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
5th 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.
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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.
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