Elizabeth Bradfield: Writer & Naturalist

Elizabeth Bradfield: Writer & Naturalist Elizabeth Bradfield: Writer & Naturalist Elizabeth Bradfield: Writer & Naturalist
  • Home
  • Bio
  • Books
    • Books
    • SOFAR
    • Cascadia Field Guide
    • Broadsided Anthology
    • Theorem
    • Toward Antarctica
    • Once Removed
    • Approaching Ice
    • Interpretive Work
    • Anthology Publications
  • Exhibits
  • News/Events
  • Read
  • Contact
  • More
    • Home
    • Bio
    • Books
      • Books
      • SOFAR
      • Cascadia Field Guide
      • Broadsided Anthology
      • Theorem
      • Toward Antarctica
      • Once Removed
      • Approaching Ice
      • Interpretive Work
      • Anthology Publications
    • Exhibits
    • News/Events
    • Read
    • Contact

Elizabeth Bradfield: Writer & Naturalist

Elizabeth Bradfield: Writer & Naturalist Elizabeth Bradfield: Writer & Naturalist Elizabeth Bradfield: Writer & Naturalist
  • Home
  • Bio
  • Books
    • Books
    • SOFAR
    • Cascadia Field Guide
    • Broadsided Anthology
    • Theorem
    • Toward Antarctica
    • Once Removed
    • Approaching Ice
    • Interpretive Work
    • Anthology Publications
  • Exhibits
  • News/Events
  • Read
  • Contact

Poems from "Interpretive Work"

Concerning the Proper Term for a Whale Exhaling

Poof my mother sighs 

as against the clearcut banks near Hoonah

another humpback exhales, its breath

white and backlit by sun.

                                   Don’t

say that, says my father, disapproving

of such casual terminology or uneasy

with the tinge of pink tulle, the flounce 

poof attaches to the thing we’re watching, beast 

of hunt, of epic migrations.

                                      But I’m the naturalist,

suggesting course and speed for approach.  They 

are novices, and the word is mine,

brought here from the captains I sailed for 

and the glittering Cape Cod town 

where we docked each night 

after a day of watching whales.

                                               Poof,

Todd or Lumby would gutter,

turning the helm, my cue to pick up 

the microphone.  Coming from those smoke-roughed cynics 

who call the whales dumps, rank the tank-topped talent

on the bow, and say each time they set a breaching calf 

in line with the setting sun, What do you think of that? Now that’s 

what I call pretty, then sit back, 

light a cigarette—coming from them, 

I loved the word.

                              And even more

because the dock we returned to each night 

teemed with summer crowds, men lifting 

their hands to other men, the town 

flooded with poufs free to flutter, to cry, as they can’t 

in Newark or Pittsburgh or Macon, to let 

their love rise into the clear, warm air,

to linger and glow

for a brief time visible.

Back to Interpretive Work main page

Most of the poems in Interpretive Work were published before content was widely available online.  

I wanted to make some of them more accessible here.

Interpretive Work

www.ebradfield.com

  • Bio
  • Books
  • Exhibits
  • News/Events
  • Read
  • Contact

Powered by