I hold the swaddled package
of my hour-old grandson,
hands and arms golden
in the aura of his
newness.
Though hospital protocol deems him
a biohazard—vernix and birth goos
not yet removed—
I feel the tendrils
of our hearts
intertwine.

I moisten these cords
with tears,
and know
I am
a goner.

(No. 57 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

The hard won arrival of my grandson has been a blessing and teaching beyond anticipation–despite cultural messaging about the marvels of grandparenting that should have prepared me.

I was still trying to figure out how to write a poem about him without being judged by poet literati as hopelessly sentimental and self-centered (Sharon Olds, notwithstanding), when I consulted an accomplished poet acquaintance about the matter.  He had recently published a chapbook of poems about his daughter on the occasion of her 21st birthday.  “Children, work, friendship, nature–it’s just what I write about,” he replied.

Good enough for me.

(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.)

After my stepfather’s sporting goods
store went bust in ‘55, my mother’s
school teacher salary barely supported us.
Dick finally found a bookkeeper job
at the territorial TB sanitarium,
north of Seward.
We moved from our trailer and shed
into a cramped staff apartment—
the arguments and shouting
never stopped.

My room was a closet
with a door
I’d close at night.
Radio to ear,
I’d listen
to Frankie Laine, Teresa Brewer, The Platters,
until the town’s only station
signed off before midnight
with a choral rendition
of the territorial song—
“The blue of the sea, the evening sky,
The mountain lakes, and the flow’rs nearby—“

I’d sing along, fly
amid delta clouds
of widgeons and pintails,
climb high ridges
to whistle with marmots,
nod off in fields of glacier lilies
lupine, paintbrush.

I journeyed back to Seward a few years ago, hiked down Fourth Avenue to the Alaska Shop, bought the souvenir mug I use daily–deep blue, Big Dipper and Polaris pointing true.

To that young man lying in the closet, I can only say, life got a whole lot better–but it took awhile.  Hang on, keep moving with the Arctic terns.

to help
my classmates decide
which candy bar to eat first,
I suggest, Eeny, meeny miney moe,
catch a nigger by the toe…

What’s that?
No one has heard the word.

My accent quickly disappears.
I soon learn to feel
smarter than the tough native
kids with parents in the TB sanitarium.

Seward, 1953

_______________________________________________

Here, thanks to  childhood relocation from Tennessee to Alaska,  the process of prejudice (and the role language plays) is crystallized, but not stymied.  Our deeply ingrained tendency to (mostly unconsciously) define “us vs. them” often displays a distressing  resilience, evolving right along with greater consciousness and sensitivity to diversity.  In this long-ago instance, it effortlessly made a localized “adjustment.”

(No. 43 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

With luck and determination, one of the rewards of aging is learning from past relationships–which may occur through a sequence of partners, or with one person over time. Such learning leads inexorably to the challenge of fully showing up, being present to someone in a truly relational way. This takes everything you’ve got–all defenses put on exhibit, crying out to be known and managed.
For me, coming to more completely understand sexual loving is an important part of this relational journey.

(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.)

Seward, Alaska, 1952

(No. 62 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

Starting afresh in a new location is always a challenge to a kid, maybe especially one with no siblings.  I did this several times as a child–and learned, early on, that there is a place deep inside where we can go to survive.  Here, raw pain can somehow be handled–In My Room, as the Beach Boys once put it.  There may be an entry price; more importantly, it is vital not to get stuck there.  As ever, underlying the psychological impact is the essential experience of sitting alone under a solitary moon, even if lost and confused.  And it is in this sense that, even at such a impressionable time as described in this poem, “everyday is a good day,” as the old teaching story has it.

(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.)

She would come calling
when her path brought
her back to Seattle.
Late one night I returned
to my befuddled cabin
after a starry walk along the Sound.
Curled in my bed, she smiled hello—
I’ll stay the night.

By morning the bed sheets smelled
of firewood smoke
and the sea.

West Seattle, 1971

(No. 5 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

When I recently read this poem at a workshop, a young woman quietly included the following among her written comments: “I did this–this is how I got together with my husband.” Well, I wish her the depth of experience we had on our journey over the next 25 years–including raising a wonderful daughter, building a home together, wandering many mountains and rivers. And though there came a time when we chose to remove our rings and go separate ways, we remain dear friends and share an extended family.

(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.)

That night my mother tells me
he is gone forever.
I numb, suspend
in dry shock.
-Remember everything he taught you.
-He taught me exactly how to dry
between my legs after a bath.
I’ll remember.

And I do:
I saw the towel forward and backward
on both sides of my genitals.
It works well,
leaves my crotch
feeling tingly.

(No. 41 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

One of the few specific things I recall about my father was his instructing me how to towel between my legs. He and I would occasionally drive to a large, double-sized swimming pool in Murfreesboro, 30 miles southeast of our home in Nashville. On one of these outings, in the pool’s locker room, he imparted this wisdom. It was all I could think of in answer to my mother’s attempt to reassure both herself and me on the night he died.

This daily, post-showering ritual became part of my life long ago. Readying myself for a new day, an occasional shadow of grief or anger will surprise me, all these years later.

(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.)

Visits to seldom seen family can be enlightening. On this early Denver evening former boundaries between the banal and exotic interwove, making both seem oddly detached and disembodied. Whatever it is that is happening in our culture is breathtaking, anything but mundane.  However, at least one thing remains clear–in one way or another, mom will always be screwing with a man’s libido.

Twelve years later
he and my mother are both
dead. Last week the family
restaurant where we sat
burned
to the ground.

(No. 65 in a series of responses to Han-Shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

When the “family restaurant” burned in nearby Poulsbo earlier this year, it occasioned this reflection on the last Christmas visit my mother and her husband made to Bainbridge Island. It seemed like these annual visits, with their pleasures and challenges, would go on forever. But by about this last visit they had become, between the two of them and with luck, one functioning person. Dementia had conquered him, though he still offered her a steady arm. She was badly crippled by arthritis, but maintained a sharp mind.

(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.)

Orcas Island

It took me dedades to discover the cleansing, transforming value of tears. Not the tears of self-referential pain, but rather those stemming from sure knowledgde of the pain I have caused others, and myself. With time, this seems to lead to a grace of genuine sorrow.