The Fields of Ibaraki
By Larry Carney
Copyright 2011 Larry Carney
Smashwords Edition
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Foreword
Written in Japan, either at the moment of inspiration (a word I use with neither pretension nor illusion), or shortly thereafter, the short pieces contained herein were my attempts to capture the atmosphere of a country and culture that I dearly love and don’t get to visit nearly as often as I’d like.
While snapshots are great for evoking memories for the photographer, they don’t tend to offer much to anyone else – pretty pictures maybe, but without any emotional anchor for the detached viewer. What I tried to do here was to write a picture, if you will. The intention was to give a glimpse into rather than a glance at a place, if that makes any kind of sense. And while I’m not presumptuous enough to think that you’ll feel something when reading them, I do hope that they’ll at least demonstrate that I felt something when I wrote them. I think that’s enough, for poetry anyway.
Thanks much for reading.
Larry Carney
September 2011
The Fields of Ibaraki
The curving roads that wind and snake
Between the mountains, part the fields.
The morning mist slips down the slopes
And scatters there before the fields.
The gentle breezes guide the clouds,
The sunlight mottled on the fields,
And green the slim bunched stalks that grow
Up from the smooth and sky-mirrored fields.
The homes of dark and heavy wood
Surround the humid, wet-skinned fields.
Old men, whose feet now shuffle slow,
Look back on days spent in the fields.
The turtle walks on
Raindrops rolling down his shell
Man with umbrella
Welcome sakura
Remembering summer’s leaves
That dropped in the fall
Fishing boats depart
Grateful for the fine rice fields
The birds sing their songs
The river rolls by
Carrying the neon lights
Its surface reflects
Gruff salaryman
Serious in his gray suit
And Donald Duck watch
Tuesday Mid-Morning
In the spring courtyard of rough and dry gravel
Beneath the bright sunlight reflected and white
While the world works the elderly wander
Delighted by sights that had bored them in youth
A breeze from the ocean pools lapping the mountains
The shadows are cool with this salt-breath of spring
Stone monuments stand to those both lost and gone
The ghosts that they meet are the ghosts that they bring
As the sun rises
A man outside a small shop
Sweeps in fine rhythm