Arigato, Momofuku — ROBERT ALDEN RUBIN

Note: “Arigato Momofuku” was something I wrote after an editor asked for a humorous bit on the death of the inventor of Ramen Noodles, Momofuku Ando. I wrote it as a tongue-in-cheek send-up of W.H. Auden’s great elegy on the death of William Butler Yeats. It’s mostly inside jokes that only hikers will get. Alas, it was not what the editor was looking for, so I entered it into the online magazine Slate’s 2007 “Bad Poetry Contest.” “Way to suck!” they told me. It was the unanimous winner. Enjoy!

Arigato, Momofuku
A tribute to the Ramen King,

by the Rhymin’ Worm,
(with apologies to W.H. Auden)

TOKYO—Momofuku Ando (1910–2007), the Japanese inventor of instant noodles has died. He was 96. Nissin Food Products Co., the company Ando founded, said that he died after suffering a heart attack.
—Asia Times

He softened up after the winter solstice:
The springs were icy, the ridgelines almost deserted,
And snowdrifts filled corners of the hiking shelters;
The LCDs froze in the glass of each GPS display.
Our mileage tables tend to agree:
His last day on earth was a zero day.

Far from the hot pots
Purists trudged south past the blue-blazed shortcuts
And hostel-keepers allowed the old year’s air to clear;
By hiking-boot tongues
The death of the noodle king was kept from his soups.

But for Ando-san present and future now were pasta,
Steeped in MSG and savory flavors;
The cellophane lost air-tightness,
The desiccated brick began to moisten,
Dampness invaded the packaging,
The starch lost its stiffness; he became his flavor varieties.

Now he waits on shelves in a hundred trail towns,
Wholly given over to odd combinations,
Slathered with peanut butter, perhaps,
Or sautéed with a mess of spring ramps.
The carbs of a dead man
Are modified in the guts of the living.

But in the thru-hike plans of tomorrow,
When gear salesmen are demonstrating the newest ultra- light cookstove,
And post offices have the maildrops
to which they have become mostly resigned,
And each thru-hiker imagines himself alone atop a ridge,
A few wanderers may recall this day
As one recalls a day when one left something at the previous shelter.

Our registers all agree:
His last day on earth was a zero day.

II.

You hungered as we do; your dream transcended ours:
Deep-fried noodles, made permeable in palm oil,
Then dried—lightweight, calorific; just add water.
Now hikers have oatmeal and their ramen too,
For noodles simply keep one going, enduring
To the next town stop, or maildrop, where gourmands
Would never think to pause; starchy strands
One carries past bears and shelter mice, or eats
Raw in hostels when low on cash; surviving,
Sure of something they will fill—a mouth.

III.

Dirt, receive a soupy mess
Ando-san is laid to rest.
Let the camp stove cookware be
Emptied of its noodlery.

’Round the fire-ring in the dark
All the Trail dogs pant and bark.
There some camping party waits,
Freeze-dried omelets on their plates;

Palpable is their disdain:
Noodles? No, they will not deign;
Their food’s from an outdoors store
(Meals they paid ten dollars for).

Hikers, though, don’t find it strange
To fill up for two bits and change.
(In fact it’s truly not uncommon
to hike for days, just eating ramen;

Those who walk and persevere
Have to save their cash for gear.)
Who cares if the trans-fats mount?
Bless that high caloric count!

Momofuku, go in peace
Be at ease in your release:
Most men slurp, so few men chew;
Hikers will remember you.