|
The Well
Imagine a mountain whose name is heart.
At the throat of the mountain
they fill a well
with so many stones
it can hold nothing more.
They'd never heard of
the mountain named heart,
Kokoro-yama, til they were taken
as prisoners to Heart Mountain.
Imagine a heart big enough to be called mountain.
A mound of stones,
too many to count, remain -
each inscribed
by a different hand,
each crying out.
Some simply reveal
the writer's name -
Shizuko, a woman,
or a family known as Osajima.
Most of the handpainted
rocks carry a single kanji -
snow wind cold sky
shame home bird.
- For the 12,000 Japanese Americans
interned at Heart Mountain, Wyoming
From Nights of Fire, Nights of Rain
A Repeating Bass Line
first.
wisteria & jacaranda
grew wild
through our town, their
lavender and blue blossoms
fell lightly, made
a cool shade of fuji iro,
wisteria purple,
but I felt the whispers
and men who won‘t smile
at the children we were,
our grandfathers
tending the land
long before the flight
of citydwellers
three bedroom families
and artists who moved into
canyons of boulders and pine.
sierra madre used
its natural beauty
tried to make us forget
lima avenue for jews,
grove street
for mexicans and japs,
wisteria & jacaranda
grew wild there too.
and one night we watched
a flame burn
blue purple
on the lawn down our street.
but the next day only
a scorched outline
that creeps into dreams
and soon the grass
grew full again.
From 30 Miles from J-Town, excerpt from longer poem
-- it was like holding a piece of straw
above an endless ocean
Monk Song Yoon
i
I am dreaming of fields
before the harvest
where everything moves
to sun and wind
ii
wave after wave
a sea of golden yellow
embracing the ground
with seeded eyes
iii
what rain will fatten
this piece of straw
which warm beam
of morning light
iv
with a single stem
I wake once more
to know how far
I’ve come to taste you
From The Yellow Door
A Handful of Knowing
1
Even as a child she prefers their company. Each day the girl goes to Stone
Mountain and chooses one of the ten thousand stones which lie at its base.
Sometimes she picks a jagged rock, studies it from different angles to see
it brighten and darken in the shifting light.Or she might spread a handful of
pebbles on her outstretched palms and marvel that no two are exactly the same
size or shape. If she finds a boulder big enough for her to recline on her back, she
can take in the sky. Before long the girl is able to touch each granite gem with
the deft fingers of a sculptor, delighted when a once grainy surface turns glassy
and smooth. Sitting among the rocks and pebbles, she listens with them to a world
that stirs, grateful when something new flurries in and glad when mountain quiet
returns. As time passes, the girl grows so intimate with the stones that no one
notices she's become old and weathered and silent like them. Song birds and lizards
rest on her. Small fingers trace the lines on her face.
2
(after watching a video on Michael Grab, a Boulder artist who stacks boulders)
Pay close attention to the feel of each rock.
Remember that balance requires a minimum of three contact points.
Let fingers go light.
Notice even the smallest clicks, some smaller than millimeters.
Continue to meditate.
Use the tiny to large indentations as a tripod so the stone can stand upright.
Connect with the rock's vibrations.
Wait for it to become nearly weightless.
Listen to it become still.
Expect the impossible.
Arrange one rock so it barely touches the next rock then one more.
Splash some water on the slowly rising sculpture.
Welcome the wind rushing through.
Believe in the steadiness of these stones.
Be as patient.
Know that simple gravity and devotion form a limitless glue.
Count on the zero point of silence within.
From Basic Vocabulary
|
|