clarahsu – Page 25

Seven

I believe seven is a magical number, that things change or enter a new dimension after seven years. Tonight the Winter Poem Exchange Party arrived on the mark. Looking back, it was amazing how it started as a whim, and how it has grown into a poetic tradition.

Last night an email from someone unknown: I’m a visiting poet from the UK and would like to come to your party. She came, told us that she is visiting the States and goes to three poetry events a day.

New friends, poems, music, stories. Two readings happened in tandem upstairs and down every hour. In between we feasted on scrumptious food.

“I wish this is what we do for a living,” said Steve Mackin.

It was a wish made today, the beginning of a new “seven”. Let’s see what happens when we arrive at the next mark.

The Russian Encounter

Nick was a tall and good looking Russian working in Brussels, Belgium. He and his wife Jenny lived in a tiny one bedroom apartment. When Dore and I arrived at their home they pulled out all the stops, serving us delicacies like blood sausages and liverwurst with lots and lots of vodka. Nick laughed heartily when he saw us politely nibbling on the edge of a piece of headcheese. He did not hesitate to tell us that part of it was made from a hog’s head.

I’ve never drunk so much and eaten so little. When “dinner” was done they wanted to show us the pubs. I waddled out into the cold with them. It was early November, 2002. Surprisingly, the vodka seemed to have an effect on keeping me warm.

At the pub, Nick explained all the different kinds of beer they have in Belgium.

“Oder this,” he pointed to one item on the menu, “It’s made out of berries. It’s sweet.”

A sweet beer? So it was, and I gulped it down like sugar water. I took sips of the dark brew and light brew that my company were sampling. Might as well.

Brussels was more enchanting and fairytale-like when they finally decided to go home. I rolled onto their pull-out bed and was fast asleep immediately.

The next morning, Dore told me he did not do so good. In fact, his stomach was queasy all night and he hardly slept.

“Why?”

“The taste of the hog head and the blood sausages is still in my mouth.” For someone whose food group did not include pork it was quite an initiation.

Gift of the Magi

Night is a time of ownership. People are sleeping, and obligations are temporary suspended. It was good not to feel needed for a few hours, especially after the big Christmas cooking and cleaning. There was a need to give myself a present. Reading O. Henry’s Gift of the Magi came to mind. Long ago my children received a thick volume called The Book of Virtues, edited by William J Bennett. O. Henry’s story was in this book.

The characters: Della and Jim. The gifts: a fob chain and a pair of hair combs. The sacrifices: her hair, his watch. The irony: neither of them can use the gift.

I looked around my room: my children’s paintings when they were in preschool, a note from my daughter after her hat nearly fell off while dancing on stage, a plaster dinosaur, a red silk cocoon…I had never considered these things wise, but they had come from the Magi, who bore the gifts of love.

The Present of Christmas Past

God is the portable heater where Cookie, Klimey and Petey find peace and love. They stick their wet noses right up to the mesh screens and toast their whiskers; and sleep, one on each side (with the third snuggled tentatively behind). The son of God is the food bowl and water, which are now placed in close proximity. Double bliss, my children, double bliss.

There was always music on Christmas Eve when I was growing up. At church they turned the lights off in the sanctuary just before the processional, and the choir marched in with lighted candles. At home, father put the lights on the Christmas tree as we drooled over the wrapped presents underneath. We were not allowed to open any gifts until the 26th, which he called “Boxing Day”. I learned when I was quite young that the wrappings had a mystique about them that the actual presents did not. It was a shoe horn, hung on the branch of the tree for over a week dressed in purple paper and a red bow. After I unwrapped it I put what I had desired so fervently into a drawer and that was that.

“Is the grocery shop open?” How come the urge to shop is the greatest when everything is closed? How come I have to think twice before I say “Merry Christmas”?

Because someone like Dore will say “Humbug!”.

A Dreaded Activity

Paying bills maybe the number one dreaded activity. The second is house cleaning. Although many lost things are found this way, the pleasure of having a cleaned space is short-lived.

Growing up in Hong Kong our maid cleaned the house every day. Dusting, mopping, wiping, washing clothes by hands, waxing the floor (that’s about once a month), etc. These activities required a healthy and strong body—or that her body was made strong and healthy because of the activities.

Writing does not make a body strong. When it is required to bend and scrub and lift and put away I feel the strain. And with all the modern appliances they have not made cleaning more enjoyable. The only pleasure—and this be the only one— is knowing that I’ve done my best to keep visiting friends from having an allergy attack.

Winter Beach

Dan Brady and I walked out to Ocean Beach. We had both written a poem after a good lunch at the Beachside Cafe. After climbing up a small dune we could see it was low tide. A stretch of sand was cleanly swept, smooth and glistening. Little white sand dollars here and there, most of them broken. Dan wanted to walk to the water’s edge, but the bottom of one of my boots was slashed and I didn’t want to risk it getting wet. We found a piece of wood on a rock, large enough for us to sit down.

Fresh air and quietude. Two crows stood nearby, pecking the sand. We read our poems to each other, surprised that we had a similar title that was inspired by an old Irish guy rambling next to us as we tried to write. A man walked by with his dog, picking up pieces of garbage in the sand. “You can do that after you retire,” I said to Dan. But he said he just wanted to sit on a beach chair and doze away. Oh…and also to build a bonfire.

The city and all its busyness behind us, there was peace in the moment.

The Longest Night

Emerged from the longest night, we have stepped through another portal. Last night at Sacred Grounds there were music and poetry. We read poems about the Solstice. The mood was hearty and celebratory.

Transformation takes place in stealth, where there is no resistance. It needs an open gateway before the magic can work its way through. I felt it when I saw my son Lawrence yesterday. Our years of living apart has given him the freedom to live his life according to his own design. My mind went back to the struggles we had when he was small. In the darkest moment I thought I would never see the light.

But he and I have both emerged and transformed. The longest night was behind us. We stood at the threshold of a new dawn and said a loving farewell.

The Meaning of Peace

Is peace a condition or a state of mind? What is a peaceful demonstration? How do we “demonstrate” peace? Is it what they call “passive-aggressive”? Is there aggression in peace then? And how do we see ourselves as peaceful being? What are some of the examples? Nice to everyone? No worries? Always considerate and reaching out? Never greedy, never betray anyone, never fight another, never do wrong? (What is wrong?) Is shouting slogans peace? Is non-violence peace? Why is peace linked with security? What does peace have anything to do with security? Can change be peaceful? (Change is never peaceful). Can peace change the world? Does the world want peace, and what does it mean by wanting peace? I don’t know. I don’t know the meaning of peace.

Perhaps peace is the breath between conflicts, the silence before change. 12/22/11.

Collect a Poet

To collect a poet, go to art openings. Stand among the artists and sooner or later a poet emerges. You’ll know them when they recite lines from their favorite poets and talk about readings that they have been to, even if that happened ten years ago.

Or go shopping in the Haight. There are poets everywhere. Some are performing (it’s their day job). Some go to the Goodwill for bargains. They block traffic on the street when they run into each other, rave about salons and people they know and the laborFest and what-not.

Poets like to be collected. They like to jump into the net with other poets. After all they are lovers of words. Bring a few home. See if you like them.

Who Bought My Book?

Clarion carries copies of “Mystique”, my book of poems. I’m always curious when I notice a copy is missing from the shelf. First thought: someone stole it (which has happened before). But when it is clear that there was a transaction, I always want to know about the customer.

Lu, the owner, told me one day: “This guy walked in looking for instruments but ended up buying your book.”

I pressed him. “Tell me more.”

“He kept saying ‘beautiful, beautiful’ and asked me who was the poet.”

“What did you say to him?”

Lu laughed. “How should I know how to describe a poet? I told him she’s downstairs teaching piano.”

“Who was this man, then?” I imagined the man leafing through the pages of my book. Which poems did he read? Which ones did he like?

“He said he’s Italian… how should I describe an Italian?” He scratched his head, “eh, a funny guy.”