San Francisco Scenes
In Golden Gate Park A man walks a tightrope Strung tree to tree Across a gusty field Maybe he’s flying In his other mind, his other body This ambitious angel of wobble Wannabe Icarus This prideful hipster Sisyphus Like all of us forever At odds with intransigent gravity \ In a sliver of sun vanishing In Chinatown’s winter shadows An old man saws the èrhú Stringing ancient notes Into a melody for here And right now A feverish dragon song That singes my ears Puts a torch to my shivering bones In this vanishing sliver of sun In Chinatown’s winter shadows \ On Haight Street the hordes Of the hairy unwashed Rehash their dreams and Scrounged-up memories Between smoke and toke Rap and whistle They argue and sing But never the same Song or argument twice They sleep like the dead With guitars and stained blankets In the doorways of closed shops They push ratty boxes on skateboards Clothes stuffed into garbage bags On rusted shopping carts Stopping to scoop up half-smoked butts Pocketing them for later When the moon is high The streets cold and crying They huddle in blue cloud conspiracies Feeding their imaginary dogs and Very real white rabbits Asking each other to recollect Incidents that never occurred They look you right in the eyes Then they look right through you As if you were the one forgotten \ On Strawberry Hill Gold light from the Pacific Oleander wind Plea of a Traveler Forever Lost Severed from many landscapes over time, I am Dangling over oblique terrain, a wind-scattered creature Formed and reformed, redefined by storms and thin edges, Perimeters sketched by the nervous hands of seasons In primal hues of frantic brilliance. The immortal lion of spring devours The eternal bull of winter but not without Exquisite drunkenness, resplendent tears And clamorous, sizzling feasts of song. I cannot play that music. I have tried I have tried I have chanted alone in ghostly canyons at night Muttered hymns in the ozone above timberline But some experiments cannot be recreated, Some snakes refuse to be charmed. I have always craved delirium, such a god. So I beg your equanimity and one more glass of This incomparable wine. (c) Eric Walter 2014 All rights reserved.
Kiss of the Mango Rain
A Lyric for Cambodia Here the midnight stars glow red And roosters crow long before sunup. With first light comes the chant of drums And voices from the temple Faint whisper of night’s leftover breeze Rustling leaves of bamboo and mango trees The strange sweet smoke of slash fires Like incense inflames the senses Invades the tangled mind of memories. No dream is as dream-like As this life we are born to visit. By day it is ancient ruins Stone mysteries lurking In a landscape steeped in torporific heat The hypnotic riffs and melodic hysteria Of myriad jungle birds Cicada hoards that roar unseen Then grow tomb-silent. Giant faces gaze from a lost age With sly enigmatic smiles mostly Though some appear ghostly To be mourning a faded glory An irretrievable esteem They are kings, they are bodhisattvas They are legend and they are dust But their monuments still breathe Life and pride into a people Who share many burdens Who bear many scars. This land is heavy with memories of death Scenes of carnage, depravity and torture When sacred trees withered and died, Their roots drowned in Khmer blood. It is not possible to ignore the ghosts Nor is it wise to play with them. In this land flows venom and dark water. In this land the White Bones Village screams For retribution a million times over. The seven-headed cobra has many eyes And just as many fangs. Only the enlightened being apprehends The balance between justice and forgiveness. But there is music grown here Music whose blossoms heal Nourished by the living Victims of landmines Crippled, maimed, and blind Who keep Khmer music alive In the shadows of Angkor’s shrines, The wild strings and strains coursing Through the laterite veins, A blood-tuned ancestral modality Chime of heart, gong of bone High holy fidelity to the Resilient melody of somehow living This cursed and blessed life. See the monks in bright orange robes Shuffling over terraces carved with Epic scenes of long ago Men with bows, clubs, and spears Horses and great elephants in battle But these disciples have no interest In the mythic war they survey One is talking on a cell phone As another lights a cigarette -- Buddha is in the details And the statue of a smiling leper king Lords silently over all. Out in the sweltering countryside Water buffalo plod through sun-baked paddies As egrets huddle in ragged whispers. Naked children play carefully by the road, Their mothers and fathers Aunts uncles brothers sisters Work the dikes and dusty fields, Cherish the shade of their stilt-raised houses. Music from a nearby wedding Dances in the red dirt road as A man rides by on a motorbike with Two dead pigs strapped to the rack, Proud bearer of the nuptial feast. There are many guests assembled And the celebration will last several days. At dusk on the spring equinox Finally the sweet kiss of the mango rain The pre-monsoon shower heaven-sent To soothe the earth that aches The bodies that thirst After wilting months of dry. Palm fronds tremble in the cool spatter Frogs light out fresh on evening meanders Geckos make with their noisy chatter And the mangos In the midnight wind Begin to ripen. (c) Eric Walter 2014 All rights reserved. Raven at midnight
Squawks at winter’s last full moon A few dim stars too Tea in a pale room Faint birdsong and traffic din Good morning Tokyo Shinobazu dawn Blue heron in Lotus Pond Water as mirror Wind from the gray sea Dancing dust and swaying pines Tsurugaoka Shrine Kamakura Buddha Calm visage against wild skies A bowl of grapefruit Swaying red lantern Pagoda in golden light Senso-ji at night I walk with Bashō I hear the clouds of flowers See the bells of time Eric Walter (c) 2014 |