Tuesday, January 18, 2011

The Creatures as Buddha Found Them

We are the creatures
as Buddha found them:
unshaking, unshoken,
unwaking, unwoken.

We are the sleepers
as Ahriman bound them:
unleaking, unloken,
unspeaking, unspoken.

Deb Scott's 17th stone for A River of Stones

Yesterday evening I rode my bike under a night sky still blue, with the moon circled in a rusty ring, and a long haunted shore of white cloud to the east, above Mt Tabor. Deb Scott, across the river in the West Hills, made a memorable stone of it. At the Powell's on Hawthorne Sage read from her new book and fielded questions with wonderful grace -- the more wonderful and endearing, now that I know her well enough to be able to see how nervous being at the podium makes her. I saw Tom Mattox and Shanna Germain there, but was too shy to introduce myself to them. Mary Marsh delighted and confounded me by hugging me and saying she loved my poems. Portland seemed like a magical place, last night. Winter meant nothing: we could have lit a campfire on Hawthorne Boulevard and roasted marshmallows over it, in perfect comfort, and sung songs all night until the moon went to rest beyond Deb's house.

Now it's morning, and we're soon to take ship. More on that anon. Go gently, sleepers.

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