This is the second day of
the dead, the time when the veils between worlds are thin, maybe non-existent.
A few years back, I was
given news that an acquaintance had died two months previously.
I think the fact that I
got the news so late shocked me and there was the confusion that sometimes
happens when confronted with the death of someone we never knew very well –
“How
should I feel?”
It’s an interesting question.
Because it implies there’s
a blueprint for how we should feel in certain situations. But feelings are
feelings. We feel how we feel.
That night I wandered
around in the cold,
after reading some
translations of Li Po
(or Li Bai)
by David Hinton.
While I was outside, I saw
a light flash on and off up on the mountainside above the road.
Who would be up there in
this cold, at this time of night? I waited for a few minutes – no more flashes.
Was it a hallucination?
I suppose the poem is centered around mortality, transcience:
mine and everyone else's...
Shadows, Wandering
After Li Po
1.
News of a death. Two months gone.
The full moon polishes leftover snow on a distant
cliff.
I did not know her well – and what does that mean?
My shadow moves through the shadow of a dead sunflower.
2.
The moon circles through bare branches.
I see her face. What were the last words we said
to each other?
Everything, absolutely everything tonight, is
porous.
My fingers touch the cold, the reflected light,
other shadows …
3.
A small light flickers on the black mountainside,
disappears.
Who could be up there? Dry stalks rub together:
The sound of shadows wandering, looking for the
Ancient Way.
I move among stones, then lift my hand, examine it
for no reason.
