(No. 44 in a series of responses to Han-Shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

Most arguments leave you a little wasted, especially those that go on, repeat and don’t seem to resolve. Which points to other problems, of course. For basic self care it’s important to stay sane even in insane situations. How remarkable to feel the clutch of argument dissipate, at least for a while, like a dank fog in sunshine. Those morning bicycle commutes are worth a lot, gentle reader.

(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)

Dammit!

Then, something never dared
over years of our relationship.
I stop, breathe, lean down
with leather hands,
embrace the outer carbs,
cylinders, spark plug wires.
I send my sweet old bike
love, and ask her to start.

She fires right up.

It happened just like that. The motorcycle is an old Suzuki, a failed low rider Harley knockoff, but a great old bulletproof bike nonetheless. When she was a child, my daughter named this bike “Motory.” Although it used to be my main commuter transportation (before I started commuting on a bicycle and our community got transit), it was also my secret way in to a modestly wild life style.

With the old ABMC (Aging Bureaucrats Motorcycle Club), I’d tear around the swooping roads of Eastern Washington’s wheatfields, and up into British Columbia. Ride hard, die free! Such trips were mostly excuses to collect good cafe references, camp in the desert, and shoot the shit with friends. Those days are mostly gone, but overtones remain when I climb onto my old bike. She’s mostly used for convenience now, but I try to keep her cleaned up and in a semblance of shape, more or less as I treat myself. Hmmm.

By the time we cross
Lake Washington, I quietly
try on a sympathetic
Buhhhh, about every
third breath. It’s not
so bad when you
get used to
it.

You can learn a lot when given a moment’s opportunity to step into another’s shoes. Further, it seems to me that any chance to practice aging and, gulp, dying, is invaluable. And, ultimately, life affirming.

Dark clouds to the north
and in my chest.
Wherever I look,
sadness and doubt.

Numbing tiredness.
The thrumming of ferry pistons
promises my exhaustion
a lovely short nap.

Misty morning bike ride,
spray on my pant leg.
No bother,
it will dry
and brush off.

Gray sky, water, air,
dull green wash along the shore.
We slip into a fog bank.
There, only
the pattern of the water
and a sentinel cormorant.

Morning poems collected on the way to Seattle.

In Iraq a new orphan,
both arms blown off,
knows life will never be
the same.

What a world.

This morning I had coffee with my friend Henry, who told me of going through a box of photos of past relationships. He threw a few away, kept a few, and talked to his wife about the whole thing. One form of wisdom has to do with how we cherish the old and precious in a way that nourishes the vastly different now.

Han-Shan’s poem:

A thatched hut is home for a country man;
Horse or carriage seldom pass my gate:
Forests so still all the birds come to roost,
Broad valley streams always full of fish.
I pick wild fruit in hand with my child,
Till the hillside fields with my wife.
And in my house what do I have?
Only a bed piled high with books.

(translated by Burton Watson)

Who actually knows what evil
Lurks in the shadowy heart of Man?

I try to consult Dr. Huang
about this when he returns.
He chuckles, inscrutable.

Leaving Dr. Huang’s office,
I run to catch the Route 71.
Meridians ablaze, mind filling
with guilty pleasures,
I move to the rear of the bus.

Staring into the window,
I recall a woman,
into white witchcraft
and dark sexuality,
who believed we court the chthonic
each time we wipe our behinds.
Full of sensual knowing,
I slyly glance at the other passengers.

The bus worms through a dark tunnel
and discharges me
far below the city.
I rise to Pioneer Square,
returning to the light,
oddly refreshed.

A few readers have wondered if this is a drug poem. No, it is not.