The Unattainable Coppery-tailed Trogon \ The Narrow Road

Nancy: This bird, now even less attainable, having had its name changed to Elegant Trogon, lives on in my mind, half real, half myth, always beyond reach.

The Unattainable Coppery-tailed Trogon

Sometimes it’s just a matter of altitude.

Or luck.  Worn out by Onion Pass, camping too high,

not knowing that Spring was straight down

where the snow melted and fell into Cave Creek.

Sometimes it’s a matter of attitude,

of settling for easy bookish beasts and lame archetypes,

or of never being in the right place

to catch the Ravens in their Spring.

Black birds seen in the looking glass

are less real than my Trogon,

which I have called unattainable,

but which is truly there, calling from tree to tree

in a canyon which I could find, given luck

and another Spring.

Alan: I offer homage to Basho, after reading The Narrow Road To The Interior (aka The Narrow Road To The Deep North) in translation.

The Narrow Road

Anxious before each Barrier,

at Shitomae Basho finds delay,

the guards “suspicious, slow

and thorough.”  A three-day

pounding storm: refuge

a guard-shack with its lice

and fleas: “Now the horse

beside my pillow pees,” an amber

torrent, soaking stinking

straw.

            No wonder “the old

infirmities return”: fever,

weakness, and the fear of death

on that narrow, interior path.

And at each stage a thousand

years whisper to you, or moan,

in grass, under water, or in stone,

and a country as if made by gods calls forth

these poems wherein we watch you

pause at that gateless gate

then step through,

vanishing

into light.

Bewildered Orion \ Into The Deep

Nancy:  Walking in to the house on a dark night with no form ... and there, half-seen above, old Orion, equally lost.

Bewildered Orion

Where have your dogs gone, Hunter?

One step wrong, and one, and one,

and the dogs gone, and the familiar

landmarks  .  .  .  Orion, this is wilderness –

a light? – no, wait – no – fog –

in all corners of the night, fog.

This is not a night to be hunting

or wandering; Orion, how came you here

in the fog, alone?

Alan: Nagas, serpent- or dragon-deities in Buddhist mythology, inhabit the depths of the ocean, and of the mind.

Into The Deep

Somewhere below, the Nagas

are stirring.

I have been told by others

that they are armored in jewels,

in crystal.  I have not seen them.

They dwell in the 

deepest waters, far

beyond where the last light

reaches from above.

I am told they guard treasures,

yet may on occasion welcome us.

Therefore I dive,

being but one diver

in the ocean shared by all.

The Sky Speaks To Ryokan \ After

Nancy:  The Zen poet and monk Ryokan (1758-1831) came into our lives one year and has reappeared occasionally ever since.  He has been cheerful at times, even uproarious, but here he is taking his leave.

The Sky Speaks to Ryokan

Old monk, you are shivering

your bed quilt is thin.

Your rice basket is empty.

      Ryokan nods,

      what the sky says is true

      and the mornings are dark,

      and the tea is thin as well.

Ryokan says, Sky,

teach me to do as I must

even as you –

you who bring ice and snow

on this rough home,

who bring the sadness of leaving

to my heart.

      It seems that silence may be a teaching.

      The sky is watching

      as Ryokan takes the path.

      Watching as he leaves the first poem

      of the journey tied to a twig.

Alan: A few words about a place beyond words or the need for words.

After

After the last words have been spoken,

after the last endearments have died away,

the last, whispered I-and-Thou’s,

after we have exhausted our meagre vocabularies

and our paltry imaginations,

love, impalpable as gravity, holds us

in this hollow of space-time we have made for ourselves,

and to the pillow we rest our heads upon.

I hold you now, asleep in the slow-breathing room;

you, a world clothed in darkness,

and me, your ever-watchful moon,

looking down.

Bookham Grange Hotel \ The Fuck Poet

Nancy:  Step back in time – cold showers, cold toast, cold drafts in leaky windows – would today’s website be a mirage?

Bookham Grange Hotel

Whether from some bizarre sense of humor,

or a last fumbling grasp at elegance,

the room was full of mirrors.

Above the tap.  On the 

dresser, over the mantel, fronting

the wardrobe.

They reflected one another,

and repeated the peeling paint,

the patched  bedspread,

the mended rug.  They multiplied

the tiny cheap print hung crooked

high on the wall.

I stripped and stood there,

winter-white,

and asked my ghosts

(the only company I had,

gifts of the mirrored room)

what in God’s name I was doing there.

Who slept in these beds?

Did they read the Bible;

did they fill the chipped nightstand

with travel alarms, contraceptives,

cheap novels, store teeth,

sleeping pills?

I slept alone.

On the other bed I made neat piles of clothing.

What in God’s name am I doing here?

The triptych of mirrors on the dresser

winks at the shabby room.  I have given it

a stone from the sea, and flowers;

they repeat endlessly.

At night I become a company of pilgrims

burning candles.  My mind turns to thoughts of atonement

and the sin of pride.

          Ah love, will I wait at the door with a begging bowl?

          With a little imagination can I see myself

          as a dog at your back gate, gnawing grudged bones?

“I will come when I can,” you say, and you do.

You come and you go.

Much as I want them to,

the mirrors refuse to hold your image –

but neither do they mock me.

The bed, under its tidy piles of folded shirts,

no longer reproaches me with its emptiness.

Here I am.

I am one hand seeking another, water seeking thirst,

darkness in search of a flame.

Perhaps when I leave,

the mirrors will speak to one another, saying,

“While she was here, the room echoed with flowers.”

Alan:  I suppose stories like the following are all too common at writers’ retreats (Totleigh Barton is one such, in Devon), but given how this one turned out, I still remember almost 40 years later.

The Fuck Poet

                                    For Cérès

At Totleigh Barton

the Fuck Poet

came late to breakfast,

haggard, worn,

as did several of the

female participants,

the younger ones anyway,

but not you,

who sat, past midnight,

on the stairs, a little above us,

so we had to look away,

seeing you with nothing on

under your nightgown,

weeping in shame

and disappointment

because, when you’d appeared

at the appointed hour

at the Fuck Poet’s door

in the converted stable

another like you

had emerged and scuttled

sideways into the shadows.

Two years later

I saw you, pale

and bloated, high

on God knows what,

reeling along the Embankment,

your terrified boyfriend

futilely trying to

guide you home;

a few months after,

you were dead;

but that night,

although cast down,

you were rightfully

above us, and

so beautiful,

naked under your

unwanted skin.

Whitman And Wilderness \ Gulls For Congregation

Alan: At some point, Whitman became for me an avatar of the social and ecological awakening America needs, a sort of constructive Paul Bunyan, ever available to our imaginations, alive in some archetypal realm.

Whitman And Wilderness

Walt Whitman strode to the top of the rise and flopped down

     on the grass heavy with care.

He looked West to where the wheeltracks swayed toward the horizon,

     to the thin pall of smoke of the far-away burning.

“They need me there” he thought, “where the wilderness begins.”

And Whitman looked South to where the hard sun hammered the

     earth and the people were drying like uncut corn.

“They need me there” he said, “where the wilderness begins.”

He turned North where the snowclouds smothered the hearts of men

     and the animals crept into themselves and wept.

“They need me there” he roared, “where the wilderness begins.”

And he gazed back East where the city covered the ground and men

     and all things coughed and groaned and stumbled blindly.

“They need me there!” he sang, “where the wilderness begins!”

Walt Whitman had gone up that hill to die, but when he looked

     around him he saw, and swore, and flung his straw hat in the air

where the wild birds caught it and tore it and took it to

     every direction of the circle of earth.

And he started out after to mend it and set it aright upon his head

and he never stopped once,

mending and singing,

where the wilderness

begins.

Nancy:  Out of sorrow and pain comes unexpected strength.

Gulls For Congregation

gulls for congregation

     he died so quick

body churched still

     sixty six

traps to haul

engine catching a rough psalm

     he left a strong daughter

she was his boatman

     tied the dinghy to the mooring

left the harbor

water for benediction

     his life counted

sixty six sixty five sixty four

     good years bad years

and the water sighs and heals itself

a ledge a cleft a leaning spruce

     he will rest now

mist in the trees light on the water

     last rites

for a lobster fisherman