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.

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.

Glad to see this moved to submit.....I wish the bottom was broken up into stanza.....you can keep the quality of it and still break it - see example below:

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

I'm a tourist at this wake
mentally checking off rites and rituals:
chopsticks stuck upright in ricebowl - check
black & silver envelopes stuffed with cash - check
clicking juzu beads & chanting monks - check.

Secretly, I'm excited at the prospect
of standing 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'm asked to participate in packing his casket
with condolence wreaths of roses and lilies.

And there he lies, Ojichan, Minoru,
a half-smile on his lips, surrounded by 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.

Silently, 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, Tetsuko, 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.

Note:  only one part I think is unneeded - see below:

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,


No matter what changes you make, this is a pick for me Brian, if no one else beats me to it......I find poems on sorrow so universal that they touch me in ways no other type of poem can.....remarkable - xo M

Chasan,
Thank you. Such a wonderful and wise comment.

Michelle,
Thanks yous too, for your comments here and earlier in the journal.
I think I'd like to keep the final stanza as is for the moment, as I like the (kind of) unbroken journey from tourist to member of the family that is ( I think/hope) intimated/expressed in that verse. Make sense? Have a coffee.

Better? No?
OK

Anyhows . . .

this is one I hope to translate and give to my wife and her family as a "gift" next (this? what day is it?) month on his anniversary . . . Might be quicker/easier to teach 'em all English!

And thanks for the pickle Michelle. . . .

B.

B -- I left some notes for you in a PM.  Not sold on the tourist thing, or, on first half of this one.  Am sold on second half, with some trim.

L.

Magnificent, Brian, as is the scene you are describing, and its characters.

I think I see what Michelle is talking about, and think a small unsettledness about form arises originally from a tension between the guileless 1st person narrative that you use and and the powerful poetic images that you give us. It's very ambitious. My easy way out would be to strip away almost all of the 1st person, whose witnessing can be established once in these monumenal lines:

"My wife and I collect her grandfather's bones,
chopsticks in unison, sharing the weight."

But you want more here than I would have settled for, you want not only to give us this incredible family scene, but an internal unfolding as well. It begins lightly with "I'm a tourist at this wake"--"Secretly, I'm excited at the prospect"--and "Though I'd only met the man a handful of times..." Then, "unexpected": "my gaping chest is a concert hall..." I want to see this quantum leap treated with a little bit more...something.

You present your scenarios with great power and beauty, and simultaneously present your narrator's feelings in response to these scenarios with a lightness, an artless modesty, that is winning tone-wise while slightly at odds with the poeticness of the rest. Of course, what I'm flailing around to describe here may well be your exact genius! I would hate it if you gave us just another voice in love with the rich detail of its own heart. In any event, this funeral will stay with me, and this uniqueness in the way you write is teaching me a lot about these things.

Thanks again! Tom

Very wonderful Brian..... I was gripped by your journey, and what a journey!  I agree with Tom that it's very ambitious to work out such a long unfolding.  And you succeed in my eyes.   And Tom's eloquent appreciation sings almost like a postlude.
Condolences to you and your family.
k

I've said me piece in your journal about this one Brian...It is exquisite...says so much about families, acceptance, bonding, bereavement, It balances all these on the point of pin...Go steady with it now, it would be easy to overwork it...at least it's not a painting...you can go back to an earlier draft if you don't like what you do with it.

I've read it many times...silently and out loud and still my eyes fill.

Agree that the latter part is the finest, and, because it paints such a vivid picture, I think it best to leave it  as one long stanza - I see it as a beautifully brushed painting, Brian.

milner

very very lovely. I especially like the way it begins with checking off cultural experiences and ends in the chest becoming a concert stage. How awareness evolves to connection (if it is allowed to). I love this, Brian.

Lynn, Tom, Kevin, Sue, Milner, Jill,


thank you all for your time and your comments. I agree that the last part is the strongest and if there are any nits to pick, they are in the first few stanzas. As you pointed out Tom, I've tried to present a guileless narrator going through a change within the poem. Not easy, and perhaps not wholly successful. I will think on it some more. As I mentioned above, I want to "give" this poem to my family so I want to (what?) . . . get it "right" . . .

Thanks again. You are all wonderful.

B.

Sorry to repeat, but that last part is a live animal; I would keep it all as one. I love the way we go though the change with you - it feels spontaneous, it feels like something bursting. I'm sure you could edit some things in the first part, I'm not sure what, but when you've done that it will be some gift.

Thank you Mike. Live animal - I like that!

B.

I'm posting here, an alternative version without the "tourist" aspect. I'd really appreciate any comments. Cheers.

B.



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 passenger at this wake
observing the rites and rituals:
chopsticks stuck upright in ricebowl;
black & silver envelopes filled with money;
clicking juzu beads & 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, to share the weight.

Though I'd only met the man a handful of times,
I'm asked to 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:
the towel he wore as a bandanna after bathing;
hipflask of his favourite sake;
his Kendo sword.

We are 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, Tetsuko, 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.

I stiil think the tourist is stronger...and I prefer the speculation about what he might do with his grave goods, over waht he did in life with them.

As a gift for the family though the passenger version might be easier for them to hear especially as you are having it translated.

Your call Brian,  you are just tinkering now, the main poem is doing its work everytime we read it.

It is stunning. no question.

Sue