|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
FISHING
After a mile of wide, reed-bordered bays the river suddenly narrowed and twisted sharply back upon itself, moving swiftly through beds of white and yellow water-lilies floating softly in bright sunlight by the green forest's edge. The first time we entered that magic place we were struck dumb by its beauty; but we learned to paddle through it with aplomb, until we shot out into a last wide, reed-choked bay and reached the rapids marking the river's final run. This was our spot--three companions clambering over rocks under the hot summer sun; fishing the whirlpools and eddies, casting bright lures under the dark shadows of sunken logs, searching for the mysterious places where the smallmouth lurked, shouting excitedly, one to the other, as the brown-green fish darted and struck. Those are days that will never return, but the point now isn't to recapture them-- to hold them once again in my hand-- nor to find them any more precious than they actually were. It's enough to know they happened, and to picture the forest, the lilies, and the river in the memoried crevices of my mind; it's enough to feel the warmth of sun and friendship, beating down upon me, and to know that the cool waters of a northern river once bathed my feet, and fed my spirit. EXAMINING EMOTIONS When I'm not afraid, the world is still and green: winds stir the leaves, gently, gently, as they begin to fall. But when I'm lonely the colors change: a pale cloud obscures the moon, concealing what I should have known, casting a pallid reflection, everywhere I look. And I must remember, when I'm anxious, or dismayed, wiser heads council patience; although I find it hard to live through yet another winter-- whether it is one of discontent or not scarcely matters anymore. Still, when sadness lifts, I feel amazed at the difference, I've lived so long within it: and happiness is like a stranger knocking at my door, speaking a language I can barely comprehend, though I know I spoke it once, fluently, when I was a child. LESSONS FROM WONDERLAND The White Queen was undoubtedly mad, and the Red Queen little better; but if you must get involved with someone--as Alice surely did--then you just have to take your chances. It's like a lottery, you know, where there's a million or more who are buying, but only a few who win. Those are the hard facts. But most of us chose to ignore them, and live as if the soft morning light, that falls across the window sill and fills my diningroom with a green and yellow glow, was shining there, just for me. SERIOUS QUESTIONS Some events are foretold in legend, like Arthur's ascent to the throne, and his death, much later, by a lake, after so many triumphs and betrayals. Other events are immutable, like the four seasons, and the motion of the planets around the sun. But some happen just by chance, or so it seems; yet I'm not too sure if anything occurs that doesn't later lend itself to the posing of a question such as "What if I hadn't driven down that street, that day, in that direction, at exactly that time?" Or would it simply have unfolded in a different way, from a different sequence of apparently unrelated happenings that didn't have to occur if yet another sequence already had happened. I wonder. So there are some serious philosophical questions to answer, and one of those serious questions, the most serious of all, to my mind, is you-- namely, who are you, and where did you come from, and do you realize what you are doing to me? Doing to me in the sense, that is, of introducing a fair amount of disorder into an otherwise dull and orderly life? Don't even try to answer. And when you read this someday, if you do, please realize that although it may sound like a series of queries and complaints, and half-baked speculations about the nature and course of the world, it is really a love poem and, as I write it, I remember looking in your eyes, and feeling completely happy. NIGHT IN THE MOUNTAINS Starlit upon the naked, blue-spined ridge, Our day-long journey into welcome night, Had spawned a lusty thrust of life that surged, And coupled with the ghostly mist moon-bright. Dark lady of a thousand dreams, you stir My fervent hopes and dazzle all my sense; You wrench my timid heart with love and still, I fear your wary glance, your diffidence. The sweetness lingers on, the pain recedes, In memory half-forgot, yet sweeter still, Your honey-sticky taste, in love exceeds The magic fragrance of that gentle hill. The price is surely high, the pain is true; The end is life and love for me and you. TEN HAIKU: 1985 Beauty lasts a day But the inner light, once lit, Can burn forever. Cherry blossoms sway, While a raucous bird derides My sad demeanor. The bubble has burst And the idyll reached an end. Now--learn from the pain. She has a warm kiss But, I fear, a cold, cold heart. Why do I love her? Sad lovesongs leave me Awash in bleak self-pity-- Enjoying its charms. As a flower blooms In early summer heat So will love unfold. Look close beside you: Sometimes the sweetest blossom Is within your grasp. Blackbirds on the grass, Under distant clouds of grey, While I think of her. Why look aside love? Eye to eye reveals the soul, If you want it so. Gentle summer heat, From a cloud-flecked azure sky, Helps ease my sad heart. SIXTEEN HAIKU: 1994 As summer ended, And flowers started to fade, Love burst into bloom. Across many miles, And despite changing seasons, I still feel your touch. In autumn evenings, As shadows lengthen, my thoughts Often turn to you. How I was dazzled By the sunshine of your smile-- And still it warms me. Tall sycamore trees, Along Pittsburgh avenues, With their mottled trunks. The wounded snowbird Hides in the pine's dark branches, With a broken wing. Before I knew her, In the early summer days, I was so lonely. What can I tell you, Except to say that autumn Won't last forever. Stanzas from old poems Run fitfully through my head, Stirring memories I tell myself that Writing haikus is easy-- Once you learn to count. Don't look for reasons, In the moonlit autumn night, For what life may lack. Tell me about love, And tell me to be patient, As we say goodbye. Once upon a time, In a far-off, distant land You said you loved me. Nights in December Grow steadily darker and The stars shine brightly. What more can one say, About a chance encounter, But that it happened? The snow falls lightly, Melting on the hard-packed ground Of the great city. WILDFLOWERS The common primrose grows by the roadside in company with a plethora of daisies. Indian paintbrush mixes with sweet clovers, red and white, as fireweed crowds along the forest's green edge. Masses of birdfoot trefoil mingle with buttercups and golden asters, hiding the shy beauty of the deptford pink, or the lesser stitchwort. I saw them all--again, again, and more--as I circled around the great blue lake, searching for my heart among the bright wild flowers of summer. 
|
