Death (revised)

[brianedwards]

Death


After three days and nights of incense,
black kimonos and bowing at strangers,
it's time to send Ojichan
across The River of Three Hells.

I'm a tourist at this wake
observing all the rites and rituals:
chopsticks stuck upright in rice bowl
black and silver envelopes filled with money
clicking juzu beads and chanting monks.

My wife and I will later stand
at opposite sides of a metal slab
to collect her grandfather's bones,
our chopsticks in unison to share the weight.

In silence we pack his casket
with condolence wreaths
of roses and lilies,
beside the things he will carry
on his journey to the afterlife.

Perhaps he will stop along the way,
lay this towel over a wet patch of earth,
take a sip from this flask of saké,
swing this kendo sword at mosquitoes.

Urged on by the incessant sutra
from the deep-purple
robed monk oblivious in reverie,
we must work fast laying these tributes,
and no longer lay them petal by petal,
but stuff whole handfuls wherever there is room:
in his pockets, inside his shirt, and the shock
of his cold dead skin has passed, and we work
in silence, packing this wooden box,
as if it were any kind of box
or any kind of packing, and then
I catch sight of my brother-in-law, Mamoru,
the youngest among us, barely twenty-three,
and I can see the weight of this moment
has landed in the pools of his eyes,
and as it starts to spill over the edge
his face becomes a closed fist, trying to hold
all that water, but its banks burst and now
it is an open palm, a silent outreached hand,
and his grandmother sees him,
Obachan, the widow, now a black puddle
at his feet as the sound pours and pulls
this room from its foundations,
and now we are all crying,
all of us,
and my wife, Mie,
pushes her head against me, and through me,
and my gaping chest is a concert hall
on whose stage this family, my family,
sing their magnificent grief,
and it will never end, this grief,
when Minoru's ashes have been sailed,
when the guests have gone and all that's left
are four generations of women clearing away plates,
grief will echo in that great hall.








~

[Helen Bywater]

This is a deeply moving and well written account of a very sad event, Brian. It brought tears to my eyes.

There's just one criticism I'd offer.

and I can see the weight of this moment
has jumped into the pools of his eyes,

I know I always seem to be commenting on your imagery to do with eyes - I think I've done it twice before. This almost works, but it seems a bit too bizarre to me. What about "sink into the pools of his eyes"? Or maybe you could avoid mentioning the pools of his eyes specifically, and just imply it. It's such a cliché anyway, annoyingly so, like many an apt expression. Maybe you feel like disregarding the fact that it is a cliché, and I wouldn't blame you for that. "Jumped into", though, seems odd to me. I know it has a suddenness that "sink in" lacks, but the build-up to such a moment of grief would I think be a gradual accumulation of emotion, even if the moment it overflowed was sudden.

Helen

[Ros]

Nice descriptions here, Brian.

of roses and lilies,
beside the things he will carry

you don't need the comma here.

I wasn't so keen on the last section with its dramatic build-up. It works well down to about 'barely twenty three' (why barely? it's not that young) - I like the idea of the packing becoming a logistics problem, like any packing. I found the drama after that a bit over-wrought (speaking about the way the poem works here, not crit. your feelings of course) - I have images of great pools of tears and howlings which I'm afraid felt a bit ridiculous rather than moving.
(Don't like the 4 as a numeral, either).

Sorry, that sounds a bit harsh. I just think the ending would work better restrained, as the rest is.

Ros

[David]

I've been googling. Ojichan is Grandfather? I tracked down The River of Three Hells too, although they seem to have it as The River of Three Crossings in Wikipedia. I like the sound of that tradition.

chopsticks stuck upright in rice bowl
black and silver envelopes filled with money
clicking juzu beads and chanting monks.

- no line-ending commas there, then?

Bloody mosquitoes again! They get everywhere, don't they.

I think it's an absolute gift to a sensitive poet, a foreign place (slowly becoming less foreign) and such exotic subject matter, and you don't misuse it. It's quite moving.

Cheers

David

[stuartryder]

Brian, after all the power that went before it, I thought the last line was far too explicit and it told us what you had already shown us. Suggest a cut there but no other nits.

Stu

[brianedwards]

Thanks for all the look-sees. Ros, you are probably right about the numeral.

B.

~

[ray miller]

It sounds a rather more intimate affair than the funerals I've attended. Well written and observed with respect. The frantic packing I liked. I think Helen is right, sunk would be better than jumped, but it's a good image, the weight of the moment.The only bit I thought struck a slightly wrong note was " my gaping chest is a concert hall" which is verging on the grandiose.

[brianedwards]

Thanks Ray, but with all respect "sunk" as a suggestion actually borders on stupid. And what could be more grandiose than death? I think it is warranted here and within the narrative voice.

Always appreciate your input, but gonna be stubborn here.

Sincere thanks.

B.

~

[Lovely]

Beautiful, really loved it. What a powerful moving score!

This really goes where eagles go.........i have become comfortably
snow-blind....the power for me arrives neatly in S6.

Loved

L

[Helen Bywater]

I'm not sure if it makes a difference, but I didn't suggest "sunk" which suggests sunken eyes to me. My suggestion was "sink into" which I thought conveyed the sense of his loss sinking in. I just think that "jumped into the pools of his eyes" has an unintentionally comical effect that seems inappropriate at a funeral. I had in mind something like

and I can see the weight of this moment
sink into his eyes; pooling,
it starts to spill over the edge

but I think you're going to stick to your guns anyway. I just wanted to make that clear.

Helen

[Elphin]

Brian

Lots to admire in here. At first I thought the structure strange with the separate stanzas then the one long stanza but I can see how we move from observers in the early stanzas to being in the action (if thats the right word) at the end.

I do like the way the final long stanza gathers pace and urgency and climaxes. The packing section is very good. If I had one critical observation it would be that in a piece which risks moving into prose (but doesnt) there are places where I feel the tale is overtold and adds to that risk. I would tend to take my scalpel out now. Here are a few places I had that feeling

he was so loved - I think the reader can deduce that

my brother-in-law, the grandson - do we need two the familial associations? The grandson seems to be important but is the knowledge he is your b-in-law?

his grandmother sees him and sound pours from him - the sees him and from him seem superfluous and break a strong rhythm partic in the sound line. How about

the sound pours and pulls
this room from its foundations

Final thought would be that I thought the originality of the image of your chest as a concert hall is really strong and would be inclined to stop the poem at sing their magnificent grief. What comes after is a bit of an anti climax and less fresh.

Of course Brian these are just impressions but maybe there is something there for you.

elph

[brianedwards]

Thank you Lovely, Helen and Elph, and all others who commented before. I have now revised, taking on board some of your comments.

Much gratitude for all your input.

B.

~

[ray miller]

Only just picked up last week's remarks, Brian.It's always salutary to see oneself as others do but for the life of me I cannot fathom how "sunk" is such a stupid suggestion.Pray tell.

[Helen Bywater]

Looking good, Brian. I do wish you'd leave the original there when you edit, though. It's really interesting to see how a poem develops. It helps us to learn, I think, watching a work in progress.

[brianedwards]

Ray, perhaps "stupid" was harsh, but for me, if I picture something being "sunk", I see no splash, no outpour, which is what is needed here.

Helen, I am kind of weird that way: I hate seeing two or more versions of a poem at the top of the thread, it always looks so cluttered to me! Anyway, just for you, here's the earlier version. Thanks for returning.



After three days and nights of incense,
black kimonos and bowing at strangers,
it's time to send Ojichan
across The River of Three Hells.

I'm a tourist at this wake
observing all the rites and rituals:
chopsticks stuck upright in rice bowl
black and silver envelopes filled with money
clicking juzu beads and chanting monks.

Later we will of stand
opposite sides of a metal slab,
my wife and I, collecting her grandfather's bones,
chopsticks in unison, sharing the weight.

Though I'd only met the man a handful of times,
I too participate in packing his casket
with condolence wreaths of roses and lilies.

And we lay them in silence,
beside the things he will carry
on his journey to the afterlife.
Perhaps he will stop along the way,
lay this towel over a wet patch of earth,
take a sip from this flask of saké,
swing this kendo sword at mosquitoes.

We lay flowers, urged on
by the incessant sutra, the deep-purple
robed monk oblivious in reverie,
and there are so many flowers, he was
so loved, this man, and we must work
faster, and now we are no longer laying these
soft curls, petal by petal, but whole handfuls
are stuffed wherever there is room,
in his pockets, inside his shirt, and the shock
of his cold dead skin has passed, and we work
in silence, packing this wooden box,
as if it were any kind of box or any kind of packing, and then
I catch sight of my brother-in-law, the grandson, Mamoru,
the youngest among us, barely twenty-three,
and I can see the weight of this moment
has jumped into the pools of his eyes,
and it starts to spill over the edge
and his face is now a closed fist, trying to hold
all that water, but its banks burst and now
it is an open palm, a silent outreached hand,
and before the sound comes, his grandmother sees him,
Obachan, the widow, now a black puddle
at his feet, and then at last the sound pours from him,
it pulls this room from its foundations,
and now we are all crying,
all of us,
unexpected life pours from our faces,
and people are embracing, and my wife, Mie,
pushes her head against me, and through me,
and my gaping chest is a concert hall
on whose stage this family, my family,
sing their magnificent grief,
and it will never end, this grief,
when Minoru's ashes have been sailed,
when the guests have gone and all that's left
are 4 generations of women clearing away plates,
grief will echo in that great hall.

[BenJohnson]

if I picture something being "sunk", I see no splash, no outpour, which is what is needed here.

I know you have already edited this, but what about plunge, it is a forceful as 'jump' but gives the downward movement of 'sunk'.

[Helen Bywater]

Thanks for posting the original, Brian. You're right, it does look a rather untidy having 2 or more versions at the top. On the other hand, it's harder to compare them when they're further apart. Probably the best way is what some people do - just saying at the bottom what they've changed - if that's not too untidy for you.

I forgot to mention that I didn't like the 4 either.

Cheers,
Helen

[brianedwards]

Had meant to change that 4 actually Helen. Thanks for the nudge.

B.

~

[ray miller]

Ah, Brian, I see!Bordering on borderline stupid, then!! It's important to me that all my occasions of stupidity, even borderline, are brought to my attention. I keep a statistical record of my stupidity, because I weeeell improve, Mr Fawlty. We're having to build a second extension here just to accomodate the graph line.Gracias.

[brianedwards]

I hear you Ray. And assume you are married? Yes, stupidity, borderline or otherwise, is a daily feature of my existence too.
I apologise for giving you more of what you might be getting elsewhere (although giving a man more of what he's getting elsewhere is rarely an occasion for apology).

Thanks for popping back in.

B.

~