Bob Bradshaw lives in Redwood City, California. About his work, Mr. Bradshaw writes,
"I like poems that tell stories. We connect to our California history through stories. The Gold Rush, the 1906 earthquake, the experiences of immigrants on Angel Island connect emotionally with us because of stories passed down to us. Our empathy for the people of California expands through storytelling. "The house shook like a piggy bank in the hands of a five year old...the streets swelled and rolled like waves. I quickly lost my sea legs..." Stories of the 1906 quake stay with me. Lists of statistics about the quake do not. The story of a Chinese immigrant who, because of a compulsory exam at Angel Island, had to completely undress before a stranger's eyes touches us. We feel her "shame" even though we may not share her culture. There is no need to ask "why" we tell stories. It would be like asking, Why do we have opposable thumbs? It's just the way we are."
Bob Bradshaws poetry was also featured on page 8114 of the 1998 edition of the Central California Poetry Journal.
The deck shuddered.
My legs folded under me.
Someone's shoe slid by.
I yelled for my mother
but the breakers
instead roared back.
Why didn't someone
help me? Everyone
was slipping or running
by me in the dark.
Waves were leaping
across the deck.
Suddenly my mother was there
yanking me up.
People were bumping
against us. A wave
sailed over me.
I was on my back, as if sliding
down an icy roof.
Where was my mother?
Had she gone over the ship's side?
Stunned, I watched
as waves clawed the deck,
dragging another woman
into the sea.
Without warning,
like a crab heaved
from a fisherman's bucket,
I found myself in the Pacific.
I was freezing.
At times I could glimpse the ship,
floundering.
But I saw little else.
The waves towered over me
like buildings about to tip over.
My arms grew heavy,
my legs numb.
I must have given up.
But I woke,
my arms flailing
like a child's in a tantrum.
Where was everyone?
There were no voices.
Only the wind and the freezing water.
A ship's timber knocked
against me, bruising me,
but I clung to it, dearly.
I was lonely, and helpless,
like a seed
carried by currents.
I wept. My mother
was surely
dead.
I had been a wicking man
Soon the breakers
In such fog and rain
The ship split apart
for ten years. Dogs
couldn't tell a change in weather
faster than I could. So,
despite the Pacific's tame look,
I put on my heavy oilskins
and waited.
were like nervous horses
rearing up under a bull-
whip. Rains were flying
at me like startled bats.
Shielding my eyes I tried
to look past the diving winds.
the tower's light is meant
to warn a captain of a reef's
frenzy of teeth. How long the ship
pitched before I saw it
I don't know. Lightning,
flashing like a butcher's raised knife,
cut across the sky. The edge
of a clipper's bow was all
I saw.
like a carcass being torn up
by wild dogs. It must
have. Within minutes there was
no hint of a ship. Its timbers
dragged off by the waves.
Who can explain the hostility?
Even today citizens of the town deny
that we were held here, against our wishes.
There weren't any gun towers
or searchlights, they say. Nothing
is what it seems. But everyone
at the camp remembers the rifles
pointed toward us. Everyone
at the camp remembers the searchlights
tracking us, like dogs on leashes,
at night when we crossed the yard
to the bathroom. Everyone at the camp
argued over whether or not we should sign
loyalty papers. Why should we?
many Nisei asked. It was insulting.
Weren't we citizens, too?
Many joined the army, and died
in Europe. Many were decorated.
And still there are those
who would deny us the small plaque
that recalls our camp. There
were no guard towers, they insist.
Shown the concrete foundations
of the eight towers, they shake
their heads. There were no towers,
they repeat. History is clay
that can be shaped, broken, and shaped
again. But until recently we had
no ownership in the kilns.
That is why the citizens of Manzanar
say to the tourists fifty years
later: it's not what it seems.
What's left of the ship are stumps
of timbers.
I've dragged up pewter cups,
candle holders, vases from China, buttons,
plates, bolts, and the captain's sextant.
I've picked up a corset
(somehow intact). The lady was missing,
as if she'd slipped out of her harness
to meet her lover.
But I can't go on intruding
into the crew's and passengers' privacy
without more financing.
All day I pray for storms, for the bottom
to be disturbed. A sleepwalking figure
of sand kicking up clues
is what I pray
for.
I dream of chests being dusted off,
their lids' engravings begging to be read.
I'm convinced that the edge of a chest
loaded with silver will soon stick up
from the sea's
floor.
My thirty year search
will soon be over.
I'll be able to finance
bigger expeditions, with high tech
equipment.
But if I end up as poor
and as indiscriminate
as a horseshoe crab, scrounging
the sea's floor for scraps,
list my name
among those of the passengers
and crew,
their lives
lost.
All text and images in The Central California Poetry Journal are copyrighted. Copyright by © by Scott Galloway 1998. All rights are reserved. See main Journal page for
copyright information.
Authors and poets submitting original materials to this journal retain all rights to their
original work, except those rights specifically assigned in writing to Solo Publications including the right to publish the submitted work in The Central California Poetry Journal. The poems on this page are copyrighted by the author. Copyright © Bob Bradshaw 1999.
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