D's Bones » history

09/11/2009 (81)

David Stallings — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 16:42:29 +0000

Eight years pass—
same 7:05 AM Seattle ferry commute,
same newscast ear pods—
and names toll from Ground Zero.
From sunny waterfront
I stroll to work,
have no urgent exchanges
with passersby.
But never distant,
strangers clasp hands,
leap
into bloody mists.

(No. 81 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

I was walking to work on a nice morning, absorbed by antics of the North African cab drivers who hang out in front of the Seattle ferry terminal, and vaguely listening to NPR–just your usual urban Buddhist multitasking. Then the toll of names started, and the whole situation re-exploded in my mind.

What emerged is this poem’s three-part muse on: “things are the same, but not really;” “we forget;” and then, the pink-foamed horror of unforgettable images and recollections. It had never occurred to me that atomized human blood can form a ground fog 100 feet high.

Where does all this leave us? As a middle school teacher who read this poem observed, “Most of my current students don’t have any recollection of 9/11.” And then, my old pal, Han-shan, says things like, “Following tales of the Immortals won’t save you. We all die, even emperors.” But even he might agree that moment by moment we “tangle eyebrows” with those who came long before us.

So yes, they’re still jumping. And us along with them.

(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.)

Occupancy (87)

David Stallings — Thu, 12 May 2005 15:36:15 +0000

Anasazi watchtower,
cylinder of stone
atop mesa remnant.
Green River meanders
far below. Near the
river, sagging log cabin,
pioneer way-station
for TB patients boated
to sanatorium near Moab.
Overhead, jet
contrails in translucent
sky, hundreds of people bound
for places
unseen.

(No. 87 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

Many layers of time may be found in the canyonlands. This moment was experienced during a recent visit to Canyonlands National Park (via the White Rim Road).

(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.)

Inexpiable

David Stallings — Tue, 25 Mar 2003 15:52:54 +0000

U.S. Plans Lightning Strikes;
Terrorism Alert Raised to ‘High.’

Our weekly
compassionate listening circle
takes in this small room,
where I lie next
to a young German man,
holding his hand.
He sobs and chatters
through Holocaust guilt,
his father’s silence,
and the sense that his people
are flawed, cracked.
He believes that evil
may emerge at any time,
sucking him into
a violent darkness.

A son of the American South,
I listen.

This is a reposting, after I contacted the young man mentioned in the poem, now back in Germany. I was concerned about confidentiality, but he assures me there is no problem.

Days into this awful war in Iraq, replete with the imagery of war horror, it is clearer than ever that war wounds last for generations.