poet – Page 3 – Clara Hsu

My Liang Mountain

One of my favorite classical Chinese novels is Tales of the Water Margin. It describes the release of 108 spirits that had been trapped by an enormous tortoise. The spirits took human forms and became outlaws. They gathered in the Liang Mountain and fought government corruption and injustice.

After wandering for over forty years, I walked into the Sacred Grounds Cafe one afternoon in 2001 and knew that I had arrived at my Liang Mountain. The outlaws were people from all walks of life but their spirits were unmistakable. They recognized me as I recognized them and we banded together ever since.

There are a few Liang Mountains in San Francisco. North Beach’s Cafe Trieste is presided over by Jack Hirschman, our former Poet Laureate. You don’t need a pass traveling from mountain to mountain but you may feel a little bit alienated without seeing a familiar face and the outlaws tend to huddle in groups. I was walking towards Trieste one day and saw such a group sitting in front of the cafe. Before I opened the door I heard my name. It was not a call out to me, but someone had written a poem with me in mind and was about to share it with the others. I turned around and saw Peter Sherburn-Zimmer’s angelic face, equally surprised to find me standing there. After he read he handed me the poem and I felt doubly initiated.

Ground Beef Vs. Filet Mignon

When poets talk about other poets we come up with the damnedest analogy. But who is comparing, except those who think they are better than others? The Almighty looks down on earth and separates the ground beef from the filet mignon. No more is needed to be said.

Words are a poet’s toy. We play as children in the same sand pit until some clever beings decide to divide and conquer, bait us with fame and riches and whatever egotistical massage. If we take them seriously we’ll ultimately surrender our soul as well as our toy.

My friend Don Brennan is quick to block the butcher’s knife and stop the chopping before we all get sick. “I’m the loser poet.” He said it without a flinch, and we go back to playing with words as children.

The #11 Bus

Stick shift and bad back do not make good bedfellows. But I’m the kind of person who likes to sit in front of the computer until the last minute and then dashes out the door. When I am forced to abandon my “third leg” because of back spasms I have to reevaluate my priorities.

The world has always been what it is. Only when I enter it at a different portal do I notice new things like fresh air, the fog, the wind, sunshine, the moon and the rhythm of my heart. As a poet I write about these elements often enough. But they are through the imagination and not so much the body. Taking the bus I find an entire community of its own as we rub shoulders and smell each other’s odor and listen to each other’s conversation. A long walk navigating between people and animals, observing the glorious old cinemas that have deteriorated into garages and sundry stores on Mission Street, I find my slowing metabolism speeds up. It is all good. #11, as we call legs, is the bus I’m taking these days. Unlike Muni, I can depend on them.