The Aged Aged man, illustration by John Tenniel (see the last poem)

 

THE OPEN ROAD

peace, love, happiness & understanding

 

April 1, 2021

 

Jerry Smith sent this inspiring prose poem:

 

And the people stayed home. And read books, and listened, and rested, and exercised, and made art, and played games, and learned new ways of being, and were still. And listened more deeply. Some meditated, some prayed, some danced. Some met their shadows. And the people began to think differently.

 

And the people healed. And, in the absence of people living in ignorant, dangerous, mindless, and heartless ways, the earth began to heal.

 

And when the danger passed, and the people joined together again, they grieved their losses, and made new choices, and dreamed new images, and created new ways to live and heal the earth fully, as they had been healed.

 

—Kitty O’Meara

*

 

Rocky sent this poem just in time for this issue:

 

     Recently, after 45 years on earth,

my whole being has been touched by love.

     A lifetime of issues kept me from

feeling the truth of this most powerful emotion.

     For the first good while I was uncertain

& thought I was having heart problems.

     In fact that is what happens to the

heart when filled with arrows of love.

     Until now, I’ve never cried for love;

these tears are from the deepest pain.

     My love is here, free & it is real;

it is unselfish, it is hunting for the same.

     The capability & potency & strength

of the Love in me feels like lightning in my heart.

     This is what will shatter the walls

of this prison & cast me into the stars.

 

—Rocky Hutchinson

*

 

On Sunday, March 28th, for our Bibliophiles Unanimous! Zoom gathering we read, recited and sang “Story Poems” to each other. Kim Stafford sent a link to a video, along with these words:

 

“here’s a film I made a few years back…based on a ballad I wrote 20 years ago…about an encounter over 40 years ago…”

 

https://vimeo.com/259870242

 

He also sent a text version for this issue of “peace, love, happiness & understanding,” for our friends in prison who can’t watch the video. The italicized parts are sung:

 

I’ll Do Anything, Watch Me Try

 

I was driving south along Interstate 5 in the Spring, forty years ago, and I picked up a hitchhiker with bandages on both hands.

     “Is this a Mailbu?” he said, climbing into my car. “My name’s Dan. I used to have a Malibu, but she burned.”

     “We was driving along,” he said, “me and Ruth and the boys—looking for work, and the damn car catches on fire…” He told his whole sad story…

 

It ain’t all honey & roses down in Portland,

when you got no work and hungry children,

Driving along down Burnside in the evening,

look in every doorway for a sign.

 

I’ll do anything, watch me try:

fix your engine, mend your road,

Crack my fingers, break my back

on any load you lead me to.

 

When we came to a little town, he said to let him out on Main Street. I shook Dan’s hand, gently so as not to hurt the burn, and then I gave him my coat, and all the money I had on me. He set off down the street, and I got in the car and drove south.

 

There’s a place a few miles farther on, where I sat by the river under a cottonwood with my guitar, and Dan’s story turned into a song.

 

The kids were sleeping in the back seat,

Softly talking in their way.

Any more they’re never sure,

When it’s night, and when it’s day…

 

Then somehow a fire broke out,

in the backseat, on the floor—

I grabbed John, and Ruth grabbed Daniel,

closed my eyes and out the door.

 

I left the kids with my brother out in Gresham.

Ruth went wandering on her own.

I got to find a job and make some dollars,

put it all together again.

 

When I got where I was going, I told my friends about Dan, and the burning car, and one of them said, “You didn’t give him any money, did you? That’s a scam!” They made me feel small, and a fool. But then, heading north, I stopped under the tree again, and made a new verse about my friends.

 

Now the man who told that story was a drifter

I picked up walking down Interstate 5.

I gave him money and I told my friends—

They laughed and said, “You got skinned alive!”

 

No song should end without some kind of mercy.

No one’s life should be like this song.

But mine has been, and you who listen,

bless your luck. So long.

 

What’s it like to be alone on the road? What’s it like to have a family, a car, a plan—and then to lose it all? And for my friends—what’s it like to guard your heart with denial, so you can protect yourself from another person’s pain?

 

I was a student then, writing a dissertation. I pretty much lived in the library. But Dan’s witness made me a singer instead. And I needed his pluck, a few years later, when my own family fell apart, and I wandered alone.

 

I hope the story he told was but a fable,

I hope he spent that money on wine.

I hope that Ruth is still with the family.

I hope their Chevy is running fine.

 

For every story you hear that’s a lie,

there’s a hundred hard and true.

I’ll give my money again to the stranger,

share the money as I pass through.

 

—Kim Stafford

* 

 

Here are some great story poems. Read them aloud to someone!:

 

Abou Ben Adhem

 

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)

Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,

And saw, within the moonlight in his room,

Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,

An angel writing in a book of gold:—

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,

And to the presence in the room he said,

“What writest thou?”—The vision raised its head,

And with a look made of all sweet accord,

Answered, “The names of those who love the Lord.”

“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,”

Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,

But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee, then,

Write me as one that loves his fellow men.”

 

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night

It came again with a great wakening light,

And showed the names whom love of God had blest,

And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.

 

—Leigh Hunt  (1784-1859)

*

 

Nirvana

 

not much chance,

completely cut loose from

purpose,

he was a young man

riding a bus

through North Carolina

on the way to somewhere

and it began to snow

and the bus stopped

at a little café

in the hills

and the passengers 

entered.

he sat at the counter

with the others,

he ordered and the

food arrived.

the meal was

particularly

good

and the

coffee.

the waitress was

unlike the women

he had

known.

she was unaffected,

there was a natural 

humor which came

from her.

the fry cook said

crazy things.

the dishwasher,

in back,

laughed, a good

clean

pleasant

laugh.

the young man watched

the snow through the

windows.

he wanted to stay

in that café

forever.

the curious feeling

swam through him

that everything

was

beautiful

there,

that it would always

stay beautiful

there.

then the bus driver

told the passengers

that it was time

to board.

the young man

thought, I’ll just sit

here, I’ll just stay

here.

but then

he rose and followed

the others into the

bus.

he found his seat

and looked at the café

through the bus

window.

then the bus moved

off, down a curve,

downward, out of

the hills.

the young man

looked straight

forward.

he heard the other

passengers

speaking

of other things,

or they were

reading

or

attempting to

sleep.

they had not

noticed

the

magic.

the young man

put his head to

one side,

closed his

eyes,

pretended to

sleep.

there was nothing

else to do-

just listen to the

sound of the

engine,

the sound of the

tires

in the

snow.

 

—Charles Bukowski  (1920-1994)

*

 

The Three Hermits

 

Three old hermits took the air 

By a cold and desolate sea, 

First was muttering a prayer, 

Second rummaged for a flea; 

On a windy stone, the third, 

Giddy with his hundredth year, 

Sang unnoticed like a bird: 

‘Though the Door of Death is near 

And what waits behind the door, 

Three times in a single day 

I, though upright on the shore, 

Fall asleep when I should pray.’ 

So the first, but now the second: 

‘We’re but given what we have eamed 

When all thoughts and deeds are reckoned, 

So it’s plain to be discerned 

That the shades of holy men 

Who have failed, being weak of will, 

Pass the Door of Birth again, 

And are plagued by crowds, until 

They’ve the passion to escape.’ 

Moaned the other, ‘They are thrown 

Into some most fearful shape.’ 

But the second mocked his moan: 

‘They are not changed to anything, 

Having loved God once, but maybe 

To a poet or a king 

Or a witty lovely lady.’ 

While he’d rummaged rags and hair, 

Caught and cracked his flea, the third, 

Giddy with his hundredth year, 

Sang unnoticed like a bird.

 

—William Butler Yeats  (1865-1939)

*           

 

Three Angels

 

Three angels up above the street

Each one playing a horn

Dressed in green robes with wings that stick out

They’ve been there since Christmas morn

The wildest cat from Montana passes by in a flash

Then a lady in a bright orange dress

One U-Haul trailer, a truck with no wheels

The Tenth Avenue bus going west

The dogs and pigeons fly up and they flutter around

A man with a badge skips by

Three fellas crawlin’ on their way back to work

Nobody stops to ask why

The bakery truck stops outside of that fence

Where the angels stand high on their poles

The driver peeks out, trying to find one face

In this concrete world full of souls

The angels play on their horns all day

The whole earth in progression seems to pass by

But does anyone hear the music they play

Does anyone even try?

 

—Bob Dylan

*

 

A Story That Could Be True

 

If you were exchanged in the cradle and

your real mother died

without ever telling the story

then no one knows your name,

and somewhere in the world

your father is lost and needs you

but you are far away.

 

He can never find

how true you are, how ready.

When the great wind comes

and the robberies of the rain

you stand on the corner shivering.

The people who go by—

you wonder at their calm.

 

They miss the whisper that runs

any day in your mind,

“Who are you really, wanderer?”—

and the answer you have to give

no matter how dark and cold

the world around you is:

“Maybe I’m a king.”

 

—William Stafford  (1914-1993)

*

 

The Aged Aged Man

 

I’ll tell thee everything I can;

     There’s little to relate,

I saw an aged, aged man,

     A-sitting on a gate.

“Who are you, aged man?” I said.

     “And how is it you live?”

And his answer trickled through my head

     Like water through a sieve.

 

He said, “I look for butterflies

     That sleep among the wheat;

I make them into mutton-pies,

     And sell them in the street.

I sell them unto men,” he said,

     “Who sail on stormy seas;

And that’s the way I get my bread–

     A trifle, if you please.”

 

But I was thinking of a plan

     To dye one’s whiskers green,

And always use so large a fan

     That they could not be seen.

So, having no reply to give

     To what the old man said,

I cried, “Come, tell me how you live!”

     And thumped him on the head.

 

His accents mild took up the tale;

     He said, “I go my ways,

And when I find a mountain-rill,

     I set it in a blaze;

And thence they make a stuff they call

     Rowland’s Macassar Oil–

Yet twopence-halfpenny is all

     They give me for my toil.”

 

But I was thinking of a way

     To feed one’s self on batter,

And so go on from day to day

     Getting a little fatter.

I shook him well from side to side,

     Until his face was blue,

“Come, tell me how you live,” I cried,

     “And what it is you do!”

 

He said, “I hunt for haddocks’ eyes

     Among the heather bright,

And work them into waistcoat-buttons

     In the silent night.

And these I do not sell for gold

     Or coin of silvery shine,

But for a copper halfpenny,

     And that will purchase nine.

 

“I sometimes dig for buttered rolls,

     Or set limed twigs for crabs;

I sometimes search the grassy knolls

     For wheels of hansom-cabs.

And that’s the way” (he gave a wink)

     “By which I get my wealth–

And very gladly will I drink

     Your honor’s noble health.”

 

I heard him then, for I had just

     Completed my design

To keep the Menai bridge from rust

     By boiling it in wine.

I thanked him much for telling me

     The way he got his wealth,

But chiefly for his wish that he

     Might drink my noble health.

 

And now, if e’er by chance I put

     My fingers into glue,

Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot

     Into a left-hand shoe,

Or if I drop upon my toe

     A very heavy weight,

I weep, for it reminds me so

Of that old man I used to know–

Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow,

Whose hair was whiter than the snow,

Whose face was very like a crow,

With eyes, like cinders, all aglow,

Who seemed distracted with his woe,

Who rocked his body to and fro,

And muttered mumblingly and low,

As if his mouth were full of dough,

Who snorted like a buffalo–

That summer evening long ago,

A-sitting on a gate.

 

—Lewis Carroll  (1832-1898)