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Ode for Joy

My first synthetic ode. This form hybridizes the near-original Grecian ode form of Pindar and the dialectic of thesis, antithesis, and synthesis. I will eventually write an article about this form and what I hope to accomplish through its exploration. For the time being, I hope you’ll find this an enjoyable, or at least interesting, read.

      Ode for Joy

      I

  Her eye was caught by a distant name,
    unfamiliar and yet not quite.
  Inspired, she followed a dream that came
    from somewhere deep in her quiet heart,
a link that led to an unexpected hope,
      born of intuitive sense
      cradled in bamboo song,
confirmed by a kindred voice that helped console
      the reign of a keen unrest
      that troubled her, unconfessed.
   Canticles from another time
         settled near
      in the curve of her ear,
   bringing a dark horizon light,
         raising the sun
      where a half-moon hung,
until her soul, embraced by vibrant hues
of promise, once again became her cherished home.
 

      II

  He felt the touch of a silken tongue
    brush his mind from across the world
  with observations and thoughts, half sung
    in accents cast from a dreamtime mold.
Intrigued, he listened to every tuneful word
      whispered with delicate breath
      soft as a moonstone breeze,
expressed from a place of enigmatic birth,
      where steady Pacific rains
      sang life in refined refrains
   straight to his heart through lays unknown
         to his ear,
      just abolishing fear,
   welcoming home forgotten hopes
         faded within,
      but arisen again
like morning rays on cloudscapes scattered far,
igniting new horizons to vibrant shades of faith.
 

      III

   Their pasts unravel thread
         into a bright new tapestry.
   They’re both reborn and dead
         to what was once and what will be.
      Visions leap before their view,
            revealing possibilities,
      and each is clear on what to do
            to make them actualities.
                     And so begins
                  the recreation of their lives
               as deep within
            a transformation of their minds
         reveals the way
      to stand forever side by side.
        The best thread of their days is used
             in the shuttle of their unity
        to weave a scene they know by trust
             on a loom of shared serenity.

Joy is my fiance, whom I met online purely by chance. She, from her life in the Philippines, one day stumbled across a poem I had posted elsewhere, “Perfect Silence”, and found herself researching its author. On one profile she found my Yahoo Instant Messenger ID, and on another she read that I work with children but don’t want to have any. Then she popped me a message out of the blue, “How could you work with children and yet not want to have any of your own?”

Needless to say, I was puzzled by this note from a complete stranger. I responded with one word, “Overpopulation”. This sparked a conversation—or perhaps debate—that lasted four hours. The next day we talked on the phone. The day after that, Skype. And we’ve been talking-talking ever since.

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ice

I have a commitment to myself to write about writer’s block itself if ever I feel it coming on. This way I’ll still have something to write about.

ice

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.
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Solitude

During my week in the Yolla Bolly Wilderness last month I encountered a stillness of mind and peace of spirit unlike I’ve ever experienced before. I’ve only twice before gone more than three days without coming across another human being, both of which were on the Yukon River. And I found these two experiences extremely disconcerting. Clearly I wasn’t ready to make peace with Solitude.

To make peace with her I’ve had to—not reconcile myself to a life without intimate companionship—but accept that it’s a very real possibility. Accept that maybe it’s not the most important thing in my life, not so essential to my health and wellbeing. And when I met Solitude a third time in the wilderness, this time backpacking, I found her not so repulsive, not so unfriendly. In fact, I found her energy quite feminine in nature, and comforting, accepting.

Solitude

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

This poem has taken me a month to write because I felt it so important to take my “self” completely out of the poem, and to make only pronominal references to Solitude herself. This stretched me to find other ways of wording a journey and expressing the development of a closeness between the spirits of two beings, one an embodied entity, the other an immaterial principle.

Poems like this represent what I strive toward as an animist poet.

Publication History:

Clamor — Fall 2009

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contrition

There are many reasons behind an individual’s behaviors. We are complex creatures, conditioned by complex histories. So complex, in fact, that we rarely understand ourselves what motivates us. But it is worthwhile to try to gain insight into and an understanding of those motivations. These insights and understandings can guide a process of change and personal growth, and an honest contrition for past behaviors that may have caused harm to others, and ourselves.

contrition

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.
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In Yolla Bolly

There is a wilderness area in California near Ukiah, where I live, called Yolla Bolly Wilderness. Most locals have no idea it exists. It’s a pristine wilderness, never logged. And roads have never been cut into the region. The trails are only scarcely maintained due to budget cuts, which actually increases the appeal of the park by large degrees, making it feel the more wild, natural, and untouched.

In Yolla Bolly

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general. However, the above player can still be used to listen to it.

I spent six days backpacking solo there from Sep 7th to the 12th, just three weeks after a lightning storm blew through and set 17 fires ablaze. All but three of these were out when my walk began. Two of the three were as yet uncontained, but the third was expected to be all the way out soon. The uncontained fires burned about 15 miles north by northeast and 10 miles northeast of my trailhead. I had an informative chat with the fire chief in person about the fires before going out, and he assured me that the area of the park I planned to visit would be safe for backpacking. I carried with me a map of the locations of the active and recently active fires, so I was able to avoid them all.

This is the first time I’ve backpacked solo more than three nights, and the second time I’ve backpacked solo at all. To my surprise I didn’t come across a single person during my six day walk. But this was a welcome surprise. A very welcome surprise.

As I walked I sometimes found myself reflecting on my experiences backpacking with others and my observations of those I’ve come across in the backcountry. Everyone I’ve backpacked with or come across has always been filled with a blustering impatience, stressed to be here and there or do this and that during their hikes. Their thoughts were full of highest places, longest treks, conquering some aspect of the wilderness, themselves, or both. Then I thought of the loggers, hunters, rafters, and how it seems that anyone who comes to the wilderness comes not to commune with her, but to conquer some aspect of her nature, to take home a trophy.

It was nice to walk alone, at my own pace and in harmony with my surroundings, rather than hike with others, trekking madly about, on the clock to be here and there, with hardly the time or energy left to notice where I was, where I’d been, what was around me. I found that upon returning from such hikes, I couldn’t remember one vivid detail of my experience, other than being in a rush, straining to my limits, and feeling like I had been roped and dragged by a pickup to a bone-splintering pulp.

This time I got to visit with the wilderness, get to know her a little, enjoy her company. The experience was, and continues to be in vivid memory, refreshing and harmonizing.

I welcome the conquerors to their ways, and to each other. But I have finally discovered mine, and something of myself.

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just a sigh

They are out there, those rare beings. But, for the most part, they are best left where you find them, like a snake in the wild.

just a sigh

if only
            your eyes would swim to me
      rest in the cup of my gaze
even for a moment

i would never
            snatch you from your world but
      merely marvel in the light sensation
of your shimmering presence

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Features

As I go back through my old posts revising some of the poems, a lot of the intros, and adding intros to those posts that don’t have any, I find that I can’t quite remember what inspired some of the older poems. Take this one, for instance. Just whose features does this poem describe?

Yet I seem to see my own face in the mirror as I read. Yes, maybe this is a pen-portrait of myself, of all people.

Features

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.
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Phases

My 2nd terza rima. I got the idea for this poem as I fell asleep in the mountains a little east of Wyoming’s Devil’s Tower. If anyone has ever been a true and constant companion throughout all the phases of my life, she would be the moon.

Ah, yes. The moon. The ever-present moon.

Phases

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.
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End

Yes, the end. The end of a life-altering journey by road to the East Coast. The end of a pilgrimage to pay my respects at the home and at the final resting place of a poet who touched my heart from over 100 years beyond her grave. The end of a trek that walked me past a whisper telling me there was something still ahead, something still to look forward to. The end. And here it is, the End.

End

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

Well, I left Rutland, VT around 2pm on Wednesday the 15th, heading west on Hwy 4/SR (State Route) 4A through Whitehall into New York to SR 22, where I headed north through Ticonderoga to SR 74, west to I 87, north to SR 84, also called Blue Ridge Road, west to SR 28N, also called Roosevelt-Marcy Trail, west again through Long Lake and south on SR 28N/SR 30 through Blue Mountain Lake to SR 28 west through Inlet to Limekiln Lake Road, south to a State Park Campground at Limekiln Lake, where I spent the night. Limekiln Lake is in the southwest quadrant the beautiful Adirondack mountains.

On waking up I continued west on SR 28 to SR 12, south to I 90, west to I 481, south to I 81, south through Cortland to SR 13, southwest to a delightful little city called Ithaca, NY, which is situated on southern shore of the miles long Seneca Lake. Here I found an unbelievably cool coffee house and hung out there the rest of the day. At around sunset I got back in my rental and continued southwest on SR 13 to I 86, west to Hwy 15, and south into Pennsylvania to Mansfield, where I pulled off to sleep in the back seat for a couple hours.

Around midnight I continued south to Hwy 220 at Williamsport, and southwest to I 80, and west into Ohio to I 76. Somewhere along 76 I pulled off just before dawn and slept in the back seat for about eight hours, waking up just before noon. Realizing how long I slept when I awoke, I bolted west on I 76 to I 71, and southwest to I 70 via I 270, which skirts Columbus, OH. And now, finally on I 70, I shot west into Indiana to Hwy 27 at Richmond, and south about 30 miles through Liberty to SR 101, and a couple more miles south to Whitewater Memorial State Park, where I camped the night.

Upon waking up the next morning, I got myself together and got back out to SR 101 and headed south a bit to W Dunlapsville Road, which I guessed, and correctly, would take me across the northern end of the nearby Brooksville Lake. However, on the west side of the lake the road was closed, and I followed a scattering of “Detour” signs, starting at S Hubble Road, north and then west to S Mt. Pleasant Road (I never noticed a mountain out there), north to SR 44, which is a road I knew what to do with. On SR 44 I went west through Connersville to SR 1, and north through a series of townships back to I 70, and west through a strange place called Indianapolis to I 74 via I 65 north and I 465 south. On I 74 I went west into Illinois through Champaign to I 72, west through Springfield to Jacksonville, where I stopped for a sandwich. From here I decided on going north BR (Business Route) Hwy 67 through Jacksonville to SR 104, and west to a little one lane road called E 2873rd Lane, north about three handfuls of miles to Siloam Springs State Park, where I found a good campsite and pitched my tent for the night after taking a walk down by the state park’s Crabapple Lake with my bansuri.

In the morning I woke and continued north on E 2873rd Lane to N 1200th Ave, and west back to SR 104, west through Quincy to Hwy 24, west over the Mississippi into Missouri to SR 6, west clear across Missouri through a scattering of small towns into St. Joseph, where I washed my clothes and watched a movie, “Stardust”, before finding Hwy 36 in the night and continuing west over the Missouri River into Kansas, and west on Hwy 36 to a little town called Washington, where I spent the night at a motel.

I woke up late the following morning, around 10am, and stayed on Hwy 36 west the whole day into Colorado. Just inside Colorado I went south on Hwy 385 to Bonny State Park to pitch an early tent and relax for the rest of the evening. What really struck me as unusual about this park is that you couldn’t tell once you were in the park that you were literally surrounded on all side by countless miles of corn fields. The water from the tap, however, smelled just like turpentine. I drank probably a gallon of this funny water during the evening and following morning.

I woke at about sunrise and went back up Hwy 385 to Hwy 36, and west to merge with I 70, west through Denver up into the Rockies to Frisco, where I found a coffee house and stopped for a bit to eat. From here I continued west and magically became very weak, dizzy, and feverish by the time I reached Riffle, where I pulled off and found a motel. When I checked in they could see I was in terrible shape and they tried to talk me into going to the ER instead of checking in, but I told them I’d rather die debt free than live the rest of my life in debt to a for profit medical industry. This sobered the man at the counter and he checked me in and had a friend of his who worked there help me up to my room, where I crawled into bed and watched my mind wander through fever delirium and sort of accepted the potential of dying during the night. Around dusk the man who helped me to my room showed back up with Gatorade, Ibuprofen, and Aspirin, all of which I gratefully accepted. During the night the fever broke into a soppy sweat, and by morning I was more or less back to myself.

Marveling at my survival, I continued west on I 70 into Utah through Salina to Hwy 50, which I stayed on all the way through Utah into Nevada. Just inside Nevada I went south on SR 487 a few miles to Great Basin National Park, where I drove up to a campsite nearly 11k feet up, where I went on a four mile hike before setting up my tent. During my walk I met a couple, who asked me about a good place in the redwoods along the coast to visit. I told them about Usal Beach, north of where I live in Mendocino County, and mentioned I wrote a poem inspired by a grove of redwoods near there. They wanted to hear the poem so I grabbed it and a bunch of other poems of mine after I set up camp and spent the evening at their campsite reading to them, which they really seemed to enjoy.

The following morning I woke near sunrise, packed up, and went for about a 7 mile hike round trip up to a population of bristlecone pine trees. Upon returning to my rental I headed back to Hwy 50 and took it all the way west to I 80 at Fernley, and west to a friend’s in Reno, arriving around 11pm. The following morning I returned the rental.

I stayed three nights at my friend’s before heading back home to Ukiah, CA, a five hours drive from Reno.

So now I’m home and tomorrow night my vacation ends proper.

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Open Road

I won’t have time to go over my route until I’m back in Reno, where I’ll spend a few nights at a friend’s before going the rest of the way home. Presently I’m in Frisco, CO. I hope to be in the Grand Junction area before nightfall. Thought I’d sit down with a bagel sandwich and dedicate a few brain cells to the task of tapping up a small poem, see what happens.

Open Road

Your contours lead my thoughts
  like slender fingers parting
    slightly cracked lips
      for a sigh

Your peaks and valleys invite
  my earnest exploration
    teasing the deepest pits
      of my stomach

I’ll never tire of your curves
  your long smooth stretches
    your heated breath
      against my cheeks