But for tonight, maybe I’ll just
cut one lovely stem
to cheer my dinner table.

________________________________

This red-osier dogwood is really something special.

I’m trying to write my way to healthiness in relationship with her, but may be in need of some green man, neo-paganism counseling.

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.)

A drip collects
in a plastic tub
placed on a shelf
in my bathroom.
Its source is not rain,
but cold condensation.
I need to fix it.
This wears on me.
To be honest,
containers collect water
in many rooms of my house.
Although it requires
energy to empty them,
many of the leaks
may never be repaired.

(No. 101 in a series of replies to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

Or, as Hakui Zenji concludes Song of Zazen,

this very place is the Lotus Land,
this very body, the Buddha.

(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.)

]]> http://www.dsbones.com/2009/realization-101/feed 0 http://www.dsbones.com/2007/perspectives http://www.dsbones.com/2007/perspectives#comments Sun, 02 Dec 2007 00:48:07 +0000 David Stallings http://www.dsbones.com/2007/perspectives Continue reading →]]> After the sting
I grow intolerant,
spray a deadly stream of Raid Killer 271.
Alien protein throbs my wrist,
my attacker lies in slimed earth.
But here, another paper wasp—
a long dangly proposition,
exotic in articulation, golden pattern,
curved antennae.
It quivers its way along the fascia board, halts.
Though vulnerable on the ladder,
I relax.
We regard each other for a time, poisons
set aside.

(No. 79 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

You might well ask why a fellow with Buddhist inclinations even had a nearby can of hornet and wasp spray. Perhaps because I’m practical, or maybe for the same reason the Polistes fuscatus has repetitive stinging capacity. In short, I don’t know.

But in much the same way that Poe’s fisherman was saved from a giant Atlantic vortex (in A Descent Into the Maelstrom) by his sense of the whirlpool’s beauty and awe, here was a moment of complete, eye-level realization of the exquisiteness of another species.

(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 many years of living in a house that I built, I am now living in a place someone else built. It takes a while to touch a new house, all its parts and corners, and to learn to listen to it. This was one of those moments, discovered during the painting of the place. It’s also a poem about a sort of community.

Like an old cairn,
Schmitty pointed the way
through impassable terrains.
Use the power of the wedge,
he’d say, and I learned
to fell twisted trees.

The notched beam logs
rolled easily into place
atop the cabin walls.
Smile breaking my face, I tacked
a sprig of yew to the peak.
Then stood back
and just looked.

Good job!

I was astonished, even unbelieving when I first learned about the parbuckling technique. Building a log home was, I used to say, an experience in controlled terror. There was only so much money and time, nothing is standard in log construction, and I had very little experience. Every now and then I’d hit a snag that just stopped me.

One such time had to do with how to get large roof beams (purlins) up on top of a two and a half story log shell. I couldn’t afford a crane, and my back-to-the-land ethic refused to permit such a consideration in any case. Schmitty, a farmer, science/math teacher, Einstein afficianado, and man of the woods, came to my rescue any number of times. He had a certain Pythagorean elegance, and was a fine teacher.

The “sprig of yew” refers to a branch of the yew tree, the hardest of hardwoods in the Puget Sound lowlands. One of many pieces of lore about home building has it that placement of a strong branch on the peak of a new house confers strength and permanency to the structure. I’ve seen fir trees attached to the tops of new skyscrapers in downtown Seattle.

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)