Rain On The River. Jim Dodge
pounds, and would gladly wager a new car of your choice against a soggy cornflake that it was twenty-four minimum.
In that spirit, I trust you will understand that I offer a blessing when I wish for our coming years that a big one always gets away.
The way is
The way it is
Because that’s the way
It is,
And why.
ODE
Loins and breath.
Moonlight melting
In the throat of a calla lily.
Thickets of young maple
Just breaking bud.
All you have to be
Is who you are,
Naked beyond the body,
A touch at a time.
PALINODE
All you have to be
Is who you are?
What could have I possibly
Meant by that
If part of you
Is who you dream you could be
If you weren’t the piddling little dimwit
You actually are,
As if the “real you”
Is the one who sits around wondering who
The real you is–
Or if you’ve ever wished you were
Someone else, anybody–
An accountant in Coronado,
A dishwasher in a second-rate Omaha steakhouse–
Or if you can follow this,
Or still care,
You’re probably really screwed up
Or close enough
To be welcomed as a friend.
It exacts the strictest discipline
To truly take it easy
Yet still retain the minimal
Quiver of ambition
Required for consciousness.
That’s what I’ve been working on all morning,
Stretched out on the couch
By the cabin window at Bob’s,
Watching the rain,
Without pattern,
Fall on the pond,
Just me and the dogs.
The wet crescents left by the dogs’ tongues
licking spilled cat kibble from the cabin floor;
the strand of light, finer than spider-spun,
unspooling from the center of my chest
as a 20-pound steelhead slashes downstream
through the celadon waters of the Smith;
the gleam of water on Victoria’s flanks
in that moment of stepping
from the sauna into a wild Pacific storm–
vapor-wreathed shimmer, body gone;
the elegance of an elk track
cut in sandy streamside silt;
red alder bud-break in early March;
venison stew and fresh salmon,
garden corn coming on;
Jason asleep on a school night,
his bare right leg dangling from the bed
(geez, he’s getting big);
sliding a chunk of madrone
into the firebox on a snowy night,
damping the wood heater down
for coals to kindle the morning’s fire;
the way the terriers sneeze and leap and race
deliriously through the orchard
when they know we’re going on a walk;
raindrops still cupped in huckleberry leaves
hours after the rain has stopped:
I made 55 years today, still hanging on,
and though only fools lay claim to wisdom
I don’t know what else to call it
when every year
it takes less to make me happy,
and it lasts longer.
I sit at my desk
and for no apparent reason
start singing, badly,
Red sails in the sunset…
sing it until I sail out of myself,
whatever a self is,
crazier than shit,
you bet,
and deeply grateful.
You’ve reached bottom
when you understand
there is no bottom
to reach.
And just rock there drenched
on the ship’s bow,
watching the rain
fall on the ocean.
Know the plants.
–GARY SNYDER
It’s been 50 years, most oblivious, but now,
if only in glimpses, I can look at plants
and feel the light composing them.
Falling asleep, I comfort myself
with a little prayer of their names: