Immigrants

[Mark A Becker]

Immigrants

Crooked wooden crosses
loom over strange ships
on the shore.

Boats emerge from the mist
slowly closing in
at our door.

Odd men with bright banners
pull on to dry land,
where they kneel.

They meet us with their eyes
full of wonder, hands
full of steel.

Immigrants

As a red sun rises
on the fringes of the horizon
we’re struck dumb by the sight
of strange ships, with crooked
wooden crosses, looming
over the shore.

Small boats cut through
the morning mist,
closing in
from the breakers,
bearing oddly dressed men 
who carry colorful banners.

Reaching dry land they kneel
in the sand, with arms upraised
to some “almighty god.”
They meet us with eyes
full of wonder, and hands
full of steel.






[pre verse]
Immigrants

As a red sun rises on the fringes of the horizon
we pause from fishing, looking up from our nets,
bewildered by the strange sight of wooden crosses,
laced with ropes, that tower above large ships
looming over the shore.

Smaller boats cut through the morning mist,
closing in from the breakers, bearing peculiar looking men
who unfurl colorful banners as they kneel in the sand,
raising arms to some unknown god. They greet us
with eyes full of wonder, and hands full of steel.




[pre verse]

Immigrants in the New World

An ominous red sun rises
on the fringes
of the eastern horizon.

A wary band of fishermen
look up from their nets,
bewildered by the strange sight

of wooden crosses, laced with ropes,
towering above massive ships
that loom over the shore.

As dense morning mist dissipates
along the beach, two smaller boats
close in from the churning breakers

bearing peculiar looking pale men
wearing unusual clothes, who unfurl
bright, colorful banners.

They lay claim to our land
as they kneel in the sand, proclaiming
the will of an almighty god.




Immigrants in the New World

An ominous red sun rises
on the fringes
of the eastern horizon.

A wary band of fishermen
look up from their nets,
bewildered by the strange sight

of wooden crosses, laced with ropes,
that tower above majestic ships
looming over the shore.

As the salty morning mist
parts, two smaller boats
close in from the breakers

bearing peculiar, pale men,
with unusual headgear, who unfurl
bright, colorful banners,

loudly laying claim
in the unfamiliar language
of their almighty God.

[TranquillityBase]

Immigrants in the New World

An ominous red sun rises
on the fringes
of the eastern horizon.

A wary band of fishermen
look up from their nets,
bewildered by the strange sight

of wooden crosses, laced with ropes,  weren't the crosses on their sails?
that tower above majestic ships
looming over the shore.                      and wouldn't they loom over the horizon, or the bay, rather than as close as the shore?

As the salty morning mist
parts, two smaller boats
close in from the breakers

bearing peculiar, pale men
with shiny headgear, who unfurl   shining?
bright, colorful banners,        maybe something more specific about the decoration of the banners?

loudly laying claim
in the unfamiliar language
of an unknown god.

Hi Mark,

Just a few suggestions.  One of my favorite history books, Conquest by Hugh Thomas, has some marvellous chapters early on about the conquistadors' initial meetings with the coastal inhabitants of Mexico.  Of course your poem aims to be more universal than that particular event, which probably repeated itself in many places, and achieves that.

Tim

[Mark A Becker]

of wooden crosses, laced with ropes,  weren't the crosses on their sails?
The 'wooden crosses' represent the rigging.  A link to what I was picturing (being in Virginia):  https://www.jyfmuseums.org/visit/jamesto...ad-image-9

looming over the shore.                    
and wouldn't they loom over the horizon, or the bay, rather than as close as the shore?
Probably a bit of license on my part, as I imagine the Native Americans' perspective. 

with shiny headgear   shining?
I first went with 'shining' then went with 'shiny'- either one works, I think. That said, I now prefer 'unusual' to further point up the different appearance of the newcomers- the first immigrants. It also allows me to 'sneak in' eleven 'L' sounds in the final two stanzas.

bright, colorful banners,  
maybe something more specific about the decoration of the banners?
The piece is about the arrival, so I didn't want to go overboard with a lot of description of the banners- that could be a whole other poem.

With so much made about the subject of immigration these days, I wanted to offer some perspective.
Thanks for your comments Tim- much appreciated.
Mark

ps- Not sure how, but your comments helped me solve the final line

[busker]

Immigrants in the New World

An ominous red sun rises ...ominous and red...cliched. the first of too many adjectives
on the fringes
of the eastern horizon. ...cliched and weak: the sun does rise from the east, up from the horizon.

A wary band of fishermen  ...do we need to know the 'fisher' and the 'wary'?
look up from their nets,
bewildered by the strange sight  ... isn't this implied by the subsequent lines? maybe best to leave it unsaid?

of wooden crosses, laced with ropes,  ... good line
towering above massive ships  ... something other than 'massive'? do we need this cliched adjective?
that loom over the shore.

As dense morning mist dissipates  ...the 'dense mist' of the morning is another cliche
along the beach, two smaller boats  ...this is confusing detail, almost like a screenplay
close in from the churning breakers  ...cliched...breakers are always 'churning'

bearing peculiar looking pale men  ...'peculiar' - not needed. implied
wearing unusual clothes, who unfurl  ...describe the clothes?
bright, colorful banners.  ...are both adjectives necessary?

They lay claim to our land  ... who is / are the narrators? if the fishermen, they wouldn't know this part
as they kneel in the sand, proclaiming
the will of an almighty god.  ...the ending is nice

Immigrants in the New World

An ominous red sun rises
on the fringes
of the eastern horizon.

A wary band of fishermen
look up from their nets,
bewildered by the strange sight

of wooden crosses, laced with ropes,
that tower above majestic ships
looming over the shore.

As the salty morning mist
parts, two smaller boats
close in from the breakers

bearing peculiar, pale men,
with unusual headgear, who unfurl
bright, colorful banners,

loudly laying claim
in the unfamiliar language
of their almighty God.

Hi Mark - this is just the sort of poem that might benefit from Intensive crit. The central idea and the irony of it all has been done to death, but there are always fresh things to say about this first contact. The thing is, I find that this poem might work best as a short poem of maybe 8-10 lines. There is so much that has been said already, that mere hints are enough.

[Mark A Becker]

Hello busker-

Thanks for the insightful critique.  You probably know that I'm always looking for ways to say more with less, and your comments reveal areas where the cutting can occur.

This subject itself has become a cliche, so trying to find a unique perspective is quite difficult.  Writing it from the viewpoint of Native Americans is even more difficult.  Still, I will attempt to convey what must have been a mix of awe and trepidation that would have been a  common reaction among any people.

Your suggestion of compressing to 8-10 lines is intriquing, and I accept the challenge.  Hopefully, the idea doesn't fall apart in the reduction.  You are correct that mere hints are all that is needed. Offering those hints while remaining coherent will be very tricky.

The first thing I'll need to do is abandon the use of tercets, then see how this one can be restructured.

Thanks again,
Mark

[brynmawr1]

Immigrants                Glad you went back to the original title.  Makes it much more topical.

As a red sun rises on the fringes of the horizon
we pause from fishing, looking up from our nets,
bewildered by the strange sight of wooden crosses,          nice subtle imagery to introduce the religious element.
laced with ropes, that tower above large ships
looming over the shore.

Smaller boats cut through the morning mist,
closing in from the breakers, bearing peculiar looking men
who unfurl colorful banners as they kneel in the sand,
raising arms to some unknown god. They greet us
with eyes full of wonder, and hands full of steel.          Again, nice imagery to subtly flesh out the story.

....they kneel in the sand.
Arms raised to some unknown god, they greet us..

Immigrants in the New World

An ominous red sun rises
on the fringes
of the eastern horizon.

A wary band of fishermen
look up from their nets,
bewildered by the strange sight

of wooden crosses, laced with ropes,
towering above massive ships
that loom over the shore.

As dense morning mist dissipates
along the beach, two smaller boats
close in from the churning breakers

bearing peculiar looking pale men
wearing unusual clothes, who unfurl
bright, colorful banners.

They lay claim to our land
as they kneel in the sand, proclaiming
the will of an almighty god.




Immigrants in the New World

An ominous red sun rises
on the fringes
of the eastern horizon.

A wary band of fishermen
look up from their nets,
bewildered by the strange sight

of wooden crosses, laced with ropes,
that tower above majestic ships
looming over the shore.

As the salty morning mist
parts, two smaller boats
close in from the breakers

bearing peculiar, pale men,
with unusual headgear, who unfurl
bright, colorful banners,

loudly laying claim
in the unfamiliar language
of their almighty God.

Hi Mark,

As previously noted, this is a difficult task you've taken on.  I like some of the changes you've made, particularly the title and the ending, but I feel the poem still suffers from some vague word choices that I have bolded above.  This topic feels like something you need to address starting askance then focusing in for the end.  If I could do it, I would have better insight.
Take care,
bryn

[Mark A Becker]

...this is a difficult task you've taken on.  

Thanks for the observations Steve. It ain't getting any less difficult. I workshopped it to receive the type of feedback that I'm getting, and I much appreciate it.

I'm making yet another revision that will either bring me closer to cutting this one loose, or drive me even further away. But, what the hay, I do love the ride...

Mark

[busker]

Maybe if you pared back all the adjectives, something like the below, as a starting point:

Strange boats
with crooked wooden crosses
loom over the shore.

Small boats
cut through morning mist,
closing in
from the breakers,

Oddly dressed men 
carrying colorful banners
reach dry land and kneel
in the sand, with arms upraised.

They meet us with eyes
full of wonder, and hands
full of steel.

---

The last 3 lines are great. It’s coming together

[TranquillityBase]

Immigrants

Stark wooden crosses
rise above strange ships
on the shore.

Cutting through morning mist
small boats closing in
at our door.

Odd men with bright banners
pull on to dry land,
where they kneel;

meet us with eyes
full of wonder, and hands
full of steel.

Two historical notes that might be useful:  at least in Mexico, the natives first thought the ships were floating temples.  Secondly, their beards as much as their pale skin were a source of wonder.

I guess I miss the natives' response to what they were seeing in your latest version.

[Mark A Becker]

Two historical notes that might be useful:  at least in Mexico, the natives first thought the ships were floating temples.  Secondly, their beards as much as their pale skin were a source of wonder.

I guess I miss the natives' response to what they were seeing in your latest version.

Hi Tim-
Thanks for the comments on this latest revision.  I took busker's suggestion to heart, and slimmed this one down to 'hints'. This subject has been done to death, so it's hard to try to offer anything new.  But I just wanted to anyway, because the subject popped into my head, and demanded a poem.

Also, you know me- never miss a chance to reduce a piece to its bare essence.  It's challenging to revise in near real time as I process crtiques that are offered.

Thanks again,
Mark

[brynmawr1]

Immigrants

Crooked wooden crosses
rise above strange ships
on the shore.

Cutting through morning mist
small boats have closed in
at our door.

Odd men with bright banners
pull on to dry land,
where they kneel.

They meet us with their eyes
full of wonder, hands
full of steel.

Immigrants

As a red sun rises
on the fringes of the horizon
we’re struck dumb by the sight
of strange ships, with crooked
wooden crosses, looming
over the shore.

Small boats cut through
the morning mist,
closing in
from the breakers,
bearing oddly dressed men 
who carry colorful banners.

Reaching dry land they kneel
in the sand, with arms upraised
to some “almighty god.”
They meet us with eyes
full of wonder, and hands
full of steel.






[pre verse]
Immigrants

As a red sun rises on the fringes of the horizon
we pause from fishing, looking up from our nets,
bewildered by the strange sight of wooden crosses,
laced with ropes, that tower above large ships
looming over the shore.

Smaller boats cut through the morning mist,
closing in from the breakers, bearing peculiar looking men
who unfurl colorful banners as they kneel in the sand,
raising arms to some unknown god. They greet us
with eyes full of wonder, and hands full of steel.




[pre verse]

Immigrants in the New World

An ominous red sun rises
on the fringes
of the eastern horizon.

A wary band of fishermen
look up from their nets,
bewildered by the strange sight

of wooden crosses, laced with ropes,
towering above massive ships
that loom over the shore.

As dense morning mist dissipates
along the beach, two smaller boats
close in from the churning breakers

bearing peculiar looking pale men
wearing unusual clothes, who unfurl
bright, colorful banners.

They lay claim to our land
as they kneel in the sand, proclaiming
the will of an almighty god.




Immigrants in the New World

An ominous red sun rises
on the fringes
of the eastern horizon.

A wary band of fishermen
look up from their nets,
bewildered by the strange sight

of wooden crosses, laced with ropes,
that tower above majestic ships
looming over the shore.

As the salty morning mist
parts, two smaller boats
close in from the breakers

bearing peculiar, pale men,
with unusual headgear, who unfurl
bright, colorful banners,

loudly laying claim
in the unfamiliar language
of their almighty God.

Hi Mark,
I just noted your final revision and I like it a lot.  Especially the end stanza rhyming.  Well done!
steve

[dukealien]

Immigrants

Crooked wooden crosses
rise above strange ships
on the shore.

Cutting through morning mist
small boats have closed in
at our door.

Odd men with bright banners
pull on to dry land,
where they kneel.

They meet us with their eyes
full of wonder, hands
full of steel.

I agree (after cursory look over the previous versions) that the current revision is much improved - and quite good.  It shows rather than tells, while avoiding excessive detail.  Impactful and well done.

There are a couple of minor niggles which result from defining the viewpoint as a native person (with "we," "our").  Would an aboriginal person recognize a "cross" as such?  And would he recognize "steel" when even advanced North American natives were limited to copper and obsidian?  Not to mention Caribean islanders?

As for addressing those difficulties, perhaps showing would serve further:  sharp gleams in their hands, touching our beach?

[Mark A Becker]

There are a couple of minor niggles which result from defining the viewpoint as a native person (with "we," "our").  Would an aboriginal person recognize a "cross" as such?  And would he recognize "steel" when even advanced North American natives were limited to copper and obsidian?  Not to mention Caribean islanders?

As for addressing those difficulties, perhaps showing would serve further:  sharp gleams in their hands, touching our beach?

Yes duke-
The central problem with any poem like this is using 'anglo-language' to describe the experience felt by Native Americans. I was aware of this flaw, and appreciate that you point it out. I was hoping that someone would.

That said, the only way I can write this poem is using 'anglo-language'. I don't know what language Native Americans used, and even if I did, and used it, the poem would then require that anglo readers understand that language. That would require a lot of work on the reader's part. Will readers see this flaw and be motivated to research native american language- maybe, but probably not.

I don't know that many native languages spoken in that time period even exist anymore, so even if I did know that language it may not make sense to anyone in the present. It's a very, very interesting point, and has led me to better understand native languages, circa 1600.  Heck, even the English language has undergone many changes since then. Long story short, I wrote in the language familiar to me, and most readers.   

Very good observation! And thanks for that comment,
Mark

ps. structural note: this piece uses 14 syllable stanzas, and each stanza is 6-5-3.. There is obvious end rhyming.  I wanted this form to remain as invisible as possible, while emphasizing the anapests (--/) of each last line: 'on the shore/at our door/where they kneel/full of steel'.  I also wanted the perspective of each stanza to 'move closer', from 'ships' to 'boats to 'men' to 'eyes'.

I imposed the form in order to force myself to be precise with word choices.  The crits offered were very helpful in leading me to the final form.

The Powhatan language was an Algonkian tongue, also known as Virginia Algonkian, once spoken by dozens of small tribes in tidewater Virginia. None of the Powhatan dialects have been spoken natively for nearly 300 years.

[RC James]

You've accomplished a great deal here. The sweep of historical references (real or fictional) and the specifics - a good balance. The sprawl is impressive but what might a narrative (or two) threading through benefit cohesiveness.

[bob@mancity.net]

in the UK they feel there is an immigration crisis

same as USA i suppose

i can see this being a poem of the immigrant not being welcomed
Who are the odd men ?

[stopmotion84]

I like the simplicity of style. One may need to know the history to which you are referring to get much out of this. Is there a true history to this?

Actually there is a lot of history of which this could refer to. To be brief, it lacks in that 1) people cannot connect with the poem due to lack of historical education, or 2) people cannot connect with it as a fantasy unless it were to go further emotionally, and perhaps with more story, so that it has more to offer the reader non-historically.

Whether real or fiction, there's not quite enough here. If true history, a single word in title or poem would set it off for those who would already know what you are referring to (although it could still use a bit more detail.) If just a fantasy poem, I love the ending, but it's based on something so loosely that it doesn't penetrate the heart enough to be memorable.

1) For the sake of those who don't know the true history (if that's what it's about,) que them in.

2) For the sake of those who were not supposed to be connecting to some true piece of history, provide more lush reading - don't let it be just forgettable and illusive writing.