader pause only at the comma. Thus, “every morning” informs what comes before it.
Then we see an image of the speaker standing in front of the mirror: “the mirror returns me my face | and with it a reminder of the hour | of what it means to be awake in human bones.” What a dark scene. Bones come on the heels of never finding time to cry, wanting to cry every morning, and staring at oneself in a mirror. Like an existential scene in a movie, this is a bleak characterization of our speaker. Yes, winter is rough this year, full of lacking and a terror to that changing. Yet there is a tinge of hope in the words, “a reminder of the hour | of what it means to be awake in human bones.” In them we can read a shifting out from the speaker’s winter depression, or hibernation, and into a wakeful state where time becomes more solid, more important (compared to a stretched out, unspecified epoch).
Stanza Three
We see a new concept introduced and linked in this first line of stanza three: “to lie so close to someone, meek flashes of summer on your faces.” Here, “human bones” seems to double as an anchoring image for existence without joy (stanza two) and for true vulnerability (stanza three). After all, showing someone your bones is the most raw thing you can do; there’s no hiding behind flesh. This reads just like a new relationship. With “meek flashes of summer,” we’re seeing a small hope that it will continue into summer. Yet, what might be coming in summer that would prevent this relationship? “Meek” seems to connote a hint of dread here. Is it because of the sun? Full, hot sunlight can do harm as well as grow crops. Is the speaker not quite daring to hope for summer because of that? “There is never and nowhere a time to cry.” At least in spring, one can still cry a little.
Continuing on, we see an expansion of the initial famine in “a freshly razed field.” The complete line, “a freshly razed field of yourselves” seems to be directly stating its metaphorical nature. The “field” razed in the famine was either the shared or individual identity of the people in question. To see that be completely destroyed and to use such diction as “raze,” is bordering on the interpretation of an external violence against that identity. And to see it, in the next stanza, be redeemed by April tulips, is supremely beautiful. Tulips are clearly a symbol of love here.
In fact, the speaker directly tells us that these people are “no longer just bodies but | a freshly razed field of yourselves | which is to say | we are the earth an armful of tulips grow through.” They are a destroyed field of their identity, the equivalent of the earth giving rise to tulips.
To me, this image conflicts. How are they equivalent? The field is gone, leaving only the earth. Yet the next image is a fertile ground that leads to growth. These are opposites. At the same time, it makes emotional sense; this relationship is a redemptive arc, a connection based on transformation, which makes destruction equivalent to growth.
We see the speaker and the other person cut down, presumably by the cause of the famine mentioned in stanza one (the famine from March, or even before). The tulips, then, read as a private crop, a small area of flowers that can fit into an arm and flourish. The relationship is not represented by the tulips, remember, but by the earth that the flowers grow from. The tulips, as stated before, are a representation of love.
The line, “you’re no longer just bodies” also seems to contradict with the image of the field. Read: “you’re no longer just bodies but | a freshly razed field of yourselves.” If a field—or identity—being razed—or destroyed—is an image of violence, then it would seem to be in direct contradiction to the idea that these people are more than bodies. How can a destroyed field be more; isn’t it less than what it was and quite unable to return to its previous state?
It goes back to this relationship being based on redemption. The bodies hold the destruction and the growth; both. And love comes to fruition because of that—ie., the more. These people are no longer just bodies, but the earth itself being made fertile again, and for something vibrant and indicative of love and of rebirth. There is something here else, too. It’s the word “freshly” in “freshly razed field” that speaks to the timing of this renewal; it’s as recent as the razing and therefore dependent on these particular individuals being together. This is a beautiful, new, and deep relationship.
What has yet to be revealed, though, is what has become of these individuals and their identities. Yes, they’re identified through their togetherness and their hopeful change, but surely their identities have not been razed altogether?
Stanza Four
With the beginning of stanza four, we see the “earth” adorned with growing tulips and “lying supine in my mudwet |” ( note the enjambment) “| room – damp and comfortable | ready to close our eyes…” So the earth is not dry, but wet, like mud. The field has been watered. This brings to mind a highly fertile foundation for this relationship, and at the same time, a very wet one and possibly unstable. This hearkens back to the mistrust of lasting love in the first two stanzas.
Not only that, we see another moment of double meaning through enjambed lines. “Lying supine in my mudwet” evokes strong physical intimacy; coupled with the image of wet, fertile earth…well, you can connect the dots. This is quickly clarified to be “mudwet | room,” however, a subtle softening of the richer image. I will also spotlight in the importance of the word “supine,” the position of laying on one’s back. Combined with the image of the earth and fresh tulips, it’s hard not to picture these people lying on the earth and facing the sky—and thus, the sun. “Under the sun, there is never and nowhere a time to cry.” I love this so much. Mesh has basically redeemed the lack of tears by bringing in words like “wet” and “damp” to evoke a new kind of release. And to link the outdoors with a mudwet room is to metaphorically shade the speaker so that the release can happen, but also evoke privacy and highlight the importance of this other person to the speaker. The speaker cannot cry, but he can still be under the sun and experience wet and be ready to “close [his] eyes,” and be content. This is highly subtle, however. In practical terms, the poem is setting us up to see another transformation because of this intimate release.
The two individuals are now “ready to close [their] eyes,” seeming to indicate a sleepful denouement. It also presents a possible thematic conclusion to the wakefulness of stanza two, “what it means to be awake in human bones.” Now, we’re seeing what it means to be asleep after that very wakefulness, which is a more peaceful, satiating sleep than that of March.
However, we’re incorrect. Or rather, there is more to this interpretation, another contradiction that still makes poetic sense. There isn’t sleep, but instead, transformation, as stated above: “ready to close our eyes and | change into words.” (Yet I ask you, don’t we still transform during sleep?) The “field of yourselves” is “earth” is “words” now. Why words? Of course, on a meta level, the individuals are just words. We, as readers, do not know them, do not know if they’re real or fiction, flesh and bone or metaphorical; they’re just words. With this, there’s almost a breaking of the fourth wall between the poet and the reader. At the same time, though, there is a deepening of the already existing metaphor of individuals to fertile earth. If the latter is now being compared to words, then what is it about the speaker’s situation? A fertile foundation for growing tulips after a famine, yes, but how is it that like words? We already know that the speaker is dealing with a “fresh terror to love” and we know the speaker is likening love to tulips, for what else is growing in the earth of their relationship? So, love is also words. It is poetry. It is specifically this poem, or at least, this moment, captured by poetry (but, I ask you, what is the difference?).
Stanza Five
The start of stanza five is the list of the transformational words: “honeysuckle. linen. pimm’s. tulips.” Honeysuckle is practically an innuendo, hinting at the physical side of the relationship seen in the previous stanza. Linen is at once a natural fabric, or fruit, of the earth, and a foundation for what lays atop it (ie, bed linens). Pimm’s—an alcoholic beverage—speaks to the season. Gin and lemonade? It’s like the line from stanza three: “meek flashes of summer on your faces.” Finally, tulips, which we already know are love.
We then get a thrice repeated “April,” the real word of note. And we see, though we may not be correct, the “you” switching to address the month, rather than the speaker addressing himself: “you’re here again. | what new god do you bring? | who do I sing about this summer?” In fact, that the “you” does change, thematically connects to the previous transformation, the “change into words.” Could the summation of this relationship be the word, “April,” and if so, is there an undertone of short-lived love there? This is again hearkening back to the speaker’s mistrust from stanzas one and two.
A quick note on the point of view of this poem. It switches repeatedly, going from the first person (stanzas one and two) to second person (stanza three), then the first person plural (stanza four), back to second (stanza five) and then ending still in first (end of stanza five and the concluding two lines). This is very interesting. Not only is it seamlessly done, it indicates that the speaker’s identity is constantly shifting throughout. For me, this is more likely to be intentional than not. How perfect that the speaker begins with first, indicating a surety of self, and changes two more times before ending back in first? A transformation into a new version of himself. That we see a self-reflective second person voice in stanza three is a huge indication that the speaker is trying to figure himself out in this new relationship and he succeeds, welcoming in the first person plural in stanza four: “we are the earth an armful of tulips grow through.” Okay. So he’s finally secure about this relationship. Yet ever so quickly, the second person voice of self-reflection returns. This time, however, the addressee is April itself, some outside force that causes a different kind of questioning than the second person in stanza three did. And the answer, as we will see in the remainder of the poem, is to return to first person with a big conclusory statement.
So it’s becoming more and more clear throughout this poem that the speaker is seeing an end to the relationship he’s just begun. The question: “what new god do you bring?” is almost surprising after this understanding. Previous to this point, we do not have a mention of the divine. Instead, we are rooted, quite literally, in the earth and humans. It’s hard not to read this question as an implication of past patterns. “You’re here again. | what new god do you bring?” It’s like the speaker is remembering what April does: brings in a “god,” an object or person worthy of worship and praise, but that never seems to be real or lasting. Again, the line from stanza three comes up: “meek flashes of summer on your faces.” Meek, because the speaker dare not hope that the relationship will still be here come summer. Flashes, because it’s too vibrant to be seen all at once, and will fade as quickly as it arrived; it’s too new, too unstable. And damp earth? That’s not very stable either; if it’s as wet as mud, it’s bound to cause a fall.
So with the next question, “who do I sing about this summer,” it’s as if this suspicion is validated. There may be no one to sing about in the summer. And yet, if the “god” is the other person in the poem, perhaps this question is a direct reference to them. The speaker could still be feeling the end of this relationship, but foreseeing that he will still “sing” about them in the summer.
There is another possible reading of these questions, however. They could be strictly rhetorical. Perhaps the speaker is not expecting there to be any god at all, no muse to sing about. Perhaps in spite of the budding tulips, the speaker is still wanting more (and of course he is). “My mouth full of | famine, hands empty.”
Then we read this: “should I still believe | in summer, love uproots the heart | better than a leftover landmine.” Oh, wow. First of all, let’s observe the enjambment of “should I still believe.” It reads, at first, as the first half of a new question. “Should I still believe?” But the line ends, enjambing, and continues as a hypothetical clause: “Should I still believe in summer….” The first reading, that of a question for advice, fits so perfectly with the preceding questions and the concept of the relationship failing, that we can easily fill in the rest of it: “Should I still believe [in god; in love]?”
That’s not all. The line continues, remember. “Should I still believe | in summer, love uproots the heart | better than a leftover landmine.” Here, it’s clear that this is a full phrase and can be read as such. In other words, if the speaker still believes in summer, in a future beyond April, then love uproots the heart better than a leftover landmine. It’s like the speaker is certain that the summer holds a band omen, a surprise destruction of the heart. A broken heart to come. Love uprooting the heart parallels the previous image of a violent “razing,” and the landmine only brings that image to better clarity. Heartbreak followed by more heartbreak, perhaps?
Both of these readings have merit and deepen the understanding of this poem. However, I’m more inclined to think that the true reading is to take “should I still believe” as a statement-question linked to the two other questions, and read the last two lines as a full idea. So the end is simply: “in summer, love uproots the heart | better than a leftover landmine.” This way, we read the lines detached from “I” and can blame the “uprooting” on the season of summer.
We must take all three possible readings as being true and condense them into one. This would mean that “should I still believe” is simultaneously a resigned statement and a question about god, love and summer, and also separated from the final couplet. The final idea remains the same, though: the tulips are about to find themselves decimated by a leftover landmine, alongside the speaker’s newly regrown heart. And what will be at fault? Summer. Too much sun. Not enough crying (read: release). A cup too full to contain itself and someone else. A fresh terror to love, validated.
***
A/N: Thank you so much to Mesh Toraskar for granting me permission to publish this lengthy analysis of his brilliant work. I apologize for said length, but I could not leave any stone unturned, though I’m sure I still managed to. Consider this my way of proving to you that poetry like this needs to be attended to in great detail. To me, it’s what I imagine forensic voice analysis to be like; to be able to decipher emotion and hidden truth within someone’s voice seems impossible, yet it can be done. Poetry that has this degree of soulful and emotional depth is rare, beautiful, and says more than a face-to-face ever could, since this is the very essence of a person laid bare.
I don’t know how much of my analysis is correct, nor how much that is correct was intentional on his part. And it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that all of these elements are here to be consumed by us, and the least we can do as readers, in all things, is to take the time to digest it properly and absorb the nutrients. In this case, the nutrients are unadulterated awe and inspiration. Could I ever be jealous of such talent, beauty, and depth? Never. This is what art is, at its core. I can only strive to produce a sliver of what Mesh does on a consistent basis. (And this isn’t even my favorite piece of his. I only say this so that you understand the height to which his poetry can reach, which is far, far beyond this, an already incredibly moving and rich piece.)
Anyway.
If you made it this far, do yourself the hugest of favors and go read every living and breathing piece on Mesh’s profile.