D's Bones » seasons

Cocoon

David Stallings — Sun, 03 Feb 2008 01:01:21 +0000

I lie alone on the wood floor,
eyes closed, stilled
by a day of dance
for the new year.

Fingers brush my left hand—
a question I lightly
answer. We forage a silent path
within deep woods,
curl around each other,
nurture ourselves
with minute movements.
Forever.

When we must rise
I kiss her ear, Thanks—
and let go.

(A response to Zen Master Ikkyu’s 15th century Poem Presented to My Friend Ako at the Hot Spring)

It was the penultimate day of 2007–no better time to unlimber Gabrielle Roth’s “5 Rhythms” to dance out the old year and welcome the new one. On that dance floor dojo and in the delicacy of that hand I experienced a reawakening.

Here’s that old rascal, Ikkyu:

Poem Presented to My Friend Ako at the Hot Spring

It is nice to get a glimpse of a lady bathing–
you scrubbed your flower face and cleansed your lovely body
while this old monk sat in the hot water,
feeling more blessed than even the emperor of China!

(trans. John Stevens)

Nearing 65 (71)

David Stallings — Fri, 09 Nov 2007 02:39:31 +0000

My pack lighter than ever,
the season late,
I haul myself over headlands
to Toleak Point. Near my ocean camp,
cow parsnip that danced
in spring breezes has gone
to seed, its leaves slug-nibbled.
Wild lily of the valley, a once-green carpet,
has grown yellow and wan.
Yet listen as the north wind rustles
the parsnip’s dry pods.
Lower your eyes
to the lily’s quiet fruit—tiny green planets
with maroon continents.

(No. 71 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

Toleak Point lies south of La Push on the Olympic wilderness coast in northwest Washington State. I have regularly visited this coastline for many years, usually backpacking alone.

As the Heart Sutra clarifies, there is “no old age and death, and also no ending of old age and death.” Just so.

(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.)

Last Things (93)

David Stallings — Fri, 04 May 2007 03:18:32 +0000

High on the Big Quil Trail,
I traverse a scree slope
below Buckhorn’s
basalt pinnacles.
At my feet, the season’s final
scarlet paintbrush.
Ahead, yellow cedars drape the way.
I climb above the trail,
cut fragrant branches
to remind me of summer days.
Winter snows arrive
so soon.

(No. 93 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

The Upper Big Quilcene Trail leads to one of my favorite places in the eastern Olympic Mountains–Marmot Pass and beyond, to views of the interior Olympics. In addition to finding deep peace and beauty there, I have tested myself on the familiar trail many times–physically, mentally, and in other ways.

A couple of years ago I met an experienced old Olympics traveler slowly moving up the Big Quil. He was in his mid-80s, had recently had a shoulder replacement and heart bypass. He told me he climbs until he has to stop, well below the pass, draws a line across the trail with his hiking pole and says, “That’s it for today.”

(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.)

Migration (99)

David Stallings — Mon, 26 Feb 2007 22:53:13 +0000

The Swainson’s thrush
and western tanager have quietly
departed. Only the winter
wren occasionally lights
the somber forest.
If mild weather continues
into the fall, good fortune. But soon
the decline will be more noticeable,
leaving nothing but aching grayness
and cold rain.
It will be
time to lie
down.

(No. 99 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

Or, as Togyu put it in 1749,

When autumn winds blow
not one leaf remains
the way it was.

(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.)