D's Bones » lessons

Insight

David Stallings — Thu, 14 Oct 2010 17:33:48 +0000

The poet, a Zen priest,
affably warns that his nineteen-foot
accordion-fold poem—
an apparent query into how
we know
anything for sure—
has never been read
to an audience in its entirety.
Forty minutes later
he pauses to ask how we’re doing,
acknowledges tiring and skips ahead.

I leave the bookstore,
not knowing what
to make of this performance.

Walking toward a bus stop,
I cross a side
lane, where a driver waits to enter
North 45th Street. Thinking he sees me,
I step in front
as he accelerates.
I leap onto his car hood,
screaming. He brakes, and I land
safely on my feet.
He speeds away.

I have just the strength
of the utility pole I lean against,
my breath,
and the cool night
air.

(No. 94 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

As Han-shan puts it, “Only when the mind is free of care/can the light of understanding shine/in every corner.”

(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.)

Frontier

David Stallings — Wed, 13 Oct 2010 19:30:40 +0000

“Eight stars of gold on a field of blue—
Alaska’s flag. May it mean to you…”
from the Official State Song of Alaska

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.

Bias Adjustments

David Stallings — Thu, 10 Jun 2010 23:19:52 +0000

When my mother and new stepfather
moved from Nashville to a southern Alaska town,
I spent fifth grade trying to make new friends, rid myself
of Southern drawl, and avoid
getting beat up. And so,

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.”

Approaching Retirement (67)

David Stallings — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 19:47:30 +0000

My frayed black leather Day-Timer,
standard size, used to be
the Cadillac of business calendars.
Now, placed in front of me
on meeting tables, it’s surrounded by
colleagues’ sleek, intelligent devices—
purring and synched to company
calendars, email, Twitter, and GPS coordinates.
The pages of my archived monthly inserts
turn like dry leaves, their veins and spots
evidence that I had appointments,
kept notes, squeezed in a few poems,
came to love this work
and its people.

(No. 67 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

Recently I chose to retire from my day job–well, OK, a career of many years in public transportation. Though daunting in some ways, this opportunity provided a chance to reflect deeply on the work and heartfelt sense of community that happens when one is fortunate to pursue “right livelihood” with a collection of bright, soulful people.
Before leaving, I interviewed an array of folks I have worked with for years, came to see more clearly how we have deeply and permanently affected each other. What a gift!

And now, the journey continues–further up and further in.

(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.)

Shortcut (48)

David Stallings — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 19:06:11 +0000

My wife and I pack our open canoe
after five nights of camping, head back
to Lund in a rising wind.
We dodge whirlpools, ferry across
currents, break out of eddies. Far ahead
through white caps and heavy swell,
is the rocky point
we must round.
Portage Gap is closer, offers an easy land haul
to a quiet inner bay.
We’ve heard the owner of this old homestead
is testy, cusses canoeists and kayakers.
We pull ashore, I walk to his cottage, knock.
Through a window I see
an empty bottle of Jim Beam
lying on a table.
A bleary figure stalks
from the back room, cracks the door.
He silently listens to my request,
nods his head with effort:
Quietly, quietly.

Desolation Sound, British Columbia, 1978

(No. 48 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

Sometimes the context in which you must ask, “What way from here?” moves fast, may sometimes entail choosing among competing dangers or unknowns. You just act. And there is life, right in that moment. When everyday time resumes, that moment may be followed by a big smile, the shakes, or just a heartfelt, “Thanks!”

(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.)

Loss (62)

David Stallings — Sat, 02 May 2009 18:48:57 +0000

Everything is new:
my mother’s crude husband,
this small Alaska town,
my unknown
fifth grade classmates—
including Larry Sefrovitch
who wants to fight.
A crowd circles us on the playground
as we flail fists.
Only after a teacher
separates us
do I cry.
I can’t stop.

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.)

Scott’s Creek Camp, August 8 (38)

David Stallings — Sun, 08 Feb 2009 02:15:58 +0000

I’ve searched backcountry ridges,
studied tides along rainy shores,
consumed two sets of black cushions
sitting zazen.
Still, only glimpses
of Cold Mountain, unless
this is it—here,
on this spruce-edged beach
along a tannin creek,
with this dark woman
and her two kids.

Olympic Wilderness Coast, 2002

(No. 38 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

As Gary Snyder once observed, “when Han-shan talks about Cold Mountain, he means himself, his home, his state of mind.” Or, as Han-shan himself put it (in Red Pine’s translation of No. 82):

People ask the way to Cold Mountain
but roads don’t reach Cold Mountain
in summer the ice doesn’t melt
and the morning fog is too dense
how did someone like me arrive
our minds are not the same
if they were the same
you would be here

Snyder renders those last two lines as:

If your heart was like mine
You’d get it and be right here.

Right where, did he say?

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.)

Realization (101)

David Stallings — Sun, 01 Feb 2009 04:54:52 +0000

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.)

Dokusan* (56)

David Stallings — Sun, 25 Jan 2009 20:44:56 +0000

Do one-breath zazen!
my Zen teacher would say
when I complained
I hadn’t time
to meditate regularly.
He would probably approve
my placement of his new book
on the back of my toilet.
Since my prostate enlarged,
I pee more than I used to, making
for frequent short visits with
my old teacher.

*Dokusan—personal interview with the roshi during formal Zen practice

(No. 56 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

In my experience, Zen practice (and probably most such practices) eventually merges with everyday life. Just look around.

Many koans clarify this point. For example, Case 21 of the Mumonkan:

A monk asked Unmon, What is a Buddha?
Unmon said, Dried shitstick.

Answering a similar question, Joshu (Case 37, Mumonkan), replied, The oak tree in the garden.

(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.)

Introductions

David Stallings — Sun, 26 Oct 2008 02:59:24 +0000

My mother, a fifth grade teacher,
works as hostess one summer
at the Indian Grill. She urges me
to apply as a busboy.
The first day, she introduces me to
the owner, Mr. Wadsworth,
and his partner and chef, Mr. Graney.
Great folks, Mother says.
The head busboy, Louis, warns
me that Mr. Graney, like most chefs,
is a drunk—Wiseow, man,
watch out for him!

I have an instant crush on
Natasha, the 19-year-old Russian
salad chef. She tells me
Mr. Wadsworth screws
Mr. Graney’s wife
all the time,
and doesn’t bother
to hide it.

Colorado Springs, 1957

A counselor friend talks about the intersection between adolescence and “unmoored knowledge.” Not completely unfamiliar knowledge, most likely; rather this is the moment when you begin to more personally “get” the knowledge (and it gets you). There are miles to go, maybe decades, before the “mooring” is very firmly attached, and then, of course, you have to let it go if you want a truly mature relationship! Anyway, this poem looks at several levels of adolescent introduction to awareness of the complexity and carnality of the world.

As a so-called quad Scorpio, I’m still coming to terms with this.