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Archive for September, 2011

Rumi Goes to Karate

Bow! barks the sensei.
Meditate! and the students
in white hold their gaze
at their hands folded in front
of them like a heart that has formed
outside of themselves. Ten seconds later:
Now move! says the sensei, Move! Move! Move!
And the students thrust and punch
and jab. Move! Move! Move! Move!
But Rumi, with his white belt, stands
in the back still staring at his hands.
They are, he considers, both friends
and enemies at the very same time.
Move! Move! Move! Move! But Rumi
does not move. Though the class sashays
around him in a circle to the right.
Switch! and a circle to the left. Their arms
are up at right angles in front to guard them
from any possible hit. Switch!
And a circle to the right. Soon the hour
is over and the students have bowed
and changed back into t-shirts
and jeans, but Rumi stands there, still,
in the center of the room, one hand
in the other, his legs rooted wide,
paying attention to the blending of things.

* I recently got to sit in on a karate class in Telluride and was humbled by the discipline, the reverence, and the athletic beauty of the sport. I also was in awe of the instructor, who handled the wily young with respect. I know so little of karate and look forward to learning more.

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Tonight I am too blood tired
to pretend I am happy.
Too tired to hold up any
face. Outside the world is slow-
ing to a stiller version
of itself. I feel myself
stilling, but not ending, not
yet. I once heard a story
about a man who ran bare
foot through a cornfield in fall
and woke the next day with holes
in his feet. For years, I have
dreamed it was me, and could I
go on walking after that?
Tonight the word is yes. Tired
as I am, the drive to walk
and walk and fall in love with
the world—though harsh, though bristled—
is stronger than any urge
to give up. If I give up
anything, it’s this crazy
compulsion to please. I am
tired, too blood tired to pretend
anything, but not too tired
to keep on walking, walking.

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But isn’t it going to be cold—
Relentless wind, rain, pitiless sun?
Everyone needs a roof, shelter,
A door that can be closed, right?
Kreaak. Craaack. Crrrrrumble. Whomph.
I see. It all comes down.
Nothing to hold. Nothing left except
Gaping sky.

Oh. Isn’t this the part where I’m supposed to
Ponder how lovely my new uninterrupted view of the moon?
Eventually, perhaps. Okay, the moon’s nice. But

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At seven, my son
knows everything.
His mother? She’s practicing
to be like a gulley
guttered after a flood

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Old Friends Tanka

You tell me
a terrible story
and I tell you mine.
Driving home, the aspen
have never been so gold.

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For years I believed him—

no ideas
but in things

since I emptied
my closets
I see

no ideas
but in nothing

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Clarity

Here’s to whatever time
it takes to have the heart it takes
once more to get there.
—William Kloefkorn, in “Poetry”

How is it I did not see it before,
this doorway I am walking toward,
I know I passed this way.

I was perhaps distracted by leaves
or more likely lost in my own dreams
but now there’s no missing it.

I can be so serious. So literal. So dense.
I like my invitations to tell me where and when
and what I might expect.

But here it is. The door. Small and getting smaller.
And if I do walk through the door, will there be another?
The mind it wants to know.

But the soul, the soul is more like light
that leaks through whatever cracks it finds
not caring where it arrives.

It does not knock, would stream on through,
though the mind puts on its leaden shoes
and insists on having a map.

And oh god, here I am under the lintel—
perhaps its less door and more of a tunnel—
how long, how long will it take

and can I go back? Can we ever go back?
And why and why am I scared? I think
I know something, I think

too much. I think I should not think any more.
The facts: a woman. This moment. Sunflowers.
Lead shoes. Light. An open door.

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silly woman
you look so
confused
beside
your
shredded
box

stunned
as infinity

escapes
to meet
itself

*another cataclysm 84

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Just As It Is


Until you can see, literally, that everybody is the Buddha, then you are not seeing things the way they are.
—Adyashanti, Emptiness Dancing

First I quarter, then core them,
the red-skinned pears, then slice them
into slender white wings to dry. The fruit

in the box is misshapen, lumpy and mottled,
brown scarred in spots, some shriveling.
But ripeness has brought a warm tide of gold

to their skin, and in my hands, beside the knife,
it is easy to find them beautiful. I am thinking
about how today I heard a teacher of mine

suggest that everyone, everyone is a Buddha,
and I wonder if he could also mean me.
Could I unknow myself to the point where

I, too, am Buddha? It is easier, somehow,
to believe in everyone else. The scent of
autumn weaves through the kitchen air

as the pear sugars concentrate on the racks.
And Herbie Hancock undoes the scales
on the stereo, while Joni Mitchell sings

of … I do not know what, but I feel I would
follow her voice anywhere she would sing me.
Surely Joni Mitchell is a Buddha, and surely

Herbie Hancock, too. I can tell by the way
they loosen the notes from grasp of where
I expect they will go. I try to harmonize, but

they elude me. It is late. Or rather,
it is early morning and it is easier now—
perhaps from exhaustion—to laugh at myself,

to belt out loud and off key and make up words
to unfamiliar songs. It is not embarrassment I feel,
though I’ve often been embarrassed before—rather

I wear a sense that the pieces don’t quite fit together,
that the world is unsettled and breaking apart,
and that I am a part of the mess. But I don’t

feel a need to fix it, nor myself, I suppose,
surely not now when my hands are sticky with pear juice,
slicing the white flesh pound after beautiful, mottled pound.

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Overheard today tanka

So much to do,
she catches herself
wishing the uncle
had chosen next week
for suicide.

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But Not Quite

a day this blue
one
almost
forgets
how worlds
break violently
apart

empires
solar systems
this heart

*This poem is part of another 84 series (poems with 84 characters) exploring Brian Swimme’s powers of the universe, this time focusing on cataclysm, which refers to the way the universe necessarily destroys some of its structures allowing for “ongoing vibrant creativity to continue.” The 11 powers are outlined in EnlightenNext, Issue 47. The 84s are the brainchild of Barry Spacks, who corresponds with me back and forth in 84-character poems.

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The end of summer,
the leaves not quite yet yellow,
Joan and I debate
the value of stories,
first envisioning them
as cages, then reimagining

them as wings. We cannot
decide as we stop to eat
the only raspberry there is
this side of September,
where to draw lines.
After two hours, I know

less than I did two hours before,
but the sun laces our not knowing
through the shadowed glades,
and it feels so good
to walk through the green leaves
with Joan, once upon a time.

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Has it been
a thousand years
or just an hour
since the sun
came up?

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Increasingly Clear Not Clear


It’s not hard to grow when you know that you just don’t know.
—Damien Rice, Cannonball

Tonight I am wanting
the formula, some simple
equation that makes it all
add up. Like this: take the name
of a favorite bird. Add
the common herbs
from the country
of your father’s birth.
The month you were born.
The name of the tea
you last drank.
Heron. Caraway.
November. Mint.
But this list as ridiculous
as any other attempt
to make sense. There is no recipe,
no ritual, no seven easy steps.
No map will show us
the soul’s path. And where
are we going? I heard
of a woman who went
in a boat with a group
of native fishermen.
As they pushed off from shore,
she noticed that no one
had paddles or oars.
“But how will we get where
we’re going?” she asked.
The fishermen laughed
and said that the water
would take them wherever
they needed to go.
Oh woman who wants
to know, can you let go
like that? Life, it keeps falling away.
Have you noticed?
And what does it give us back?
This moment with its vast
unknowns where
anything can happen.

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Stepping Out Tanka

In my head, one voice
says, “You should.” Another
says, “You should not.”
While they war, I step outside
and notice how green the leaves.

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It’s an Inside Job


Let’s open all the locked doors upon our eyes
That keep us from knowing the Intelligence
That begets love.
—Hafiz, “Why Ask the Donkey”

In the cupboard
behind the desk
there’s a silver ring

with over a hundred keys.
There are more keys
in a cup. Some loose

in a drawer. And
I have tried them all.
Some fit the lock,

and the heart skiddlydips
at the chance that
this is the key. But

the knob stops too soon
and the stubborn lock
dumbly gapes. And

I curse the keys,
the lock, the space
beneath the door.

And so it’s out with a huff
into the night
where the moon

waits for me, a scythe,
and I see through the window
the light inside the locked room—

the window, the window?
the window! it’s high, but ajar.
The window. I stack up

a bench, a box, a pail,
and climb to the top
of the teetering pile.

I cling to the drainpipe
and we both fall down.
This is, I think,

just like the path
to love, as I clamber again
toward the opened pane

hoping to drop
to the bedroom floor
where the key

I was given
sits on the table
beside the locked door.

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When Hunting for Chanterelles


It is lovely indeed, it is lovely indeed,
I, I am the sacred works of the earth.
—Navajo origin legend, “Song of the Earth Spirit”

I’d stopped even remembering
it was something I wanted
to do, to see queen’s crown again.
Who could explain why
these things sometimes
grab us—why we wish to encounter
a certain flower in the mountains
or to hear once more a haunting tune
we cannot name and so cannot
locate again. And so, as I walk
through the alpine meadow
wet with the monsoonal rains,
so much pleasure comes
in stumbling upon the rounded rose
blossoms atop thick green stalks.
First one, then another, then dozens—
a profusion of late summer pink.
And though I am not yet a crabby
old woman, even I am surprised
by the way my heart opens and
I nearly cry for the thrill of it,
queen’s crown! There is
so much bliss to be found
when we are not looking, not
waiting, not expecting—sweet
mystery in the field. I walk
toward the woods where
the chanterelles grow,
the bog rising to meet my feet.

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As if it were
the only one
I’ll ever taste again
I cradle it
before I eat the pear.

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Baptism Tanka

I rushed naked
into the late summer rain—
its clear fingers could not touch
the places I most wish
to be cleaned.

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Tanka for September 11

The rubble
perhaps more sacred
than the shrine.
Today every face
I see is beautiful.

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