Chiba by Brian Edwards
Brian Edwards September 12, 2009 at 10:34PM Chiba
Prefecture of the prettiest name,
stuck like a thumb in wild waters,
shores anchored by fishing nets
that bear all year round clumps
of edible seaweed, bouquets of
manila clams bumping their heads
as though mad castanets, anchovies
caught in trawls as big as villages,
deceptive blue-green scales surging
jagged coastlines in waves of silver,
like steel remains of a defeated fleet.
Prefecture of beloved squat buntings,
whose four sharp notes rise in a perpetual
hurry, as if the permanence of monogamy
were as doubtful as the sturdiness
of perches. Wise whales keep the coast
in view, occasional dolphins entertain
and miles above, larger birds roar,
striped with flags, round bellies full
of pre-packaged food and parcels
smuggled across the sky, golden brown
in brightly coloured ribbons ready
to be unwrapped by callous hands,
tattoed and cigar-stained, full of the promise
of corruption and riches. Typhoons punish
the peninsular seasonally, freshen beaches
stringed with dead Lobster, Bream, Perch,
Scomber, Sardine, Yellowtail and Saury Pike,
bones picked by attentive gulls, whose brown-tipped
wings and dramatic swoops ensure
the coastline is endlessly decorated.
Stray wake of honey buzzards
on reconnaissance, spy widening circles
in the dark water off the coast of Chōshi.
Mosquitoes find protein for eggs
on industrious arms and flexed calves.
Oaks devoured from cambium to bark
fall in silent forests, miles from the thrills
of rollercoasters and man-sized mice.
Beached sharks choke in plastic bottles.
Buzzards circle. Buntings shrill
the same four persistent notes,
and after dark, when yellow sand's
been eaten by a pallid moon,
in bruise-purple and ugly green specks
the names Honeifaith, Elda, Lucie, Lindsay,
stick in the throat of the prefecture
with the prettiest name.
After Elizabeth Bishop: "Florida" in The Complete Poems, 1927-1979
~
Brian Edwards
Chiba
Prefecture of the prettiest name,
stuck like a thumb in wild waters
reflecting five thousand square kilometres
and more. Shores lie anchored
by fishing nets that bear all year round
clumps of edible seaweed, bouquets of
manila clams that bump their heads
as though mad castanets and anchovies,
caught in trawls as big as villages,
their deceptive blue-green scales surging
historic coastlines in waves of silver,
like steel remains of defeated fleets.
Prefecture of beloved squat buntings,
whose four sharp notes rise in a perpetual
hurry, as if the permanence of monogamy
were as doubtful as the sturdiness
of perches. Wise whales keep the coast
in view, occasional dolphins entertain.
Beached sharks choke in plastic bottles.
Mosquitoes find protein for eggs
on industrious arms and flexed calves.
Oaks devoured from cambium to bark
fall in silent forests, miles from the thrills
of roller-coasters and man-sized mice.
Typhoons punish the peninsular seasonally,
freshen beaches stringed with dead
Lobster, Bream, Scomber, Sardine and Saury Pike,
bones picked by watchful gulls, whose brown-tipped
wings and dramatic swoops ensure
the coastline is endlessly decorated.
Stray wakes of honey buzzards
on reconnaissance, spy widening circles
in the dark water off the coast of Chōshi.
Miles above, larger birds roar,
striped with flags, round bellies full
of pre-packaged food and parcels
smuggled across the sky, golden brown
girls in brightly coloured ribbons ready
to be unwrapped by callous hands,
tattooed and cigar-stained, full of the promise
of corruption and riches. Buzzards circle.
Buntings shrill the same four persistent notes,
and after dark, when yellow sand's
been eaten by a pallid moon,
in bruise-purple and ugly green specks
the names Honeifaith, Elda, Lucie, Lindsay,
stick in the throat of the prefecture
with the prettiest name.
After Elizabeth Bishop: "Florida" in The Complete Poems, 1927-1979
~
Reader Comments (5)
shite huh?
Au contraire, Brian. It's a damn good read. Part of me wants more surprises -- or maybe one big 'un -- a shift in mood perhaps, a la Bishop's poem. This bit strikes me as weak:
deceptive blue-green scales surging
jagged coastlines in waves of silver,
like steel remains of a defeated fleet.
Maybe throw something in about black ships?
james
Hey thanks for stopping by James.
You didn't like those lines huh? Damn, they're pretty important in my mind . . . you didn't pick up on the subtle and carefully crafted symbolism? Sheesh (I'm rolling my eyes here . . .)
OK, I have a couple of ideas that might address some of your (and my own) concerns. Follow-up coming up.
B.
~
Hard to pin down your exact changes, but upon reading your update this really worked for me. The only further point I would offer is that it has a tendency for repetitive sentence structure:
noun, verb.
noun, verb.
noun, verb.
Although admittedly you get that in the Bishop poem too.
james
Damn that English language word order eh James!
No, point taken. I guess I was probably locked into the Bishop poem and didn't even realise the pattern.
The biggest change I made was to bring the girls on the
plane down into the second stanza and closer to the list of dead girls' names. Thematically that makes much better sense, to me anyhow.
Appreciate you coming back, and glad it works for you now.
B.
~