(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.)

Sucia, San Juan Islands, Washington

Viewing the natural world through a sexual lens is horny, humbling, unifying.  I’ve spent trips to the Southwest pursuing the Ultimate Yoni at the distant head of a desert stream, and had tantrically satisfying sexual experiences surrounded by fornicating frogs.  I hope you have, also.

Sometimes the experience catches me off guard, as it did on the occasion reported here.  Then, it has the power to cut through to the chthonic, and we stand revealed in our animal nature.

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.

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.

Once I offered
this truth as a quilt
patch, a blessing
for my Zen teacher,
who was getting married.
Her husband proved
to be alcoholic,
and the marriage
soon ended.

Years later,
my bowl
of oatmeal
remains
a comfort,
but a hug
surely would
improve its
taste.

I would not have believed myself likely to be a single old feller at this stage of life. But we are offered an endless series of opportunities to change and grow, and this is my current hand.

Once, I put aside my regular koan study with this teacher, a former nun, and dealt with a series of relatively rare sexual koans. It was an unlikely arrangement, but well worth the detour. During this process, I had discussed the homily in this poem with her. The quilt patch simply portrayed a heart and a steaming bowl of oatmeal. The resulting quilt, a gift project organized by our sangha, was colorful and covered the waterfront of topics.

My skinny schoolmate, Judy Kay,
lived across the street, daughter
of a Southern Baptist minister.
Safe in the play boat we’d built
in her back yard, I suggested,
Let’s show each other.

Near the fo’c’sle, I pulled down
my jeans, stretched the top
of my white underwear briefs.
Her neck craned with interest.
In turn I hungrily looked
down her belly and saw
nothing. Where was it?

What are you doing?
Oh, no, her mother.
Go home and tell your parents
what you have done!

I ran
as never before
through an opening between worlds.
I ran as the spring breeze,
leaped hedges and fences.
Strong. Unlimited.
My U.S. Keds scarcely touched
the earth, my sweat light.

My circles of flight
led home. There, breathing
deeply, soaring less,
I became a boy again.

What happened? my mother asked.
–Nothing. Where is Daddy?–
Gone to cut switches
in case you’re not telling
the truth.

Thinking about this childhood episode recently, it occurred to me that I never knew (or thought to ask at the time or later, while my parents still lived) whether I was punished for the attempted peek or for lying, or both. Probably my parents didn’t know either. Another more recent insight has to do with the kensho experience the run became for me. In some ways that more than makes up for the vote against healthy sexuality lodged in my musculature by the severe whipping that followed.

Once my ex-wife told me,
You’ll follow your cock anywhere.
Despite my decades of loyalty,
she was, in a way,
right.

Conk-a-reee!

(No. 52 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

Far from being lessened by our animal roots, we can feel a sort of universal connection that is simultaneously uplifting and poignant.

Conk-a-reee!

(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.)

Friend lassos firebrand,
who falls to ground, furious.
Older man restrains him
until rage is spent,
tears flow.

Enraptured in a front seat of the theater,
half-eaten Three Musketeers bar forgotten,
I feel the snare of the rope, jarring fall,
hot tears on my face.
My body awakens to muscular rage,
the delight of restraint, the freeing
of a potent
eroticism.

(No. 80 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

Another childhood cowboy poem, probably reflecting a) how popular cowboy movies were when I was growing up; and b) the power of film images. Also, probably my first homoerotic poem. This is the sort of childhood recollection that sexual radicals (and lots of the rest of us) knowingly chuckle over, given the innocence and ubiquity of the precipitating image. But then, just how innocent were those images?

While I wound up being mostly straight if a little kinky, what may also be going on here is an early yearning for a healthy container for naturally arising anger. I had no such model or container, and lived to pay a healthy price for its absence.

(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.)

I am prone to indiscretion.
Take me to that other shore
where each pore of my skin is a yoni,
thrilled by the breath
of soft air.

Alone with craving,
this old man’s foolishness
must cook within
until it is done,

and the heavenly light
of each breast and buttock
shines.

(No. 89 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)

This was written during a many month experiment with tantric celibacy. Though this celibate period was not initially by choice, I quickly came to embrace it, replacing potential feelings of victimization with a deep sense of opportunity and possibility.

Yoga and meditation assisted celibacy can lead to startling insights. Many of these are psychologically useful and often numinous in nature. Another term for this process is “sublimation” which should be thought of as an alchemical transformation, rather than receiving the bum Freudian rap the term often endures.

See Stuart Sovatsky’s very interesting (if a little uneven) Passions of Innocence for insight into tantric celibacy.

(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.)

When above and below the heavens,
only I am the world-honored one,
having nothing to do with myself;

When flowers appear on the earth,
the time of singing has come,
and the voice of the turtle dove is heard
in our land;

And when the time I am most attracted
to my mate is when
she is loving
herself;

Then, at last, I make haste to
my beloved,
and am like a gazelle
or young stag
upon the mountains
of spice.

Not to set the bar too high, but it seems to me that a healthy relationship has more to do with developed skill and spiritual development than with “love”, good sex, or any number of other things.