On the Mountain

Book Published & Available Online for Purchase

2009-03-20T10:03:00.003-10:00

I am happy to announce the book publication of my first collection of literary poems, Tree Breathing, sponsored by the Saskatchewan Arts Board and the Banff Centre of the Arts, and edited by Canadian Governor General's Award-winner, Robert Hilles. It is available here.

I Observe the Poem Writes Itself

2009-01-07T18:25:00.001-10:00

I drink tea, stare long hours
at gold lacquer, cherry tabletop
suspend a brush above the page as if it might
write a single perfect script

what would it mean?

I am only an observer.

the poem starts again when the foot placed firmly, shifts
its weight pressed down into the back heel, pivots the measured
two inches.

the precise movement of this poem will discern
the pelvis turning, hip rolling over like a wet smooth stone.
the poem will be martial in its enunciation
-op -op -op
its syllables fall as rain, but the artist
is not distracted.

when he strikes, he will feel the poem
trembling
in the center of his fist.

the monk, in contrast, chews the poem.
for him, it is a piece of meat-
forbidden,
lengthily justified.

He rolls up his robes
sews the poem's insistence behind a button
where it will not be noticed. "who writes
the poem?" chant the monks.
no-one knows. thus
another 70 years is embarked upon.

to the musician, the poem snails its way up
through the arches and knees, finds the anticipated
hollow between shoulder blades,
transmutes into a coiled dragon, attacks
the strings through the wrists.

fingers, hopeless mediums, babbling beautiful nonsense.

the audience is enthralled. the musician bows,
shattered to the core.

the poem stands
in a military tent, dressed in navy and gold,
murmuring unquestionable orders.

a magician is the poem's chief adviser. they discuss
thunder,
the position of the stars,
the hidden meaning of men's ambition.

the poem, rubbing its beard carefully,
orders someone's death.

when the poem is in love
it scrubs itself with salt on a wooden bench,
revels in a poured basin of pure water,
stands naked in a thin kimono looking out at dew-tipped ferns.

Who knows
the comings and goings of a poem?
traveling the inner corridors
of light,
dreams, blood-
it speaks or is silent,
is gone.

night brings winter rain (poem)

2007-11-24T21:54:00.000-10:00

the cold rain has come. I welcome it, I spread my hair
comb's teeth forms perfect rows, the planted garden

its broad leaves of radish and lettuce, one pond of emotion,
shared. my lover whispers stories, moves clay

pots to create music, we sit in the furo
steaming, frogs drip from the trees. I hear

all of us singing together - there is no separation.

breath, vessels, bamboo
fingertips, rooftop, comb.

poem for an old friend

2007-10-23T20:51:00.000-10:00

caught in your darkness, old friend
you are not my friend. as if hair

could replace the sun. I traded that light
for years of days, once wrote poems

your dark eyes, saying words
like nocturne, gull's wing, egg of moon

but they are just dark -- as hate
dead father you carry, the alleys

you drag yourself through night after night
in your mind. don't write about my pain

as if it was something you woke up to. Your own--
all you ever knew.

still here (poem)

2007-10-23T19:58:00.000-10:00

we are all here. from the day the earth took her
first breath on the water, drops of sand

shoals, the amazed waves and fire-lit
coals in the belly of wood - we are

still here. no-one got out. no prayers
rose a steaming path to heaven. no

your precise disdain, nights spent indulging or denying
your body-temple, curled like incense, rising

is new, is old, is dying like the leaf
the planet, and you

still meditating, dreaming of escape.
you are still here.

on being the season, changing (poem)

2007-09-30T08:11:00.000-10:00

wearing my silk robe
before breakfast

more curled bamboo leaves on the porch
each day, thoughts migrate

back to the mountain. My suitcase
not yet out, I pack my life inward.

a friend writes, confides
her fear of death.

I like the leaves, their sound beneath
my thai broom as I sweep.

on reading the new book of an old enemy (poem)

2007-09-22T14:16:00.000-10:00

when I read your poems, sitting in the comfort
of my study, puerh steaming, the golden

light streaming from my lamp
my heart is a stone.

you've stolen my words, the koi in my pond
crows in the sky, and even my rolling eyes

during meditation. one more thing
you've done, a long list of things

a sutra of betrayal and lies.
tonight, I am a bitter woman

wandering the garden with wet
eyes to match the leaves.

why we're back (poem)

2007-09-17T16:19:00.000-10:00

for Chia Tao

old ones, we all find ourselves
back here when we were certainly on the verge

of being cloud-dragons. so male, so
stubborn in our meditations, unlike trees

even the animals we mimicked felt
their way through life not putting

blades through their chests for shame
of nurturing another warm living thing

someone you love, dies and you
berate yourself for feeling sad

potato vine (poem)

2007-09-14T13:47:00.000-10:00

sitting, all I can do
today, a little gardening

the wind carries spirits, my own
heart is agitated

the fern's fractal leaf, a jasmine star
flower on a potato vine

smell of black earth humus.
my hands reach more deeply into it.

butter and blood (poem)

2007-09-14T13:08:00.001-10:00

Fear lives in the throat.
I can feel it three fingers down
from the soft basin,
thimbleful of fear.

It tastes of butter and blood
the cheek bitten
the breath drawn in.

Some days it is impossible for me to leave
my house.

All day I eat it down
it mingles with the food
but does not move.

Like a swallow
it circles,
crying.

the sound of a mandolin (poem)

2007-09-14T12:47:00.000-10:00

palm fronds play the dusk wind, dip into the present
a string of moments
on the notes of a mandolin.

my hand on the windowsill, his hand poised
on a string. these are simple things.
even the palm fronds, they too

are simple things adrift
like us. the sea beyond a veil
of muslin. the player beyond the night.

hapu'u (poem)

2007-09-14T12:45:00.000-10:00

early morning, wooden
floors cold, I sit by the little

black stove. in this glass
cottage, amidst the hapu'u

ferns. in the evening,
I will make tea

for my teacher, the man
I love, but for now

I enjoy the solitude
of cold

the warmth of this
Kazakh robe.

Laka (poem)

2007-09-14T12:36:00.000-10:00

for E. and C.

late afternoon, mist's wet
breath exhales on this temple, curls around
the eaves. I pad through the house
in my slippers, light candles, strike
the gongs. Each sound answers the waiting
trees outside - yes, they agree - it is now
dusk. In the garden, small green worms
nestled in the tea's leaves, move deeper
for some warmth.

Noise from the day is put away.
Cardinals, red silk sashes, now folded
into the forest. Kitchen fire glows, a bowl
of steaming porridge and persimmons, scent of
magnolia blossom steals in through the cracks
around the doors. Gathered around the stove
together we wait - the trees, the house and I -
for laka
to inhale, reveal the stars.

*laka is the Hawaiian god of the mist.

koi garden (poem)

2007-09-14T12:35:00.000-10:00

I want to sit on stone. feel its cool roots twine
up my spine and hold me. gargoyle on a temple.

I want to let my eyes go soft: two
underbellies of fish, swimming.

I want to hear my breath, distant leaves,
soft touching of green and silver palms.

I want my silence to be a garden. full-bloom
with water lilies. voiceless throats open to the sky.

to sadness (poem)

2007-09-14T12:30:00.000-10:00

Sadness, you weigh, like the house-eaves
during monsoon rain. my hair, wet

from the bath. Sadness, you roll
wooden boat in the bay's wake, single blossom

blown down the path. Sadness,
you pool, finding basins in weak places

hollows of my bones, depressions
in the grass. Sadness, you rest

like dew on stone (moist kiss) then withdraw
from the land like mist.

fall, contemplating attachment (poem)

2007-09-14T12:28:00.000-10:00

beside the river, a tree wears the burnt
umber dhoti of the guru

on this urban mountain (monk-
bald), sky is a himalayan poppy

prayers are wind-horses: we are told this.
the Self: paper
flags falling, shed leaves of maple.

and yet --
this tree...
serpentine, betel bijoux
beneath a thousand cycling moons.

willow bridge (poem)

2007-09-14T12:27:00.000-10:00

dusk: you are a monk
in the garden, crossing a willow

bridge. my arms: thin, strong
rails beneath your hands.

gentle lap of spring-fed
creek, groans of the tree-

boughs. your soft feet beneath
your robes, arched wood

of my body. the steady rise
and fall of your breathing

and your return: cherry
blossoms in your hair.

spring essence (poem)

2007-09-14T12:17:00.000-10:00

for the Vietnamese poet Ho Xuan Huong

your two pink
chinese tree peonies
roll in the breeze
anemones tasting
the sea-deep blush
of flushed cheeks
rising to the surface
and sinking, a diver
for conch shells

your two bamboo
knees knocking, opening
and closing, opening
and closing
wings on a moth's back
paper fans
in white hands

a snail winds
its trail across
your two thighs
pale sail in the night
long pearl
tongue of moon.