Chinese Prosperity

In the ancient fishing village, all the fish are dead.  
A great dam redefines margins: the Yangtze River,  
ravenous mother of a new order, has swallowed  
temples and fields, her swath of chemicals churning  
under defiled skies, a concrete carcinoma swelling  
from her banks.  Near the celebrated bridge, foul,  
monochrome waters slosh up the prows of cargo haulers  
as they moan in the miasma.  The city keeps on leeching,  
working its steel, lading boats, clanging its shipyard ditty.  
 
People, rich with new money, shop in frenzy; designer  
bags, gold and glitz dot crowds.  Luxury autos navigate  
a bustling bunch of yam-hawkers, pedi-cabs, shoe-shines.  
Here, even beggars have bank accounts.  Foreigners--  
Germans, Russians, Poles, their scowling wives,  
Chinese girlfriends, raise pints in the orange glow  
of bars, busy building modern China, scoring big  
in the delta.  Peasantry is disappearing, and everyone  
is speaking English, quite fashionably, in fast food joints.  
 
Under the pall in the park, there are marvels:  Kwan Yin,  
statuesque by a green pond, face as sad as an old mother,  
pagoda novelties, bamboo corridors, snow-goateed men  
bending taut bows to crying erhus, slow ballet of Tai Chi,  
smiling Mahjong assemblies.  Birds cavort, glad children  
squeal.  You can see the greasy river from here-look at it-  
so dumb and wide, fattening all those wallets.  Sometimes,  
the sun pierces through the smog, like a whimsical trick.  
Sometimes, it spotlights the wisteria, dying on the vine.  
 
 
 
*Note: This poem also appears in Gutter Eloquence:  
http://www.guttereloquence.com/issue13/tivey13a.html
  
*It also appears in Word Salad:  
http://wordsaladpoetrymagazine.com/drupal7/poets-and-writers/lauren-tivey