Poetry by John Copley Alter

 

Spinning

 

When you are spinning like dice

think of your granddaughter

dancing—the Sufi spin—hear

the cosmic castanets—

 

your Iberian DNA—

remember—we are tossed—

in the ring—in the salad—

remember the dancing

 

chef with the birthday cake balanced

on her impetuous

head—the Atlantic sunset—

and all the continents

 

we have crossed together—spinning—

            inadvertent dervishes perhaps—

                        our camels a little

unsteady at times—the trade beads we

            have uncovered—shabash

                                    tamasha

 

2.

We walk past water murky with this

5^th monthe pollen.  Disconsolate goldfish.

 

And the egret who uses our noisy

meander as a conductor’s baton,

 

how far he has strayed.  We have strayed.

We reach a gate.  It is not locked

 

but leads nowhere.  A small lake

abandoned by water.  And flowers mock

 

us: you are not butterflies, you are not

van Gogh—gently.  They leave no scar.

 

An old man for a moment, waves.

 

3.

The small boat you and your grand/

father launched approaches

(again) some turbulent water.

Egret—blue heron—stand

 

sentinel, & the craft spins

and you your grandfather

spin.  A swerve beckons.  This

sedulous brook carries

 

you always—homeward—is

as a ring on a tree—

a circular account of what

(accidents don’t matter)

 

in this circuit of seasons—happens—

            happened—the weather—

the fine mist—the temporary company

                        of butterflies—drought—

            war—a granddaughter

 

4.

Loons share a cove.  I like that.

Sometimes their call is like qawwali.

Do you remember the full moon of August

trembling on dark hallowed water

 

as if with ineffable feet angels were

dancing?  You could hear, in the rocking

chair next to you, the shadowy one

ancestral voices.  And they would say,

 

Do not be afraid of dizzy spells.  Dance.

Spin in the moonlight, acquainted with

loons, and there will be guidance enough.

 

5.

The dented frying pan, the coffee maker

mugs—what we will ‘carry with us’ when we

cross the Huangpu River—

puxi to pudong—navigating the traffic of

 

barges headed (indirectly) to Baltimore—

what did they call them once—household gods—

our statue of Ganesh—our wistful Buddha—

what did they call them once—the 10000 things

 

swirling up out of the fecund void—

our suitcases of familiar underwear—socks and

shoes—the family photographs

 

6.

            where there is a lull in truth, an institution springs up

                        Thoreau: Life without Principle

 

We know well

the mediocrity of schools,

at best.  The students

redeem us, refusing

 

to merely be

prepared for some

nonexistent status quo,

yes, surprising, surpassing

 

us.  And some

buildings, a theater,

an unexpected garden,

teachers (sometimes) left

 

to their own devices.  Truth blows through

from time to time.  Let’s be prayer flags.

 

 

Three transpositions of Wang Wei

 

The Southern Edge, Another Vocation

 

Middle aged—prefer the path—

beside Southern Mountain my hermitage.

 

Interest comes—alone the pursuit—

mountain ravishes the vacant mind.

 

Walk to where water ends—

sit—see clouds’ momentary elation.

 

By chance—a forest elder

bumps into you—good fortune!

 

Autumn Dusk, Mountain Home

 

After rain, refreshed, the mountains—

heaven’s cool breath—autumn—nightfall.

 

Moonlight lingers—the pines illuminated—

spring water dancing on rock.

 

Bamboo— wash maids— rustling home,

lotus stirs—fishing boat drifting.

 

Never mind—spring’s fragrance dying—

heir—the hermit self survives.

 

Zhong Nan Mountain

            after Wang Wei 

 

Formless—chaotic—adjacent to heaven—

filament stretched—mountain to sea.

 

Looking back—impenetrable white clouds—

entering—a hazy blue/green cataract.

 

A protractor dividing the world—

each ravine—its own weather.

 

Where can I find shelter—

across water a woodsman answers.

 

 

The monosyllabic suicide note

 

The self dies.  Long live the self.  You and

you

and you, you will take care of that.  But you

 

by the door, one eye on the stars, come out

to where the trees & the moon talk.  There

 

a small bird hums.  There an old dog waits

for

you.  He wags his tail.  He puts his head on

 

your lap.  We sit on an old bench.  We talk.

 

 

And the moon spreads a glad oil.  We see

what

waits to be named.  The eye—the ‘I’—what

the

 

‘I’—the eye—see.  A doe and her fawn, a

fox, a wolf, a small bird hums to the moon

 

a sweet small song of praise.  A hump back

whale

sings.  O let them claim the self!  We are one

 

of those who go out to a still place.  You

know the way.

 

 

And when the game is done you lie down,

            you

say to your self the words you learned as

                                    a

 

child, When I lay me down to sleep I ask

you Lord my soul to keep, her voice in your

 

mind, and sleep comes as a soft tide and

                        you

drift, and dreams come on slow wings,

            slow dark wings

 

and the moon will pass you by and the

                        ship

of fools ah…

 

 

You wait for word to come.  A note.  A

            post

card.  Someone will write you some

                                    thing someday.

 

A small bird lands on the branch you

            watch from your

room.  She holds a word in her beak.  She

 

sings.  Do you know the song?  She sings

            the home

sick blues for you as the day turns for

                                    home.

 

Come home, you wish.  Come home, my

            love.  I will

pour good wine…

 

 

You scrub your flesh.  Do you clean your

                        mind?  Thoughts

cling & clog.  Clean the lens through which

            you hear,

 

clean ear wax so that you can see what is

right there at the edge of you.  Is there an

 

edge right there?  a cliff?  Are you blind?

            Do you

not hear the gulls sing to the sea?  A small

 

boat sails on a blue bay.  You wave to me.

I am lost.

John Copley Alter currently lives in Shanghai.  He began writing poetry in India as a seventh grader—an indelible memory, back when the Indo-China War was young.  Now, he transposes Tang Dynasty poems; tutors; proselytizes for Walt Whitman.

Over the years—India, university, Conscientious Objection, Sweden, Maine, marriage, three children (all grown now, one with a child): Mauritania, Senegal, up and down the eastern seaboard.  Teacher.  Administrator.  Writer: poetry primarily, drama.

So it goes, life being what it is.