In memoriam Jo Durden-Smith
'said Joe, I didn't die'
'said Joe, I didn't die'
The world has lost one of the good guys.
Rest in peace dear Jo - your spirit will live on.
Sunday 13 May 2007
The Ways of Water
Five days in and around Portland, Oregon
diary entries - 17th - 22nd April 2007
From my hotel window,
I have a view of the river
brown and so slow-moving
the water seems solid
compared to the cars
high on the freeways
striping the sky beyond.
Every time I come to the States
I’m shocked again by the cars
their size and quantity,
how they eat people and streets -
here, though, from my hotel window
I learn to love them
A trick of perspective
makes them water insects, hovering
above the river as they describe
fast arcs through the air -
not just at dusk - awake at 4am
I see them busy, gobbling up night
buzzing with purpose
Whereas I move slowly
like the weighty river
or maybe don’t move at all
just stand in life’s heavy flow
staring downstream
at the flotsam of memories
passing me by, out and away
into ocean’s infinity.
There was once a huge Japanese community in Portland, destroyed when the inhabitants were sent to camps in the Second World War. There’s now a memorial garden with poems inscribed on stones.
Echoes, echoes, echoes –
a child crying for his father
mother stoical, steaming rice as usual
drops the pan, collapses,
head in hands – deafened by the silence
of empty rooms, shut shops,
material and intangible loss of life.
Stones sink into soft earth
accrue moss and dampness
withstand rain or a vandal’s chisel -
speaking gently, their words have no ego
know they will fade over centuries
while the stones will remain
endure, remember.
This Willamette
with her bridges and whispers,
belongs to Columbia’s deep gorges,
belongs to the open-mouthed Pacific,
belongs to the wild waves of Cape Horn,
belongs to the cold Atlantic
her thin Equator, belongs too
to the tiny Scilly Isles scattered west off
Cornwall, spreads herself around its pointy coast
so that last week, without knowing
tourists on the beach in my home town swam
in the wide Willamette waters
felt her as theirs, sensed her bridges
joining this place to that -
the long lovely arms of the Willamette
circling the world.
Diminutive, feminine
Strong, final, let it be done
Whispery, a cooling breath
Flexible as willow, echoes
Of nightdresses from the seventies
Pink, fluffed and comfy –
Let’s cuddle up in our Willamette warmth,
let’s cuddle up!
Marriott apples
are plentiful.
So much knowledge
to be eaten
and no serpents -
only the benign
bitterness of biting
into an organic worm
from Washington’s Eden.
Japanese Garden
for Harry
May you find a seat in the sun
near camellias and know
that those brown at the edges
or tight in bud are more easily loved
than the red, luscious blooms
May you hear running water
a blackbird, a child’s happy cry
and not notice the planes or the traffic -
listen - water’s falling,
water’s falling, water’s falling.
diary entries - 17th - 22nd April 2007
From my hotel window,
I have a view of the river
brown and so slow-moving
the water seems solid
compared to the cars
high on the freeways
striping the sky beyond.
Every time I come to the States
I’m shocked again by the cars
their size and quantity,
how they eat people and streets -
here, though, from my hotel window
I learn to love them
A trick of perspective
makes them water insects, hovering
above the river as they describe
fast arcs through the air -
not just at dusk - awake at 4am
I see them busy, gobbling up night
buzzing with purpose
Whereas I move slowly
like the weighty river
or maybe don’t move at all
just stand in life’s heavy flow
staring downstream
at the flotsam of memories
passing me by, out and away
into ocean’s infinity.
There was once a huge Japanese community in Portland, destroyed when the inhabitants were sent to camps in the Second World War. There’s now a memorial garden with poems inscribed on stones.
Echoes, echoes, echoes –
a child crying for his father
mother stoical, steaming rice as usual
drops the pan, collapses,
head in hands – deafened by the silence
of empty rooms, shut shops,
material and intangible loss of life.
Stones sink into soft earth
accrue moss and dampness
withstand rain or a vandal’s chisel -
speaking gently, their words have no ego
know they will fade over centuries
while the stones will remain
endure, remember.
This Willamette
with her bridges and whispers,
belongs to Columbia’s deep gorges,
belongs to the open-mouthed Pacific,
belongs to the wild waves of Cape Horn,
belongs to the cold Atlantic
her thin Equator, belongs too
to the tiny Scilly Isles scattered west off
Cornwall, spreads herself around its pointy coast
so that last week, without knowing
tourists on the beach in my home town swam
in the wide Willamette waters
felt her as theirs, sensed her bridges
joining this place to that -
the long lovely arms of the Willamette
circling the world.
Diminutive, feminine
Strong, final, let it be done
Whispery, a cooling breath
Flexible as willow, echoes
Of nightdresses from the seventies
Pink, fluffed and comfy –
Let’s cuddle up in our Willamette warmth,
let’s cuddle up!
Marriott apples
are plentiful.
So much knowledge
to be eaten
and no serpents -
only the benign
bitterness of biting
into an organic worm
from Washington’s Eden.
Japanese Garden
for Harry
May you find a seat in the sun
near camellias and know
that those brown at the edges
or tight in bud are more easily loved
than the red, luscious blooms
May you hear running water
a blackbird, a child’s happy cry
and not notice the planes or the traffic -
listen - water’s falling,
water’s falling, water’s falling.
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