—for Leonard
The old mirror in the hayloft,
instead of allowing light in,
has been blocking it out
for the past 25 years.
It throws light back to the sky.
An image of itself
it throws back to the sky
an image of itself framed
with the liquid green
of maple leaves.
Behind the mirror
the annual pile of cobwebs
gathers in barn dust.
I've always noticed
how the eyes of calves
are like twin pools of murky night
surrounded by a shore
of retina and rain.
It was last night my stomach
forced a tidal wave back down
and this memory where I
had to reason my nausea into being,
that I read those poems of yours,
I could feel the finger behind the eyes,
gouging behind the eye,
to the eyesocket,
finding not more water,
but a boneless desert,
an arid fold of brain.
Sweet, the cycles of rain
following the footpath of the seasons
count them, the cycles of madness.
I hear the rain singing
on the mirror of the beast
What separates this tangle
of human flesh from that of beasts?
Those calves with their liquid eyes
imprisoned in cages so that their flesh
will stay succulent and tender for veal.
They suck my finger, the urge to nurse
is strong in one so young.
Their pink petal tongues
caress my index finger
and they know, somehow
they know it is wrong.
In their eyes I see the fish lens
reflection of myself and the summer sky
The smell of grass fire hangs heavily in the air.
Skirting the shores of the lake
every action demands an equal reaction.
We bring moldy hay inside the barn
with the mirror reflected sky
Are the mummified carcasses
of those born to young,
of those whose mothers
could labor no more,
the breach birth breed
breath, hangs heavily in the air.
Their choice was made for them.
We're always trying
to come to terms with our own death.
I am not a sailor.
These eyelids hold no water.
The eye is a cistern, a repository
in the arid eyeless place . .
Monday, September 21, 1981
Friday, September 18, 1981
Tuesday, September 1, 1981
OLD ROAD, NICASIO
after 10 years of repeated flooding
and summer exposure to the elements,
emerges, the cracked mud is still visible
on the shoulders of the old roadbed
slowly losing its edges, it's
the same age as the lakebed,
the same age as the lakeshore,
the old cement bridge where once
the creek flowed, all underwater
these past 10 years.
September? 1981
1/15/2015
Monday, August 31, 1981
POEM TO THE MAN NEXT DOOR
POEM TO THE MAN NEXT DOOR
Newly divorced, you sit inside
listening to country and western.
The cabin, smaller than life.
Your possessions spill out the door,
And your wife comes to visit with the kids.
You thought about having the two,
maybe three kids with you,
but something came up.
Maybe it was the trailer
and the old truck you like to take fishing,
or the motorcycle,
or maybe it was the job that stopped you.
Newly impoverished,
you wear your genitals on your heart,
hoping someone will notice.
And the dog peed on the tires
of one of your lovers
the next morning.
When the toaster oven dings
you consider answering the phone.
But the game on TV
is winding down to a conclusion.
8/1981
10/15/2015
I thought that I typed this poem up before, here's the original hand-written copy from Port Townsend, so that definitively dates it; this is an original draft, the final poem probably had different line breaks, and revisions, so this is a placeholder until I find my old work.
Newly divorced, you sit inside
listening to country and western.
The cabin, smaller than life.
Your possessions spill out the door,
And your wife comes to visit with the kids.
You thought about having the two,
maybe three kids with you,
but something came up.
Maybe it was the trailer
and the old truck you like to take fishing,
or the motorcycle,
or maybe it was the job that stopped you.
Newly impoverished,
you wear your genitals on your heart,
hoping someone will notice.
And the dog peed on the tires
of one of your lovers
the next morning.
When the toaster oven dings
you consider answering the phone.
But the game on TV
is winding down to a conclusion.
8/1981
10/15/2015
I thought that I typed this poem up before, here's the original hand-written copy from Port Townsend, so that definitively dates it; this is an original draft, the final poem probably had different line breaks, and revisions, so this is a placeholder until I find my old work.
Mo, Self portrait (drawing)
This is a halftone screen of a drawing. It doesn't capture the detail of the original. I don't know where the original is, or if it survived the floods.
Thursday, August 27, 1981
Dynamic poetry at Garbo's (photos) Hass & Maxon
SONOMA COUNTY STUMP
Dynamic poetry at Garbo's
Each thing moves its own way
By Maureen Hurley and Alene Balsé
On August 17, Garbo's Monday Nite Poetry and Prose Series hosted Robert Hass and Suzanne Maxson. The performance was well attended and the audience captivated by the poets' personable prose style and universal appeal.
Hass began his reading with work by the exiled Polish poet Czeslaw Miloz, the 1981 Nobel Prize winner in poetry.
On all fours they crawl out of the dugout.
Dawn. In the distance,
On August 17, Garbo's Monday Nite Poetry and Prose Series hosted Robert Hass and Suzanne Maxson. The performance was well attended and the audience captivated by the poets' personable prose style and universal appeal.
Hass began his reading with work by the exiled Polish poet Czeslaw Miloz, the 1981 Nobel Prize winner in poetry.
On all fours they crawl out of the dugout.
Dawn. In the distance,
Under a cold aurora,
A slow blind train.
Hass, who also translates haiku, has been referred to as "one of the best kept secrets of well known American poets"; won the Yale Younger Series Poets Award in 1973 for his book, Field Guide. Also highly acclaimed most recent book, Praise, which does poetic justice to the English language. "Ideas and emotions are inseparably interwoven, and the pull of their ramifications steer the poem toward universality. "
Hass, who also translates haiku, has been referred to as "one of the best kept secrets of well known American poets"; won the Yale Younger Series Poets Award in 1973 for his book, Field Guide. Also highly acclaimed most recent book, Praise, which does poetic justice to the English language. "Ideas and emotions are inseparably interwoven, and the pull of their ramifications steer the poem toward universality. "
Each thing moves its own way
in the wind. Bamboo flickers,
the plum tree waves,
the plum tree waves,
and the loquat
is shaken.
—from The Beginning of September
Maxson's tiny and unassuming presence made the impact of her socially conscious poetry all the more dynamic. From her first book, Our Lady of Names, she read poems of war-stricken El Salvador and Lebanon where 'bowls were filled with whitest yogurt" and beggars cried "bak- sheesh, baksheesh." She then read a poem about her son, "Gabriel on a Sunday," (See poem, this page) and we embark on a journey back to the gentleness of our experiences from that of the jolting reality of the world's harsh existence.
Hass's and Maxson's easy manner and casual humor made their appeal both genuine and personal and made for a wonderful evening of poetry on the River. As Hass commented, "how calm people's faces get when they hear poetry, how the lines smooth out on their faces.
is shaken.
—from The Beginning of September
Maxson's tiny and unassuming presence made the impact of her socially conscious poetry all the more dynamic. From her first book, Our Lady of Names, she read poems of war-stricken El Salvador and Lebanon where 'bowls were filled with whitest yogurt" and beggars cried "bak- sheesh, baksheesh." She then read a poem about her son, "Gabriel on a Sunday," (See poem, this page) and we embark on a journey back to the gentleness of our experiences from that of the jolting reality of the world's harsh existence.
Hass's and Maxson's easy manner and casual humor made their appeal both genuine and personal and made for a wonderful evening of poetry on the River. As Hass commented, "how calm people's faces get when they hear poetry, how the lines smooth out on their faces.
Saturday, August 22, 1981
MORNING AFTER
MORNING AFTER
The last Czechoslovakian stemmed glass
a guilty reminder on the drainboard,
its mate shattered as I washed it.
How many times have I left them on the table
from the evening before.
And if you came over for morning coffee,
you'd notice they were a matched pair.
Now, I can't have anyone over for dinner
because they might bring wine.
For days I've been thinking
it would be so easy;
a slip of the hand
too close to the faucet head
would shatter those matched orbs
staring accusingly at me.
The thin fluted stem
and curved shards of glass
like wings of fragile birds
nestle, flightless in my hand.
8/22/1981
rev 82, 85
The last Czechoslovakian stemmed glass
a guilty reminder on the drainboard,
its mate shattered as I washed it.
How many times have I left them on the table
from the evening before.
And if you came over for morning coffee,
you'd notice they were a matched pair.
Now, I can't have anyone over for dinner
because they might bring wine.
For days I've been thinking
it would be so easy;
a slip of the hand
too close to the faucet head
would shatter those matched orbs
staring accusingly at me.
The thin fluted stem
and curved shards of glass
like wings of fragile birds
nestle, flightless in my hand.
8/22/1981
rev 82, 85
Sunday, August 16, 1981
THE EYE, INNOCENT OF THOUGHT
THE EYE, INNOCENT OF THOUGHT
Where are your eyes?
Vision slit through skin
Plump as a ripe berry
Slow as quartz.
—Susan Suntree
After 10 years, the road under the reservoir
is still visible in summer. Cycles of drought.
The edges of the old road are slowly diffusing.
Its edges the same age as the lake bed and the shore.
The old cement bridge where the creek ran is underwater.
The road only offers a departure point into the lake.
Ten years measures a cycle of madness.
Boarded up windows
are like the white eyes of the blind.
The peeling mirror in the hayloft door is blocking the light.
It throws back to the sky an image of itself
framed by the liquid green of oak leaves.
Behind the mirror, cobwebs gather dust in solitude.
Through a light shaft, dust motes drift on air currents.
I've noticed how the eyes of calves
are like twin pools of murky light
surrounded by an indigo shore of retina and vein.
Last night my stomach forced a tidal wave back down.
This morning I had to reason my nausea into being.
I read your poems, could feel the finger behind the eye.
The finger in the eye socket finding
not water but a boneless desert,
an arid fold of brain.
There is nothing to punish there.
The eye was innocent of thought.
Sweet, the cycles of rain follow the footpaths of seasons.
Count them, the cycles of madness.
I hear the rain singing in the manner of beasts,
Yet I am wholly human and, I can hear the singing of rain.
The sound reserved for the ears of beasts.
What separates this wretched tangle
of human flesh and bone from that of beasts?
Those liquid-eyed calves imprisoned in cages
So their flesh will stay succulent and tender,
suckle my finger, the urge to nurse strong in ones so young,
Their petal tongues caress the index finger
And they know, somehow they know it is wrong.
In their eyes I can see the fish-lens reflections
of myself and the summer sky.
Every action demands an equal reaction.
Lying in the moldy hay inside the barn
are the mummified carcasses
of these born too young,
of those whose mothers could labor no more.
The breech-birth breath hangs heavily in the air.
Their choice was made for them.
It is difficult to learn how to forgive
what we, and others have done
And pity is also self-inflicted.
I am not a sailor.
These islands hold no water.
The eye is a cistern in the arid toneless plain.
A repository for madness,
the eye, innocent of thought.
8/16/1981
Where are your eyes?
Vision slit through skin
Plump as a ripe berry
Slow as quartz.
—Susan Suntree
After 10 years, the road under the reservoir
is still visible in summer. Cycles of drought.
The edges of the old road are slowly diffusing.
Its edges the same age as the lake bed and the shore.
The old cement bridge where the creek ran is underwater.
The road only offers a departure point into the lake.
Ten years measures a cycle of madness.
Boarded up windows
are like the white eyes of the blind.
The peeling mirror in the hayloft door is blocking the light.
It throws back to the sky an image of itself
framed by the liquid green of oak leaves.
Behind the mirror, cobwebs gather dust in solitude.
Through a light shaft, dust motes drift on air currents.
I've noticed how the eyes of calves
are like twin pools of murky light
surrounded by an indigo shore of retina and vein.
Last night my stomach forced a tidal wave back down.
This morning I had to reason my nausea into being.
I read your poems, could feel the finger behind the eye.
The finger in the eye socket finding
not water but a boneless desert,
an arid fold of brain.
There is nothing to punish there.
The eye was innocent of thought.
Sweet, the cycles of rain follow the footpaths of seasons.
Count them, the cycles of madness.
I hear the rain singing in the manner of beasts,
Yet I am wholly human and, I can hear the singing of rain.
The sound reserved for the ears of beasts.
What separates this wretched tangle
of human flesh and bone from that of beasts?
Those liquid-eyed calves imprisoned in cages
So their flesh will stay succulent and tender,
suckle my finger, the urge to nurse strong in ones so young,
Their petal tongues caress the index finger
And they know, somehow they know it is wrong.
In their eyes I can see the fish-lens reflections
of myself and the summer sky.
Every action demands an equal reaction.
Lying in the moldy hay inside the barn
are the mummified carcasses
of these born too young,
of those whose mothers could labor no more.
The breech-birth breath hangs heavily in the air.
Their choice was made for them.
It is difficult to learn how to forgive
what we, and others have done
And pity is also self-inflicted.
I am not a sailor.
These islands hold no water.
The eye is a cistern in the arid toneless plain.
A repository for madness,
the eye, innocent of thought.
8/16/1981
Monday, August 10, 1981
ON THE ROAD TO TOFINO
the only thing I can see is darkness.
How could he?
She's the girlfriend
of an old boyfriend of mine.
Men seeking air, kissing women
Women like glass jars
half full of wild grains.
Tongues of men
entering the mouths of women
Small tongues like cocks
too small for vaginas
Enter loosely into the center of women
Enter and the bitter grain
covers their tongues
Grain they cannot eat or digest
Women lie buried in the earth
and are covered with greenhouses
Greenhouses to grow babies
One, sometimes two greenhouses
When men enter their women
You can see the rich earth moving
covered with fine rich crumbs
When a man comes, the earth is
shoved up through the navel
into the greenhouses of women.
of an old boyfriend of mine.
Men seeking air, kissing women
Women like glass jars
half full of wild grains.
Tongues of men
entering the mouths of women
Small tongues like cocks
too small for vaginas
Enter loosely into the center of women
Enter and the bitter grain
covers their tongues
Grain they cannot eat or digest
Women lie buried in the earth
and are covered with greenhouses
Greenhouses to grow babies
One, sometimes two greenhouses
When men enter their women
You can see the rich earth moving
covered with fine rich crumbs
When a man comes, the earth is
shoved up through the navel
into the greenhouses of women.
(not sure what this is about...as I'm typing it up in 2015, I've forgotten the gist of it, other than the title has haunted me for nearly thirty years. But I do know I got a Dear John letter from Lee while I was up north on Vancouver Island. He was seeing Mimi Wheatwind. I felt so betrayed.
Of course I dated none of these poems, but it was a surprise to find them.
Wednesday, August 5, 1981
Port Townsend
This town, once the biggest port outside of New York in the 1890s, is where the Chinese had carved tunnels under the streets, some tunnels are still standing. Dock Street is gone now, Water Street is the main drag.
They had to call it uptown because the uppity ladies wouldn't shop here. Water Street, where the red light is now, is for the ferry traffic.
Across from the Town Tavern, is a building the old guy inherited on the condition that he improve it, but he was caught tunneling under Water Street. Some say he was headed for the bank. No one really knows for sure. The city fathers were upset when one day Water Street caved in right in front of his building.
The year before last, he had boarded up all the windows, and before that, all the metal Victorian cornices were taken off. This year, he's unboarding a few of the windows and is painting the sashes blue. Like the sky.
This town, once a whore's town, is now a literary town. All the poets are well read. It's still a whore's town. There are red lights shining on the streets at night and, after dark, the literary whores flood the streets like migrant workers in a tent city.
Tourists and Winnebagos with California license plates cautiously drive through town to the ferry dock. They come into the Town Tavern looking for something harder than the soft liquor license allows. And we stare at their improbable attire, women wearings nylons with shorts, and men in perma-press suits. All the old hippies here are working as bartenders, and caretakers. it's all a juggling act.
I keep coming back to this town like a bad penny. A friend of mine, Sharon Doubiago, moved here to escape a broken heart. Little do I know, that this year, my heart will be in the same repair shop. Hearts are not made of porcelain, but of grist and sinew and blood.
There's that poignant moment of initiation. We all recognize the place where broken hearts either mend, or evolve into some other plane.
Whore hearts, we're all whores with hearts of gold, the wrong color for blood. Gold, the correct color for lizard blood. As we sniff out the color-coded hearts of those around us, our lizard eyes narrow, we taste the air with our forked tongues, and we retreat into reptilian silence.
Tourists pour into the Town Tavern. You can tell what time of day it is by the number of disembarked people at the bar. Like the ebb and flow of waves, the oak and glass double-doors swing to and fro, as the tourist surging in from the ferry, feel the need to slake their great thirst.
The man I am having an affair with is having trouble finding the bedroom where he last left his heart. He thinks his capacity for love is greatly influenced by his capacity for pain. I'm a transient blow-in. There's the bond that ties us all together, here in this town of whores. Down at the bar, we paint it red.
August, 1981
Monday, August 3, 1981
WHIDBY ISLAND
I'm waiting for sickness to come after eating oysters and clams.
The seaweed bobs like the heads of otters in the inlet.
Dizzy, the next day my fingers grown numb.
Such a clear day. Hurricane Ridge in perfect sunlight.
Not such a good day to die after all.
Mountain goat fur caught on some brush
and hillside so steep you could step out one foot
and land a hundred feet below. I nearly did.
The mountain goats and the two kids lying down
are white on white snowfields
The kids, white against a white sky
white T-shirts of young boys
the bleached bones of logs in sand.
The mast of the sailboat pierces the gray sky.
Whidby Island cliffs, like the sides of beached whales.
Whidby Island. The odor of salt tang in the air
the almost overbearing odor.
A seagull cruises overhead
Red light/white light revolves
A seagull cruises overhead
Red light/white light revolves
on a red roof and white lighthouse.
Red of firebird rocks
Another seagull tackles the kelp
Red of firebird rocks
Another seagull tackles the kelp
while I wait for symptoms of red tide.
The Cascades and the Coast Mountains
The Cascades and the Coast Mountains
meet head-on and collided into islands.
Kitsat Peninsula and the Gitsat Indians.
Kitsat Peninsula and the Gitsat Indians.
Once I hitch-hiked to K'san with totem carver, Vernon Stevens.
Old Terrace, Middle Terrace, Terrace and Kasan are all the same place. Gitsat Indians are becoming carvers of tolem polls once again. Argellite frogs with discrete price tags bark out place names: Puyallup, Dosewallops, Sequim Squim.
A diver walked down to the water throwing back the days catch. Segulls surround him like old men.
Kathleene West, a tired poet friend
Old Terrace, Middle Terrace, Terrace and Kasan are all the same place. Gitsat Indians are becoming carvers of tolem polls once again. Argellite frogs with discrete price tags bark out place names: Puyallup, Dosewallops, Sequim Squim.
A diver walked down to the water throwing back the days catch. Segulls surround him like old men.
Kathleene West, a tired poet friend
says to me three times
I am just a fisherman's wife living in Port Townsend
I am a fisherman's wife.
I am the wife of a fisherman,
I am a fisherman's wife.
I am the wife of a fisherman,
waiting at home.
I am tired of waiting.
I am tired of writing.
A slight breeze stirs the water in the cove,
A slight breeze stirs the water in the cove,
rippling water like watered silk.
My neck hurts from an old whiplash.
For your body, I need Mr. Badger, the skeleton maker, to help me.
Thank you Leslie Silko, thank you Mr. Badger.
I'm a writer's ghost writing nothing because I'm not writing poetry.
For your body, I need Mr. Badger, the skeleton maker, to help me.
Thank you Leslie Silko, thank you Mr. Badger.
I'm a writer's ghost writing nothing because I'm not writing poetry.
The wings push mostly downward when the blackbird flies across the sky.
I met a man whose real name was Don John or John Don. Either way he writes a patch of blue opening up like an eye.
The sky imitates the blue of glaciers and blue hidden eyes of the north snow people.
The sea is quiet. No tongues lapping at the shore. These are the Straits of Juan de Fuca. If I sleep on the beach, will the water know the coast is but a thin line?
Argillite frogs with discrete price tags
bark out place names: Puyallop,
Dosewallops, Squim, Sequim.
Bill Stafford's hat is soft like the slack corners of his mouth. From the brim a feather trembles, loosened from a bird years ago. The eyes reflect the talons still. Like me, Bill worked with kids in schools. PITS. Says there's more material for kids to write with in poetry than structured prose he said.
Waves of horses butcher your dreams. Marina Albert says.
Bill Stafford's hat is soft like the slack corners of his mouth. From the brim a feather trembles, loosened from a bird years ago. The eyes reflect the talons still. Like me, Bill worked with kids in schools. PITS. Says there's more material for kids to write with in poetry than structured prose he said.
Waves of horses butcher your dreams. Marina Albert says.
Language there's a secret language hidden within the language, the effect of syllables upon us.
The tribal influence would be the door
Among those who know. Not a chance to change is evident.
The tribal influence would be the door
Among those who know. Not a chance to change is evident.
july? Aug 1981
10/15/2015
I can't make out most of the craft notes, and they're scattered in amid the prose. It reads like nonsense. Can't even read most of it. Maybe I'll revise it, whip it into shape. Or not.
Short haiku of sorts
I awaken in a glass house,
the Straits blend into fog,
the horizon, indistinct as this morning.
Two payphones in the basement.
Two payphones in the basement.
People wait to make long-distance calls.
Slot machines collect change at the end of the line.
Evening sky the color of salmonberries
A dull grain sheen on the water
Evening sky the color of salmonberries
A dull grain sheen on the water
an unseasonable hue.
Volkswagen engine valves clatter.
Volkswagen engine valves clatter.
House finches nesting in the eaves
rearrange themselves and chatter.
The face of the glacier gave way
and 11 people died on Mt. Rainier.
Yet it floats, sublime, at dawn.
July? 1981
Port Alberni
Port Alberni, Vancouver Island – I overdrove my mark, a hitchhiker said she knew where I wanted to go, and we missed our turnoff, so I'm staying with her in a strange house. I know not where.
The moon is a rusted silver crescent hanging below Venus. Mountains fringe this place like shards of glass. Montgomery School Principal, Ken Lytle used to live here years ago, when he was a boy. The hills around Cazadero's Montgomery School are much like this place.
It is 50 miles away to Uclulet by water, it means safe harbor. Or, just water. A Nootka word. You ride the mail boat to get there – it's an eight hour trip. The road to Tofino is even longer. Uclulet looks like Point Reyes. I watch the same ocean here, as I would at home.
Ken Lytle spent some time in Port Alberni as a kid and hated it. I can see why. Port Alberni, Dante's Inferno of the Northwest is surrounded by snowcapped mountains. It has a gorgeous fjord that meanders 50 miles to the Pacific, it's a mile wide and a mile deep, but the brown oily water from the pulp mill, like flotsam. Paper pulp loosing from ships floats out to sea. The fish leaping to the surface gasping for air, ground from the pulpmill when it rains, it is an acid rain. Hell on earth.
I'm staying with friends in a rustic log cabin in Parksville. Pete Lang's wife Sarah is teaching me to belly dance. Downstep, thrust, downstep, thrust. Work down into the floor, not up into the sky. The outhouse has a blue plastic sky. I stepped on a slug, barefoot. I’m stuck to the earth now.
A friend of mine, Ken Lytle once threw a slug at his wife when they lived in Cazadero. And when I washed my jeans, there a slug was in the washing machine. There isn't any way to get slug glue off. Damned, those jeans are Calvin Kleins. I traded a pair of cowboy boots for them. The slug crawled through Ken’s wife’s hair. He said she washed her hair seven times. It never came out. But she washed that man right out of her hair. They are now divorced.
Sharon Doubiago said to write a story about your clothes. I think of Frida Kahlo. Sharon says that she still has the same clothes. From year-to-year, the stories about clothes stack up and accumulate like clothes in the closet.
Once when we went out dancing in the town of Elk on the coast of Mendocino, the leotard I had scrounged from a trashcan, ripped down the back. I borrowed her special heart pin and then I lost it. It was found later on the dance floor, broken. We glued it back together – our friendship mended. Sort of.
Sharon will run away to Port Townsend to escape a broken heart. Did I trigger it when I lost her heart pin?
Sunday, August 2, 1981
Flora & Fauna Notes
Woolly mammoth tusks like ribs of a beached boat.
The tide becomes delayed
among the many islands and fjords.
among the many islands and fjords.
Gravitational pull of the sea and especially the moon,
causes a bulging of the oceans
traveling along the world in a great wave.
traveling along the world in a great wave.
The crest of this wave is high tide
the trough is low tide.
Tidal range is greatest at Prince Rupert
and the Powell River where flood tides
from the north and south meet and drift. Tidal bore.
Acorn barnacles stand on their heads
and kick food into their mouths with feathery feet
Purple crabs are like porcelain, clams have 32 blue eyes.
Seaweed absorbs nutrients directly from the water.
Roots hold fast, piddock clams, great sculpins.
the trough is low tide.
Tidal range is greatest at Prince Rupert
and the Powell River where flood tides
from the north and south meet and drift. Tidal bore.
Acorn barnacles stand on their heads
and kick food into their mouths with feathery feet
Purple crabs are like porcelain, clams have 32 blue eyes.
Seaweed absorbs nutrients directly from the water.
Roots hold fast, piddock clams, great sculpins.
List the islands fjords and shelters inlets along this coast,
home for thousands of waterbirds. Common snipe.
The Fraser River drains one quarter of BC
I have been to Salt Spring Island, and Mount Vesuvius.
I'm going down the road to Ganges.
All roads lead to Ganges on Salt Spring Island.
I'm going down the road to Ganges.
All roads lead to Ganges on Salt Spring Island.
Offshore islands have fewer species of plants and animals
different from the mainland.
The Queen Charlotte Islands,
continental slope, continental shelf,
continental drift on the edge
of the continental shelf of North America
different from the mainland.
The Queen Charlotte Islands,
continental slope, continental shelf,
continental drift on the edge
of the continental shelf of North America
Backbone of mountains rises up
from the western shore the Queen Charlottes
from the western shore the Queen Charlottes
I am remembering the trumpeter swans and snow geese at Mount Lassen,
and carpenter ants, spotted slugs,
and carpenter ants, spotted slugs,
the Georgia Straits, the way the ship rocked.
Sitka spruce, willow,
Douglas firs are not the final stage of a coastal rain forest,
deepening leaf litter, climax rainforest
Douglas firs are not the final stage of a coastal rain forest,
deepening leaf litter, climax rainforest
the wet climate of mountains facing the sea
the stableness of the vegetation
can only be attained after a thousand fire-free years
can only be attained after a thousand fire-free years
tideland spruce can withstand constant wind
and saltspray of the exposed coastline.
Sitka spruce, a protective buffer
and saltspray of the exposed coastline.
Sitka spruce, a protective buffer
Lions of the Sea
Glaciers never reached Triangle Island
burrowing seabirds.
Nothing in nature is static
the land, the sea, the climate,
the plants and animals of today
are nothing but a passage
a passing expression of a relentless process of change.
Earth air and water borne by the glacier
heated by the sun. Alpine tundra
dark dwarf willows
Northern Lakota and Plateau
the boreal forest, the montane forest
the grasslands, the dry interior, the bitteroots
the dense rain forest
and the Coast Forest in rain shadow
the Olympics, the more specific name wins
Salmonberry, salal, willow, blueberry, and western hemlock
What is this dice game played by the Micmac
500 years old
counting sticks, six round bone dice
made of walrus bone
wet piñata, loose hair
embroidery this willow cradle
has been decorated with silk ribbons
what about my silk shirt hanging on display 150 years from now?
The value of trade silver
beaver was the standard of trade
called it the fire breaks to symbolize the meeting of chieftains
the cave of petroglyphs
long ago when the world was young
animals held their winter dances in caves.
animals changing into human form
and this so embarrassed them
that they gave man their dance
In order that he not reveal their secrets.
Nootka Indian masks capture the initiate
Tshimshan and Kitsat want to call three eagles
to explain the universe.
Cosmology is the relationships between peoples
the supernatural is preserved symbolically
masks make the natural and supernatural world visible
they explain our relationship
and take hold
human life depends upon a healthy structured natural world
Glaciers never reached Triangle Island
burrowing seabirds.
Nothing in nature is static
the land, the sea, the climate,
the plants and animals of today
are nothing but a passage
a passing expression of a relentless process of change.
Earth air and water borne by the glacier
heated by the sun. Alpine tundra
dark dwarf willows
Northern Lakota and Plateau
the boreal forest, the montane forest
the grasslands, the dry interior, the bitteroots
the dense rain forest
and the Coast Forest in rain shadow
the Olympics, the more specific name wins
Salmonberry, salal, willow, blueberry, and western hemlock
What is this dice game played by the Micmac
500 years old
counting sticks, six round bone dice
made of walrus bone
wet piñata, loose hair
embroidery this willow cradle
has been decorated with silk ribbons
what about my silk shirt hanging on display 150 years from now?
The value of trade silver
beaver was the standard of trade
called it the fire breaks to symbolize the meeting of chieftains
the cave of petroglyphs
long ago when the world was young
animals held their winter dances in caves.
animals changing into human form
and this so embarrassed them
that they gave man their dance
In order that he not reveal their secrets.
Nootka Indian masks capture the initiate
Tshimshan and Kitsat want to call three eagles
to explain the universe.
Cosmology is the relationships between peoples
the supernatural is preserved symbolically
masks make the natural and supernatural world visible
they explain our relationship
and take hold
human life depends upon a healthy structured natural world
to ensure balance Indians conducted ritual seasonal changes
crisis economic activity
the shaman kept the balance
between the three worlds
the soul capture
scattering of eagle down for peace
the potlatch
the seasons
the ceremonies
art makes the supernatural world visible
crisis economic activity
the shaman kept the balance
between the three worlds
the soul capture
scattering of eagle down for peace
the potlatch
the seasons
the ceremonies
art makes the supernatural world visible
This is a lot of gibberish to clean up! I must've been planning to use it in some writing.
Maryna Albert & DJ Hamilton (not my photo)
 |
| Maryna Albert & DJ Hamilton. I never did learn his name. He ran off and joined the Pickle family Circus |
Saturday, August 1, 1981
Puck Goat, Mt. Olympus, Lunasa (photos)
 |
| Mt.Olympus from Hurricane Ridge. From an old slide—early 1970s, or 1981? |
On the northern slopes of Mount Olympus: the ancestral sweep of the mountain, shadows are suspended across entire valleys. Talus and wildflowers in blue are the only signs of life in this severe landscape.
I am taller than the subalpine spruce forest at my feet. Like Gulliver in a Liliputian landscape. I must be way above treeline. I can almost touch the sky. Small juniper trees hug the ground, they spread out mat like, a living carpet at my feet. The trees may be diminutive, but their berries are full-size.
A melting cornice of of snow slides off the razorback ridge and makes a second ledge of snow, well on its way to becoming a glacier. Below me, a string of glacial melt pools in aquamarine and teal, decorated with chunks of snow, icebergs in the making.
I had to take off my telephoto lens because the animals here have no fear. Marmots shuffle up to investigate my feet and they size me up. I guess they don't get too many hikers on this steep slope. Or I look like a big marmot to them.
The only way to escape these droves of flies, is to keep on walking, or stand against the wind. I keep on walking.
I've lost count of the miles. I've come farther on one day that most round trip hikes. I keep reminding myself I have to walk the same distance back again, that each step forward is the half-way mark back to the trailhead.
But a part of me never wants to return to that place I came from. So I keep on walking. I have run out of trail. Literally. I am half-way to Marathon. My race against my pain is still not won. So I push ever on. The talus rings like fine crystal in someone else's bed as I stumble over compacted shale.
The only way to escape these droves of flies, is to keep on walking, or stand against the wind. I keep on walking.
I've lost count of the miles. I've come farther on one day that most round trip hikes. I keep reminding myself I have to walk the same distance back again, that each step forward is the half-way mark back to the trailhead.
But a part of me never wants to return to that place I came from. So I keep on walking. I have run out of trail. Literally. I am half-way to Marathon. My race against my pain is still not won. So I push ever on. The talus rings like fine crystal in someone else's bed as I stumble over compacted shale.
I take in alpine roses, lupine, larkspur, rock cress, a veritable Turkish carpet. Wallflowers, cinquefoil, buckwheat, Indian paintbrush, sky pilot, phlox, stonecrop—it's a carpet bazaar. A concuspiance of flowers stands taller than the tallest juniper.
In this dainty landscape, butterflies soar like hawks, and birds are the size of bears. A complex mosaic of lichen and moss grows on the ground, black lettuce-like leaves with frothy petticoats of pale green, dresses the rocks.
I want to get down on my hands and knees to worship the tiny Japanese gardeners who live here. My hand orchestrates a symphony of striated scree alternated with grand sweeping swaths of flower gardens. Beauty before me as I walk.
A hummingbird hovers, checks me out, then dives off the edge of the cliff. He takes my breath away. I lay down and peer down into a pocket valley, blue pimpernel and sky pilot and sky are one thing.
Sometimes the junipers achieve enough height for a mouse to hide beneath them. They eye me curiously, and rotate seeds in their paws as they nibble at the edges of pine nuts. Dark mauve phalacea is like bruised skin, amid the pearly everlasting.
A hummingbird hovers, checks me out, then dives off the edge of the cliff. He takes my breath away. I lay down and peer down into a pocket valley, blue pimpernel and sky pilot and sky are one thing.
Sometimes the junipers achieve enough height for a mouse to hide beneath them. They eye me curiously, and rotate seeds in their paws as they nibble at the edges of pine nuts. Dark mauve phalacea is like bruised skin, amid the pearly everlasting.
A talus crest is black with lichen and weathered varnish. Mount Olympus? I am lost traversing range after range, I am deep in the heart of these mountains, trying to escape my own depths.
A fresh rockslide area glows coppery pink against all that dark scree. A golden mantled marmot stand up to salute his allegiance to the wilderness. With his back to me, he whistles, then screams to the valley below. I am not the enemy. Friend of your friend.
Deer graze on the subalpine spruces, they devour this fragile landscape. I drowse in the warm sunlight. Pink and white pine heather bells shudder and nod in the breeze coming in from the west. Harbinger of sunset.
A fresh rockslide area glows coppery pink against all that dark scree. A golden mantled marmot stand up to salute his allegiance to the wilderness. With his back to me, he whistles, then screams to the valley below. I am not the enemy. Friend of your friend.
Deer graze on the subalpine spruces, they devour this fragile landscape. I drowse in the warm sunlight. Pink and white pine heather bells shudder and nod in the breeze coming in from the west. Harbinger of sunset.
I awaken with a start. Another deer appears, a buck, two-pronged with velvet, he eyes me, sniffs the air. Drops his head to pluck tender pine shoots. I was sleeping where the deer come to feed.
These steep talus slopes are held in place by the roots of flowers, no grass or moss or soil.
These steep talus slopes are held in place by the roots of flowers, no grass or moss or soil.
On Hurricane Ridge, and here, deep in the mountains, the Rocky Mountain goats eat the precious patches of soil. They're looking for salt, someone said. They paw at soil pockets, they eat the soil, they lick the stones, they lick the hiking path—searching for traces of lost salt. They are not a native species. My traitorous tears are made of salt. Perhaps displaced mountain goat will eat them.
The bleached bones of juniper, a skeleton hugs the rock outcropping. Patches of stonecrop form light cream-colored oases on the hillside. Life and death are one thing.
The intense purple of lupine, and the yellow of wallflower takes my breath away. The papery leaves of the pasqueflower tremble on the slightest breeze. I watch the antics of a furry jumping spider dressed in black and rust.
The intense purple of lupine, and the yellow of wallflower takes my breath away. The papery leaves of the pasqueflower tremble on the slightest breeze. I watch the antics of a furry jumping spider dressed in black and rust.
The sizzling heat rising up from the talus creates a shimmering horizonline. The edge of the ridge drops off from sight and all the flowers keep nodding their heads in the breeze, as if in agreement. There are so many flowers that I leave bruised footprints behind me. I keep walking up the path that follows the top of the ridge, hoping it will go on forever. It does not disappoint.
The path cuts along the side of a slope, so steep, it's like walking on the edge of a box. It drops a long way down, it's little more than a goat trail and it veers off to the left to the lake camp, set in shadows. To the right, are the valleys and ridges that lead up to Mount Olympus and to the Elwah River Valley.
The track is no longer a human path. I begin free-climbing towards the summit, inching closer to that elusive spine of ridge. I tell myself to be careful, don't trust the rotten rock.
Another hand grasp and toehold: I'm almost to the summit. Hair-raising. I've gone way past my limits. But still I push forward. I'm thinking this stuff is for the goats. What am I doing here, alone, so far from civilization? No one know where I am. But, having come this far, I want to look at the face of Mt. Olympus.
Silently, white. Above me a jagged shape looms. I take it in at eye level, powerful forelegs, and I look up to a white fur chest. Black horns and yellow eyes appear. Am I hallucinating?
His beard, and breath tells me he's real. Uh-oh. This Rocky Mountain goat coming down from Mt. Olympus has right-of-way. Cars going uphill may have right away, but then I'm not a car, and he has sharp black horns and the surefootedness of hooves.
The rules of right-of-way on a precipice is not to stop in a dangerous place. He has no hesitation as he advances toward me. There's literally no place to go. I back down the crevice, the small of my back tucked into the base of cliff that arcs down 2000 feet of scree. The angle of declination will not stop my descent into space. The angel of declination.
The goat hesitates, he looks at me. We make eye contact and we each make a silent pact. He has to pass right by my feet. There is nowhere else to go. I drop my gaze, and look down at my boots. I present no challenge, i make no eye contact. I empty my mind and I become wind, rock and sky. I come and go in peace, at will. We are one thing.
He does not challenge me to a duel. He carefully passes me, his fur is silken snow. He is a young ram, ousted from the herd. So I know there will not be others following him.
So I follow him down the spine, back to where I came from. I am shaking, adrenalin, fear, a rite of passage. I'm taking photographs of his back. They're not as good as the one I got as he appeared over the horizon. I took photos first then realized the potential danger I was in. The camera is an extension of arm, an automatic reflex.
The goat is eating his dinner, he is pawing up the plants to get at the minuscule pockets of soil hoarded there. He eats the earth, craving salt. I smell of salt and tears. He is not afraid of me as long as I move slowly.
We stay like this, entranced for an hour or more, in the evening light, the goat and I, before I descend back down the mountain at twilight. Northern lights dancing in the distance.
Something truly memorable has happened. A wordless quest, answered. A heart mended. I return back down the mountain a different person than that grieving woman who left behind her sorrow in the fog shrouded dawn.
August 1, 1981
October 11, 2015
(Found in a journal, most of it is verbatim, I added the context when I retyped it.)
The path cuts along the side of a slope, so steep, it's like walking on the edge of a box. It drops a long way down, it's little more than a goat trail and it veers off to the left to the lake camp, set in shadows. To the right, are the valleys and ridges that lead up to Mount Olympus and to the Elwah River Valley.
The track is no longer a human path. I begin free-climbing towards the summit, inching closer to that elusive spine of ridge. I tell myself to be careful, don't trust the rotten rock.
Another hand grasp and toehold: I'm almost to the summit. Hair-raising. I've gone way past my limits. But still I push forward. I'm thinking this stuff is for the goats. What am I doing here, alone, so far from civilization? No one know where I am. But, having come this far, I want to look at the face of Mt. Olympus.
His beard, and breath tells me he's real. Uh-oh. This Rocky Mountain goat coming down from Mt. Olympus has right-of-way. Cars going uphill may have right away, but then I'm not a car, and he has sharp black horns and the surefootedness of hooves.
The rules of right-of-way on a precipice is not to stop in a dangerous place. He has no hesitation as he advances toward me. There's literally no place to go. I back down the crevice, the small of my back tucked into the base of cliff that arcs down 2000 feet of scree. The angle of declination will not stop my descent into space. The angel of declination.
The goat hesitates, he looks at me. We make eye contact and we each make a silent pact. He has to pass right by my feet. There is nowhere else to go. I drop my gaze, and look down at my boots. I present no challenge, i make no eye contact. I empty my mind and I become wind, rock and sky. I come and go in peace, at will. We are one thing.
He does not challenge me to a duel. He carefully passes me, his fur is silken snow. He is a young ram, ousted from the herd. So I know there will not be others following him.
So I follow him down the spine, back to where I came from. I am shaking, adrenalin, fear, a rite of passage. I'm taking photographs of his back. They're not as good as the one I got as he appeared over the horizon. I took photos first then realized the potential danger I was in. The camera is an extension of arm, an automatic reflex.
The goat is eating his dinner, he is pawing up the plants to get at the minuscule pockets of soil hoarded there. He eats the earth, craving salt. I smell of salt and tears. He is not afraid of me as long as I move slowly.
We stay like this, entranced for an hour or more, in the evening light, the goat and I, before I descend back down the mountain at twilight. Northern lights dancing in the distance.
Something truly memorable has happened. A wordless quest, answered. A heart mended. I return back down the mountain a different person than that grieving woman who left behind her sorrow in the fog shrouded dawn.
August 1, 1981
October 11, 2015
(Found in a journal, most of it is verbatim, I added the context when I retyped it.)
Anacortes
August 1 & 2
I'm at the Anacortes fair selling jewelry with Leo and Terry. We're watching the Bosco boys live. I catch their juggling act for the first time. It's rough. I don't mind.
DJ hugs me. it's hard to pick up a welcome hello hug after a hard goodbye hug two days previously. He hugs me again. Just in case.
I'm at the Anacortes fair selling jewelry with Leo and Terry. We're watching the Bosco boys live. I catch their juggling act for the first time. It's rough. I don't mind.
Terry says "every time I see you, you've moved a little farther north."
DJ hugs me. it's hard to pick up a welcome hello hug after a hard goodbye hug two days previously. He hugs me again. Just in case.
As the day wears on, their act improves. So do we. During stolen moments between their acts and my breaks, we go off in different directions at nightfall looking at each other questioningly.
Next day, their act improves, and we know once again our friendship is solid and between breaks we hug and kiss and talk about northern tier, how that joke cost them potential money during the pass the hat, because Anacortes is a working town.
They don't laugh at those kind of jokes. It doesn't matter. They juggle the clubs.
We pass each other at the fair we stop hug and kiss. Soon it's time for goodbye. He says, "I don't know whether to say goodbye or, see you next weekend."
"This time it's for real," I say. We can't seem to untangle our tongues. I give him a poem about kisses, and our act improves.
WHILE WAITING FOR THE ANACORTES FERRY
"This time it's for real," I say. We can't seem to untangle our tongues. I give him a poem about kisses, and our act improves.
WHILE WAITING FOR THE ANACORTES FERRY
Friday, July 31, 1981
AT PARADISE MEADOWS
AT PARADISE MEADOWS
At the foot of Mt. Rainier
Chief Seattle sat pondering the face of the god.
Did he know of what was to come?
On the slopes of the mountain
I bathe my feet in hot pools
and wander in fields full of flowers.
Larkspur, lupine and columbine.
These meadows were made by beavers
felling alders to engineer the snowmelt into dams,
this place where history seeps into my pores.
Tehama, like a breath
the name of the mountain.
Snatches my mind away.
Circled in fog floating in a blue sky.
Underneath the mantle, the steady drip of rain
shrouds the face of Tehema.
Across the sound, Chief Seattle,
with his two wives following behind,
was buried in his dugout canoe,
in full view of the mountain.
Among the steaming pools and snowmelt
I pick flowers on the slopes of paradise
wondering why it has to be so hard.
The upheaval, and the price of beaver pelts,
smallpox decimating entire villages.
All that's left is the name of the mountain —
Like a breath, the name floats on the air—
Tehema, Rainier.
Tehema.
7/1981
Port Townsend, Washington
added 10/16
minor revision/line breaks
ACROSS THE BLUE OF GLACIERS
ACROSS THE BLUE OF GLACIERS
A thin line of flowers stretches
across the blue of glaciers
across the blue of glaciers
Mountains meet head on
like rippling bones bleached gray
like rippling bones bleached gray
Glistening whales resurface among the ice flows
Their spume spraying great hunks of sky
Across the water blue streaks on sparkling snow
The alcoholic snores of glaciers calving,
wraps around the heart like a blanket
as we snuggle in, summer nightfall on the tundra.
wraps around the heart like a blanket
as we snuggle in, summer nightfall on the tundra.
I am not a fisherman's wife
throwing back the day's catch
throwing back the day's catch
The snow is the color of roses,
red roses, and I dream of primordial suns.
7/1981
Port Townsend, Washington
added 10/16
red roses, and I dream of primordial suns.
7/1981
Port Townsend, Washington
added 10/16
Thursday, July 30, 1981
Pulsbo
Pulsbo
July 30, 1981: I'm back in Pulsbo again. An old song, an old saw set in the key of honkeytonk blues. Ten days after I said I was leaving, this inertia sets in… The feeling that I'm blowing it, but I'm trying to be clear, to be honest… The snags of human emotions are things really as complex as they seem? I keep pushing forward, thinking each time the dilemma will be the last, things will improve. Sometimes, the quagmire is right out the back door. Human interrelationships, the complex web of reason spread before me. We are each spinners of the web we weave.
July 30, 1981: I'm back in Pulsbo again. An old song, an old saw set in the key of honkeytonk blues. Ten days after I said I was leaving, this inertia sets in… The feeling that I'm blowing it, but I'm trying to be clear, to be honest… The snags of human emotions are things really as complex as they seem? I keep pushing forward, thinking each time the dilemma will be the last, things will improve. Sometimes, the quagmire is right out the back door. Human interrelationships, the complex web of reason spread before me. We are each spinners of the web we weave.
7/30/1981
10/15/2015
Wednesday, July 29, 1981
FROSTBITE
FROSTBITE
The glacier rose up like a tongue
lolling out of the frigid mouth of the water
The glacier rose up like a tongue
lolling out of the frigid mouth of the water
Ptarmigans, half white, half brown feathers
chuckled in the low undergrowth
of huckleberry and mountain heather.
of huckleberry and mountain heather.
The sun warmed us as our feet
crunched over bauchy ice and rotten snow
as we approached the summit.
crunched over bauchy ice and rotten snow
as we approached the summit.
A thunderbolt cracked,
stirring the thick air and our senses.
Ptarmigans dove for cover
as snowflakes covered their mottled backs.
Ptarmigans dove for cover
as snowflakes covered their mottled backs.
Hypothermia begins
with a rhythmic rotation of frozen fingers.
with a rhythmic rotation of frozen fingers.
Soon numbed cheeks cease to sting,
earlobes feel warm. And skin turns from red to blue.
White patches of creamy skin
are the first signs of frostbite.
earlobes feel warm. And skin turns from red to blue.
White patches of creamy skin
are the first signs of frostbite.
One begins to feel the need for sleep,
such euphoric warmth, and dreams,
a jumbled series of memories
out of proper sequence, taking you further.
Soon you reconstruct your memories
to fit the shape of snowdrifts
and then you float into that warm tide
of snow, smiling.
such euphoric warmth, and dreams,
a jumbled series of memories
out of proper sequence, taking you further.
Soon you reconstruct your memories
to fit the shape of snowdrifts
and then you float into that warm tide
of snow, smiling.
7/29/1981
Port Townsend, WA
added 10/16
Port Townsend, WA
added 10/16
THIS KISS
THIS KISS
for DJ Hamilton
This maiden voyage of tongues,
Sleek suckle of cavorting seals
Undulating in kelp beds,
Capriciously nesting,
And antlered,
Rutting under the gibbous moon
Not the watery abyss
Licking shriveled toes and lips
Left too long in the bath.
7/29/81 Pt Townsend
rev. 8/81; 4/87 Sonoma County Stump 8/18/81
This maiden voyage of tongues,
Sleek suckle of cavorting seals
Undulating in kelp beds,
Capriciously nesting,
And antlered,
Rutting under the gibbous moon
Not the watery abyss
Licking shriveled toes and lips
Left too long in the bath.
7/29/81 Pt Townsend
rev. 8/81; 4/87 Sonoma County Stump 8/18/81
On the Dosewallips Trail, take 2
Stones sink into the snow leaving holes that drop down into the pack. The pack rearranges itself with a slow downhill crunching steps down from its own weight.
The roaring of last nights trees gives way to the multiple drone of today's flies. I am the only living thing around. The horse flies follow me for miles, flying a halo around me, each wanting to claim my flesh as his own.
A few clouds drift by, leaving folded shadows like black snow patches draped over the peaks. Talus slides encourage the flowers to grow in long lines downward, one plant below the other, the upper offering protection to the ones below, and the ones below offering protection in turn, and so on.
As I hike on the trail, my feet crunching on rocks slowly convert the finely shredded talus into dust.
As I hike on the trail, my feet crunching on rocks slowly convert the finely shredded talus into dust.
The mountains are breathing the honey of flowers. The panorama of the Olympic Mountains becomes too beautiful for words. Soon the eyes ceases to see. I drop over the crest into the eastern rim where the starkness of The Brothers and Anderson Pass pacify my burning, too bright eye.
The vegetation too is different on this side. Taller shrubs and flowers. Also less variety. The trees are tortured trunks leaning upward into the hill for stability. Sometimes they crawl back up the slope 4 feet or more along the ground, trying to get back to where they first set root.
July 1981
added 10/16
July 1981
added 10/16
Horseflies on the Dosewallips Trail
The roaring of last night trees gives way to the multudinous drone of today's flies.
Scattered stones sink into snow leaving holes that drop way down into the snowpack. The pack rearranges itself as it slips downward from its own weight.
Talus slides encourage flowers to grow in long lines downward, one plant below the other, the upper plant offering protection to the ones below, and so on, all the way down the slope, in vivid color.
As I hike on the thin trail, my feet convert the finely shredded talus into dust.
The mountains are breathing the honey of flowers.
I run into another backpacker. I can't even trade my flies with him and he is sweaty and tired too.
Scattered stones sink into snow leaving holes that drop way down into the snowpack. The pack rearranges itself as it slips downward from its own weight.
I am the only living thing around. The horseflies follow me for miles, flying a halo around me, each wanting to claim my flesh as his own. To the left, the Inland Passage, the Cascades and Mount Baker, are all dreaming, tucked in a layer of marine mist.
Scattered clouds drape folded shadows of black ravens over the snowfields and peaks.
Scattered clouds drape folded shadows of black ravens over the snowfields and peaks.
Talus slides encourage flowers to grow in long lines downward, one plant below the other, the upper plant offering protection to the ones below, and so on, all the way down the slope, in vivid color.
As I hike on the thin trail, my feet convert the finely shredded talus into dust.
The mountains are breathing the honey of flowers.
I run into another backpacker. I can't even trade my flies with him and he is sweaty and tired too.
The panorama of the Olympics is too beautiful for me to take in–soon I cease to see them. Blinded by such beauty, I become blind to it.
I drop over the crest into the eastern rim where the darkness of the Brothers and the Mount Anderson massif pacify my burning, too bright eye. I traverse up the Dosewallips River. So much to see: Grand Lakes, Moose Lake. I can't take it all in.
I look back in order to look forward, and realize that these are the same mountains you can see from Seattle. They say Doquebatl, enraged, changed a woman into Mount Rainier and her son into Little Tahoma.
The small inhaled double chirp of the striped chipmunk is the only song in this still landscape.
The small inhaled double chirp of the striped chipmunk is the only song in this still landscape.
July 1981
rev 10/15/2015
Oral History: The old fisherman said
The old fisherman said: (I didn’t get his name).
I'm originally from East Washington. Always wanted to fish. So I got myself a boat. Sold my ranch. Always wanted to see the ocean. Wanted to fish. Wanted to ocean fish.
Then one day out of the blue, I was out of business. I sold it and bought me a another boat, a cruiser 24 feet, by golly. I fished it a year. Then I got another boat. Fished two or three more years.
I live right on the beach now. No home, no boat. Yeah, but that fella, he had a heart attack and died in his sleep. And then his two brothers took over. They'll inherit the lots I owned, and the trailer and the boat. And damned if they didn't sell at all for hundred grand.
I'm originally from East Washington. Always wanted to fish. So I got myself a boat. Sold my ranch. Always wanted to see the ocean. Wanted to fish. Wanted to ocean fish.
I wound up in a partnership. I had a gas store back in the day, those were too loose and fancy free days, I was in a partnership. See that gas store, the feller paid for half of it. Then he wanted me to buy him out. I didn't have the money, and he gave it to me.
Then one day out of the blue, I was out of business. I sold it and bought me a another boat, a cruiser 24 feet, by golly. I fished it a year. Then I got another boat. Fished two or three more years.
Met a fellow down in Glencove, I traded my boat in for three or four lots. Then I traded those lots for a 30-foot cruiser. I converted it into a trawler and finished eight or nine years. Salmon mostly.
Yeah, moneywise, I made a good deal. Made $2000. Good money then, by golly. I could've traded the two of those lots and had the lots and the boat yeah.
I live right on the beach now. No home, no boat. Yeah, but that fella, he had a heart attack and died in his sleep. And then his two brothers took over. They'll inherit the lots I owned, and the trailer and the boat. And damned if they didn't sell at all for hundred grand.
To think I got it all going with that first boat that I paid $700 for, after I sold my ranch.
I felt like hell today, my wife, she went downtown, and maybe she'll bring me some dinner. Yeah, I fished eight or nine years for salmon. I'll be 80 next month. Doubt if I'll make it through the winter. My dog's 17 years old. He's deaf. Been that way for years. He doesn't pay much attention to my wife. Yes sir, he's a one-man dog. Yes.
7–29–81 Jefferson County Beach, Port Townsend, Washington
7–29–81 Jefferson County Beach, Port Townsend, Washington
GIRAFFES
The giraffe
The two ffs in giraffe
are like two giraffes
running through
the word giraffe.
The two F's run
through giraffe
like two giraffes.
The butterfly
The butterfly flies up
like powder
The two ffs in giraffe
are like two giraffes
running through
the word giraffe.
The two F's run
through giraffe
like two giraffes.
The butterfly
The butterfly flies up
like powder
to a woman's face
and drifts down
like a woman's face
and drifts down
like a woman's face
into powder.
The electric eel
The electric eel slides
through the water
forming different words
as it goes
When it loops around itself
The electric eel
The electric eel slides
through the water
forming different words
as it goes
When it loops around itself
to spell the word eel
it lights up.
A sudden wind
is a Qualicum
is something
it lights up.
A sudden wind
is a Qualicum
is something
like a sudden wind,
like a Chinook.
like a Chinook.
Qualicum.
July 29? 1981
rev 10/15/2015
rev 10/15/2015
SANGRE DE LUNA (poem)
SANGRE DE LUNA
Only the heart remains now...
—Eugene Ruggles
1. The water, within the foot of the ferry dock
is in full flood tide. The sand shifts,
raises like water, in syncopated rhythm.
Fish leap towards the dock light.
Its red glare rippling on the water,
floods the high ceiling of the loft,
On the beach, a senile dog
gives two barks and a howl—
like a child that's forgotten why he's crying,
but likes the way the air stings his vocal chords,
a primal sound wrapping the heart like a blanket.
The showerhead drizzles on my body.
Somewhere in this hotel, another mass of water
is flushed hack into the Sound,
and I stand soaped up like a cloud
in a dry shower waiting for the toilets to fill
and the drains to quit backing up.
A strong odor of kelp in the shower stall
and the water whispers to me
the name of a woman. Jasmina.
Her kelp hair, thick fistfuls of it
like a prayer rug, cover her back.
2. She was in the cantina where you didn't stop off.
She invited you in and you entered like a demon lover.
For two dollars you drank all the tequila you could hold.
Balanced like a tightrope walker on a slack rope,
you swung great hunks of the sky across the room.
But I am telling you this. You wouldn't remember.
You were never there. It was only a dream.
Jasmina, with the silvered earrings
in the red skirt, never danced for you.
Late in life, you decided to take up climbing trees.
The apples were as red as the roses on her skirt.
You remember the scent hung heavily in the room.
More memories flood back. A bare window
and a door covered with an old woolen army blanket.
A gift from someone who couldn't pay.
She danced for you.
The record player rasped its last melody.
She danced, the fire of the rhythm
beat into the floorboards
and the dust sifted through the cracks
into the drinks of the men
who were waiting in the barroom below.
But you were never there. It was only a dream.
You awoke in a strange hotel bed alone.
A red line running across your neck
from your ear to your throat
and the only thing missing was your pants.
The needle hisses at the end of the record
to the alcoholic snores of an old man
yellowed spittle and hair oil on the pillow.
Outside the window, the red glare of the harbor light
offers a semblance of perpetual day,
a primordial sun, volcanic glare, red smoke, red ash.
You thought you heard the whispering of skirts
but it was a seagull that landed on the dock.
The odor of pitch oozing from fallen trees.
3. In the Town Tavern, we bang down another beer,
watch sunlight sneak across the border into Victoria.
This gloom hangs over the peninsula
like a shelf fungus jutting from a tree.
Clouds cling to mountains
rising two miles straight up from sea level.
I followed one canyon in from the ocean
deep into the heart of the mountains.
One step out would have saved me from remembering
but I was distracted by flowers growing in a crevice.
Glaciers across the continent are retreating
except the one I'm standing on front of,
it cracks and shudders like a god trying to get out.
The only way to escape is by water—drop by drop.
We're waiting for summer, but the night is dressed in winter.
I am not afraid of the frozen wave of the glacier,
or of its undertow of blue light.
Who is playing the strains of the guitar?
The room is encased in black velvet
except for the red light pouring in from the docks.
Sangre de Luna. The seagulls are asleep. Sangre.
That red light shining on the water, like blood.
Sangre. Sangre. An eclipse bleeds into the dream.
Somewhere a man cries out in his sleep for Jasmina
and the odor of tar hangs heavily in this room.
Maureen Hurley
7/29/81
Pt.Townsend, WA
from Sangre de Luna (dream)
from Sangre de Luna (dream)
added 10/16, revised 7/17 (David Bromige's suggestions.)
Sangre de Luna (dream)
Sangre de Luna
The cloudbank rests on the Olympics like a shelf or a tree fungus, cuts off sunlight with mist a thousand feet thick. While Victoria is in full sunlight across the Straits.The smell of the tide overpowers the odor of breakfast, it was a bargain for $0.69. I got a whole-wheat sticky bun, coffee in a Styrofoam cup, muddy coffee by Cremora.
Last night was an unusually high tide, was it the full moon? In the water, within the foot of the ferry dock, a flood tide. The sand shifts, races like the water, only in a slower syncopated rhythm. Fish leap towards the dock lights. Its red glare rippling on the water, the same lights that flooded our high ceilings.
Under flannel sheets we snuggle. God I haven't had those since I was a kid sleeping in my grandfather's bed, in my grandmothers room painted green. When he died, I moved into that green room, and his quilt became mine. It had roses on it, I remember.
On the beach an old dog barks and howls, more like the way a child who is forgotten why he is crying, does, but likes the way air passes through his vocal chords, weaving primal sounds around the human heart. I understand his loneliness, like the way the waves understand the slant of the shore.
It's a soft Irish day. No it's a grand one. A fucking grand one. It doesn't matter which. Take your pick, they all mean the same thing in the end. This is not Ireland. My grandfather, dead these past 25 years.
The rain drizzles, the shower drizzles more rain on my body. Somewhere in the building, another mass of water is being flushed back into the sound, and I stand there soaked up like a sodden cloud in a dry shower, waiting for the toilets to fill up, and the drains to quit backing up.
There's the odor of kelp in the shower stalls, and all I can think about is a woman I made up in a dream, named Jasmina, whose red roses could almost be plucked off her skirt, and she danced to the strains of the guitar. Sangre de Luna. Her kelp hair, thick fistfulls of it, like a prayer rug down her back.
She was in the cantina where you didn't stop off. She invited you in, and you entered like a demon lover. For two dollars you drank all the tequila you could hold, balanced like a tightrope walker on a slack rope, you swing great hunks of sky across the room.
2. But I am telling you this you, you wouldn't remember, you were never there. Jasmine never was a Mexican queen with the silver earrings, in the red skirt who danced for you.
Late in life you decided to take up climbing trees. The apples were as red as the roses on her skirt. You remember the scent of apples that hung heavily in the room. Windows and doors covered with old woolen army blankets. A gift from someone who couldn't pay.
She danced for you. The old record player rasped out a melody. She danced on the fire of the rhythm that beat it's way back into the floorboards and dust seeped into the drinks in the barroom below.
No, you were never there. You woke up in bed alone, a red line running from your ear to your throat. The only thing missing was your pants.
In the next room, the hissing of a needle on the old record, the alcoholic snores of an old man. The spittle, yellowed and dry on the corners of his mouth and the three days growth on his beard contrasted with the oily black smudges on the pillow.
Outside the window, a steady red glare in the water, I am not afraid of its undertow. What if my feet should get stuck under its advancing embrace? What if I had stepped off that ridge? Or in front of the moving car stolen by this kid who ran away from yet another foster home, and the town police knew him by sight?
Only I am hearing the strains of the guitar. I am throwing back my kelp hair and dancing. I have been dancing so long, my feet no longer have shoes. of the light brings about a perpetual day.
The primordial volcanic sun viewed through red smoke and ash. You thought you heard the swish of a skirt, but a seagull lands on the dock and creosote is a kind of oil oozing up from the pores of fallen trees and great lumps of tar float in from the tankers offshore.
And in another part of town, a kid climbs an apple tree. His red shirt does not have roses embroidered on it. From the tree, he can see the ocean and the tankers anchored offshore are old US fleets sold to foreign countries for scrap. He jumps down and runs along the sand singing a song about a dancer named Jasmina.
3. In the Town Tavern you sit and drink down another American beer and see how the sunlight is shining in Victoria across the border. This weather hangs over at the Peninsula like a great shelf fungus jutting out from a tree. Only the clouds are attached to the mountains that raise nearly 8000 feet up from sea level.
Did I tell you I followed one of the canyons in from the ocean. I penetrated deep into the heart of the mountains. At the pass, I turned towards the ridge. A spine of land, and I stood a long time looking down at 2000 feet drop.
On three sides, one step out could've saved me. But I was distracted by the color of flowers growing in a crag, that the mountain goats, for some reason, avoided. There were alpine roses in full bloom, like the ones growing in the Swiss Alps that summer nine years before.
The glacier is retreating. All glaciers over all the continents are retreating, except the one I stood in front of, the Columbia glacier, and I listened to it crack and shudder like some great God trying to get out. His only method of escape was by water, drop by drop. It was as if he waited for summer, a day warm enough, to melt ice, but ot always brought the chill.
I placed my hand on the edge of that dirty blue tongue but could feel no sensation in my fingers, it was more of a burn and ice. My fingers went into my mouth instinctively, like a child.
I am not afraid of the frozen wave of this glacier, or its undertow. What if my feet should get stuck under its advancing embrace? What if I had stepped out off that ridge? Or in front of the moving car, stolen by the kid who ran away from yet another foster home, and the police knew him by sight.
Only I am hearing the strains of the guitar playing. I am throwing back my kelp hair and I am dancing. I have been dancing so long my feet no longer have shoes.
I walked 17 miles in one day just to get out of that valley and away from that cliff. I am barefoot, my calves are swollen. Who is playing the guitar? The room is dark except the red light coming in from the docks. Sangre de Luna. I hear the swishing of skirts. This seagulls are asleep. That red light shining on the water. Sangre. Sangre. Somewhere a man cries out in his sleep the name of Jasmna. The scent of apples hangs heavily in this room.
Port Townsend
7/29/1981
missing final prose hardcopy so it has typos. Needs revision.
See also SANGRE DE LUNA (poem)
added 12/16
The cloudbank rests on the Olympics like a shelf or a tree fungus, cuts off sunlight with mist a thousand feet thick. While Victoria is in full sunlight across the Straits.The smell of the tide overpowers the odor of breakfast, it was a bargain for $0.69. I got a whole-wheat sticky bun, coffee in a Styrofoam cup, muddy coffee by Cremora.
Last night was an unusually high tide, was it the full moon? In the water, within the foot of the ferry dock, a flood tide. The sand shifts, races like the water, only in a slower syncopated rhythm. Fish leap towards the dock lights. Its red glare rippling on the water, the same lights that flooded our high ceilings.
Under flannel sheets we snuggle. God I haven't had those since I was a kid sleeping in my grandfather's bed, in my grandmothers room painted green. When he died, I moved into that green room, and his quilt became mine. It had roses on it, I remember.
On the beach an old dog barks and howls, more like the way a child who is forgotten why he is crying, does, but likes the way air passes through his vocal chords, weaving primal sounds around the human heart. I understand his loneliness, like the way the waves understand the slant of the shore.
It's a soft Irish day. No it's a grand one. A fucking grand one. It doesn't matter which. Take your pick, they all mean the same thing in the end. This is not Ireland. My grandfather, dead these past 25 years.
The rain drizzles, the shower drizzles more rain on my body. Somewhere in the building, another mass of water is being flushed back into the sound, and I stand there soaked up like a sodden cloud in a dry shower, waiting for the toilets to fill up, and the drains to quit backing up.
There's the odor of kelp in the shower stalls, and all I can think about is a woman I made up in a dream, named Jasmina, whose red roses could almost be plucked off her skirt, and she danced to the strains of the guitar. Sangre de Luna. Her kelp hair, thick fistfulls of it, like a prayer rug down her back.
She was in the cantina where you didn't stop off. She invited you in, and you entered like a demon lover. For two dollars you drank all the tequila you could hold, balanced like a tightrope walker on a slack rope, you swing great hunks of sky across the room.
2. But I am telling you this you, you wouldn't remember, you were never there. Jasmine never was a Mexican queen with the silver earrings, in the red skirt who danced for you.
Late in life you decided to take up climbing trees. The apples were as red as the roses on her skirt. You remember the scent of apples that hung heavily in the room. Windows and doors covered with old woolen army blankets. A gift from someone who couldn't pay.
She danced for you. The old record player rasped out a melody. She danced on the fire of the rhythm that beat it's way back into the floorboards and dust seeped into the drinks in the barroom below.
No, you were never there. You woke up in bed alone, a red line running from your ear to your throat. The only thing missing was your pants.
In the next room, the hissing of a needle on the old record, the alcoholic snores of an old man. The spittle, yellowed and dry on the corners of his mouth and the three days growth on his beard contrasted with the oily black smudges on the pillow.
Outside the window, a steady red glare in the water, I am not afraid of its undertow. What if my feet should get stuck under its advancing embrace? What if I had stepped off that ridge? Or in front of the moving car stolen by this kid who ran away from yet another foster home, and the town police knew him by sight?
Only I am hearing the strains of the guitar. I am throwing back my kelp hair and dancing. I have been dancing so long, my feet no longer have shoes. of the light brings about a perpetual day.
The primordial volcanic sun viewed through red smoke and ash. You thought you heard the swish of a skirt, but a seagull lands on the dock and creosote is a kind of oil oozing up from the pores of fallen trees and great lumps of tar float in from the tankers offshore.
And in another part of town, a kid climbs an apple tree. His red shirt does not have roses embroidered on it. From the tree, he can see the ocean and the tankers anchored offshore are old US fleets sold to foreign countries for scrap. He jumps down and runs along the sand singing a song about a dancer named Jasmina.
3. In the Town Tavern you sit and drink down another American beer and see how the sunlight is shining in Victoria across the border. This weather hangs over at the Peninsula like a great shelf fungus jutting out from a tree. Only the clouds are attached to the mountains that raise nearly 8000 feet up from sea level.
Did I tell you I followed one of the canyons in from the ocean. I penetrated deep into the heart of the mountains. At the pass, I turned towards the ridge. A spine of land, and I stood a long time looking down at 2000 feet drop.
On three sides, one step out could've saved me. But I was distracted by the color of flowers growing in a crag, that the mountain goats, for some reason, avoided. There were alpine roses in full bloom, like the ones growing in the Swiss Alps that summer nine years before.
The glacier is retreating. All glaciers over all the continents are retreating, except the one I stood in front of, the Columbia glacier, and I listened to it crack and shudder like some great God trying to get out. His only method of escape was by water, drop by drop. It was as if he waited for summer, a day warm enough, to melt ice, but ot always brought the chill.
I placed my hand on the edge of that dirty blue tongue but could feel no sensation in my fingers, it was more of a burn and ice. My fingers went into my mouth instinctively, like a child.
I am not afraid of the frozen wave of this glacier, or its undertow. What if my feet should get stuck under its advancing embrace? What if I had stepped out off that ridge? Or in front of the moving car, stolen by the kid who ran away from yet another foster home, and the police knew him by sight.
Only I am hearing the strains of the guitar playing. I am throwing back my kelp hair and I am dancing. I have been dancing so long my feet no longer have shoes.
I walked 17 miles in one day just to get out of that valley and away from that cliff. I am barefoot, my calves are swollen. Who is playing the guitar? The room is dark except the red light coming in from the docks. Sangre de Luna. I hear the swishing of skirts. This seagulls are asleep. That red light shining on the water. Sangre. Sangre. Somewhere a man cries out in his sleep the name of Jasmna. The scent of apples hangs heavily in this room.
Port Townsend
7/29/1981
missing final prose hardcopy so it has typos. Needs revision.
See also SANGRE DE LUNA (poem)
added 12/16
Sunday, July 26, 1981
The Woman in Question: A Story
July 1981
Saturday, July 25, 1981
SEA URCHINS
Sea urchins, with mouths like Diogenes lanterns.
River otters swim facedown and eat on land.
Sea otters swim on their backs and eat on water
using their chests as tables, they're
madly hammering clams with rocks.
I think of this same stretch of ocean
up and down this coast—from Baja
to the Bering Sea, ah yes, teaching me
of the return, the return. Prodigal.
7/25/1981
Pt. Townsend, WA
added 9/15
Port Townsend journal, Michael Daley
7/25 it has taken me three days like Christ to come home. The
transcendence into pain, self-pity, thoughts of suicide, quitting
teaching poetry, quitting organizing readings, putting my past – all is
an act of self pity.
Galway Kinnell said that and Sexton indulged in the ultimate form of self pity, selfless suicide. I have been sulking, I've been pouting inward, no lower lip projecting anymore. No longer acceptable.
Waves of sorrow are flooding the rock strewn beach. My heart unwinds itself like a snail poking its antennae out to see if the coast is clear.
My wounds run open with black blood deep inside my heart lies, my heart lies. The day and not days and nights of poems yet to come.
The clouds of Mount Baker are expanding back into cloud. The smoke has subsided.
The true skin of writing never buries itself moisture like under the waves of sorrow.
The mountains and the curves of land are breasts of the earth. The clouds milky teeth white breast in the air and sky. And while I sit on Michael Daly's porch, contemplating dusk, I wait for time to pass. I evaluate the sunset. I saluted the sunset yesterday with a bottle of California wine, drinking little sips from the stems of grapes before the harvest, calling me home.
The sun reminds me that it rises again just as surely as it sets, like the low hum of the well oiled machinery the ships on the Straits of San Juan de Fuca interrupt the whispering of waves along the island shore. I've spent so little time writing. I do not offer my craft a place to sail. I'm learning to sit study and listen.
Michael confesses he was an altar boy, but his face darkens. He escaped the seminary after studying to be a priest. He carries the wrath within still. Our common thread, we're all poets teaching in the schools. All, on the outside, looking in. Poet fugitives.
Last night, I swung the double headed axe, splitting wood to earn my keep. Michael thinks I'm a lightweight. I resent it. The kindling flies off into the bush. I glare at him. He shrugs, re-evaluates, and smiles at me beatifically. Breaks the silence with his broad Boston Irish vowels.
7/24-25/1981
Pt. Townsend, WA
added 9/15
See True Writing, another version of 7/25 entry
Galway Kinnell said that and Sexton indulged in the ultimate form of self pity, selfless suicide. I have been sulking, I've been pouting inward, no lower lip projecting anymore. No longer acceptable.
Waves of sorrow are flooding the rock strewn beach. My heart unwinds itself like a snail poking its antennae out to see if the coast is clear.
The clouds paint an illusion of color over Mount Baker and is smaller
twin poking out of the marine layer of mist, whether the cloud are real,
no matter. It exists behind those islands, floating on the water.
Galway says to me: you can't quit writing, ever. Not the way a dog quits killing chickens when the carcass is tied to its neck till it rots.
Galway says to me: you can't quit writing, ever. Not the way a dog quits killing chickens when the carcass is tied to its neck till it rots.
I wanted to hang my heart around my neck. Proclaim myself smarter, saying I cannot love again.
My wounds run open with black blood deep inside my heart lies, my heart lies. The day and not days and nights of poems yet to come.
The clouds of Mount Baker are expanding back into cloud. The smoke has subsided.
The true skin of writing never buries itself moisture like under the waves of sorrow.
The mountains and the curves of land are breasts of the earth. The clouds milky teeth white breast in the air and sky. And while I sit on Michael Daly's porch, contemplating dusk, I wait for time to pass. I evaluate the sunset. I saluted the sunset yesterday with a bottle of California wine, drinking little sips from the stems of grapes before the harvest, calling me home.
 |
| Michael Daley founded a literaty journal, Dalmo‘ma |
The sun reminds me that it rises again just as surely as it sets, like the low hum of the well oiled machinery the ships on the Straits of San Juan de Fuca interrupt the whispering of waves along the island shore. I've spent so little time writing. I do not offer my craft a place to sail. I'm learning to sit study and listen.
Michael confesses he was an altar boy, but his face darkens. He escaped the seminary after studying to be a priest. He carries the wrath within still. Our common thread, we're all poets teaching in the schools. All, on the outside, looking in. Poet fugitives.
Last night, I swung the double headed axe, splitting wood to earn my keep. Michael thinks I'm a lightweight. I resent it. The kindling flies off into the bush. I glare at him. He shrugs, re-evaluates, and smiles at me beatifically. Breaks the silence with his broad Boston Irish vowels.
I'm striking at the anger off my
bones the previous night, the news of losing both my lover and my friend. My
lover and my friend have found something to ease their souls and my
burden becomes weighted doublefold and that axe is unsteady at first,
becomes sure, the pile of kindling grows exponentially from out of
nothing.
Michael resents my presence. He is like a jealous god. Doesn't want to share Sharon. Last night I heard them whispering. I lumber off to sleep in the backseat of the VW bug. He says to stay another night. He doesn't know I overheard what he said. Where will I go?
Michael resents my presence. He is like a jealous god. Doesn't want to share Sharon. Last night I heard them whispering. I lumber off to sleep in the backseat of the VW bug. He says to stay another night. He doesn't know I overheard what he said. Where will I go?
I have exercised hard, I have stretched and used muscles. I have poured
new oxygen into my blood, the tissues and my heart are becoming
fine-tuned as I run through the pineleaf forest. Sharon says you must listen to your heart. You must write about it no matter what. I am learning the
readiness of lung and leg as I take the time to stop and eat the
thimbleberries and the blackberries. But my tongue awakens to acidic fruit,
rotting before it is ripened.
 |
| Sharon Doubiago |
7/24-25/1981
Pt. Townsend, WA
added 9/15
See True Writing, another version of 7/25 entry
Dream Sequence journal
7/24 dream sequence
Didn't sleep till 4 AM. Thought of Lee and Mora together until it drove me frantic with rage and I was saturated with sweat. When I finally did sleep the dreams that came forth were bizarre.
I was given a rare mouse with purple fur. I had to transport it to the other end of the school corridor where some lockers were. I got on someone's case for having my key to the locker. She was using it for too far too much.
While walking down the corridor I wondered what shall I do with it? Kill it myself? Finish suffering? I, who it accidentally inflicted it all upon this mouse? From under a sweater crawled a white cat who immediately grasped the situation and started to eat the mouse before it fully died.
Didn't sleep till 4 AM. Thought of Lee and Mora together until it drove me frantic with rage and I was saturated with sweat. When I finally did sleep the dreams that came forth were bizarre.
I was given a rare mouse with purple fur. I had to transport it to the other end of the school corridor where some lockers were. I got on someone's case for having my key to the locker. She was using it for too far too much.
And I was also dragging this heavy lamp base and stand with my left hand. No one would help me. It caught on a crack and struck me. My hand was wet. I looked down at the blood, feeling no injury.
The mouse was on the pavement facedown. Death twitches, its right side eviscerated, and from his stomach, protrusion, like a clam foot, he was struggling for life. I thought for a moment he could be saved by a few stitches but I realized he was too badly injured. The mouse, other than it's purple, and cuddly, didn't mean that much to me. That I had gotten attached to it.
While walking down the corridor I wondered what shall I do with it? Kill it myself? Finish suffering? I, who it accidentally inflicted it all upon this mouse? From under a sweater crawled a white cat who immediately grasped the situation and started to eat the mouse before it fully died.
SONG OF THE PRAIRIE
SONG OF THE PRAIRIE
—for Meridel LeSueur & Sharon Doubiago
The mindful trust of this body is held
in the blind spots of the eye; a memory
of the prairie where Crazy Horse last
stood. Flowers grow naked on the graves
of those whose blood nourished the soil
a hundred years after the last buffalo
robe rotted into dust. The circling
sparrowhawk encompasses the souls
of those who were lost in anger, hatred,
and in feat. A song of sorrow for those
who walk alone.
July, 1981
Port Townsend, WA
The Child in the Bell, CPITS Statewide Anthology, 1981-82Friday, July 24, 1981
True Writing
1. The clouds of Mt. Baker and its smaller twin poke out of the marine layer of mist. Whether cloud, or real, no matter. It exists behind those islands floating on the water. Galway says, "you can't quit writing, ever. Not like the way a dog quits killing chickens when the carcass is tied to his neck until it rots."
The lenticular clouds of Mt. Baker expand and contract into cumulous shapes. The true skin of writing never buries itself oyster-like under the waves of sorrow. The mountains and the curve of the land nourish the horizon of the sky, and, the milk teeth of clouds sink into the air.
Like the low-oiled hum of machinery, the sound of ships on the Straits of San Juan de Fuca interrupt the waves of sorrow, and, the whispering of the inland waves tells me that I've spent too little time writing, denying my dubious craft. I am learning to sit steadily laden with words, waiting for wind, to set sail.
2. Last night I swung the double-headed ax, striking at the anger in my bones. The axe swung unsteadily at first, became sure-bitted, and I find my rhythm, swinging the singing blade that bites the smooth inner grain of gleaming heartwood. Stacking wood for long winter nights.
My lover, and a friend have found a way to ease the ticking of clocks, and a way to outwit the silent whitewashed walls standing in evening shadow, I wanted to hang my heart around my neck and let the open wounds run into the streets with the black blood of the sewers. Deep inside is where the days and nights of poems lie like sleeping dogs.
I imagine waves of sorrow flooding the cobbled beach of the Sound, and my heart is tucking itself in like a snail, afraid to poke wayward antennae into the air. Stasis. The shell of home, a prison.
Climbing the mountains, I have labored long, stretch unused muscle, sucked new air into my lungs. I am learning the readiness of lung and leg. As I stop to browse on thimbleberries and wild cherries, my tongue puckers to the strange acidic tang of fruit, rotted before it's had a chance to ripen. Like my writing.
At the end of my journey, I sit on the beach at sunset with a bottle of California wine, taking in the secret green heart of grapes before the harvest, this lifetime vow of words, a rare vintage calling me home.
7/24/1981
Pt. Townsend, WA
added & revised 10/16
My lover, and a friend have found a way to ease the ticking of clocks, and a way to outwit the silent whitewashed walls standing in evening shadow, I wanted to hang my heart around my neck and let the open wounds run into the streets with the black blood of the sewers. Deep inside is where the days and nights of poems lie like sleeping dogs.
I imagine waves of sorrow flooding the cobbled beach of the Sound, and my heart is tucking itself in like a snail, afraid to poke wayward antennae into the air. Stasis. The shell of home, a prison.
Climbing the mountains, I have labored long, stretch unused muscle, sucked new air into my lungs. I am learning the readiness of lung and leg. As I stop to browse on thimbleberries and wild cherries, my tongue puckers to the strange acidic tang of fruit, rotted before it's had a chance to ripen. Like my writing.
At the end of my journey, I sit on the beach at sunset with a bottle of California wine, taking in the secret green heart of grapes before the harvest, this lifetime vow of words, a rare vintage calling me home.
7/24/1981
Pt. Townsend, WA
added & revised 10/16
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