photos by Kim Stafford

 

 

THE OPEN ROAD

peace, love, happiness & understanding

 

 

 

October 28, 2021

 

 

Poems from the past five days…where do they come from?

 

by Kim Stafford

 

For some years now, I’ve started each day with a walk before dawn, then sitting with my breath, then coffee, then something like a poem—that is, an exploratory utterance rising from recent experience in the world, and in thought. 

     For what it’s worth, in response to Johnny’s invitation, here are the most recent five adventures into my realm of scribbling…

 

 

16 October

 

At the coast for my birthday, we went to the turnout south from Depot Bay to watch a whale out beyond the breakers breach and roll. My poem the next day tried to honor this encounter. As often happens, though, I got a little preachy toward the end, with my “So we must…” conclusion. This is my failing: loving Earth, hoping for the future, seeking to honor the miracles that come tug our sleeves…

 

 

  At Rocky Creek We Watch the Whale

 

Out beyond the heave and shattered roll of waves

we see the puff, the plume, breath burst, the back’s

dark gleam sliding down into the massive deep.

 

That’s about how much we know of everything—

dreams of wheeling birds, the swell and fade of seasons—

a glimpse gone down, a gasp, and the rest is guessing.

 

Precious Earth, leviathan—the visible we see, and say

we know, while the hidden will be what we need.

 

 

 

17 October

 

At the coast, we rose at 5a.m. for low tide to gather mussels from wave-pummeled rocks—the errand of a fool, or in our case, the dedicated gourmand. While wrestling in the dark with waves to our knees, I found myself wondering if there might be a phrase in French to describe a gourmet so dedicated, no danger was too great in the pursuit of fine flavor. Thus, this adventure came to the page…

 

 

Campagne Extrême du Gourmet

 

At the darkest episode of night

we strode by wave-bashed rocks

in thunder din of the rising tide

to address the wall of blue shell

mussels pried by headlamp flicker

into the pail for our planned repast

with butter, lemon, and white wine, 

as the sea surge wrapped our knees

until we shuddered as the dark tug 

and thrash from out beyond our faint 

periphery demanded utter surrender 

to be swept, to be stumbled into ocean’s 

hungry pot, to be stirred into torn asunder, 

to be atomized, to be distilled 

into the flavor salt.

 

 

 

18 October

 

Our daughter knows the sommelière at a local winery, and he generously invited us to come sip. By the third vintage I was feeling no pain, and the next morning composed a blessing in his honor and sent it off…

 

 

      A Sip Serene

 

Up from stone and earth

by the vine-root clench

drought-flavored rain

rises into stem, leaf, bud,

and tendril to spangle in sun

along the row hung heavy

with fisted clusters to be

crushed, then cherished

into wine, the whole hill

shimmered in this scent

that fills the mind, and

then this sip of honor.

 

 

 

19 October

 

This really big crow landed on the lintel above our garden gate, and started strutting back and forth. I enjoyed the spectacle…and then next morning, writing, started by trying to describe his imperious presence. But once I had that, I thought, “That’s cool, but so what?” I realized he reminded me of certain Type-A males who lord it over the rest of us (Jeff B., Elon M., Mark Z.), and so they got into the opening lines…

 

 

                         King Crow

When some fat cat, filthy rich, swaggers 

and proclaims—you know, the ones with

yachts, trophy homes, and bizarre opinions, 

the ones who clearly never learned to practice 

basic human etiquette—I see our king crow, 

the heavy one swooping low to settle and command 

the lintel board above the gate, to strut and brag, 

his bead black eyes glinting dire fire, his seesaw 

rocking tossing shouts to the sky, flexing his sheen 

of rainbow black, burning the air with sheer bravado 

as he disdains his craven clan below, all small crows 

bowing and scraping, thrusting their beaks for pickings.

 

Above it all, his highness pivots, shrugs, and shouts: 

Show me something worth my time—then it’s mine.

 

 

 

20 October

 

I’ve been going through old letters, and as I work my way back into the 1970s I come to the time I was preparing, foolishly, to become a scholar. I compiled vast bibliographies, and worked my way through a slew of books chosen—not because they were good, but because they were essential to my chosen field of study. Then I remembered the scholarly exercise of the “Abstract,” that paragraph at the head of a formal article, distilling the import of what was to follow. Then out of nowhere—my favorite source for writing—I thought of the phrase “It takes one to know one…,” and I started wondering who first said that…and soon I was back to our primitive forebears. Then I started having fun…

 

 

Innocent Words of Ancient Import

by Hector Persimian, Ph.D., DMD, ABC, DVD

 

Abstract: This paper charts new ground in phase archeology—as a complement to genetic investigations into the origin of human species—through an examination of indicator phrases like “you scratch my back, I scratch yours,” a clear reference to primordial grooming rituals (Baker, 1987); “takes one to know one,” a key to solidarity among rival Homo dejectus hunting bands (Spice, 1993); and “one may smile and smile and yet may be a villain,” a phrase long attributed to a particular writer, but clearly originating in the confrontational grin display of our simian forebears (Jekyll and Hyde, 2001). We will conclude with a close study of the phrase “Yes and no,” a tantalizing remnant of our ancestors’ philosophical struggle with their existential conundrum: should we come down from the trees?

 

 

 

21 October

 

Yesterday, our son told us of the disastrous new computer system at work, causing all kinds of disruption and despair. On my morning walk, I got to thinking about other kinds of dysfunction. Both Capitalism and the avoidance of Climate Crisis came to mind. In my walking meditation, the words “glitch” and “triage’ came to mind, and I had to write the poem to find out what these two words might want to say to one another.

 

 

       Remedy for Glitch

When things go crazy haywire—

computer crash, capitalism cheats, oil 

burns us all—it’s time for triage. So,

 

choose one: (1) How did this happen?…

or (2) Whose fault is this?…or

(3) What’s to be done?

 

Screen in my face, money in hand,

and a hard look at my habits:

reboot…learn thrift…simplify.

 

 

 

I can make no claim for the value, the “success,” of these humble poems. But I do believe in the practice of making them. By sitting each morning with my thoughts, wonderings, intuitions, struggles, and obsessions, I write in order to honor our perennial opportunity when faced with trouble: There might be another way.

 

—Kim Stafford