My poet friend asks, What is a mountain?

BONE MARROW

            —for my daughter Krista

You are bone marrow

for the world. You

give your blood

to dead bones.

Bones walk away,

you too, transplanted.

Dad

18 April 2010

PARA COMER SALUDABLE 

            —para Leah Meiser, maestra

Seis mesas y seis estudiantes

sentado a cada mesa, azul, verde

amarillo y rojo—25 niños en kinder

saliendo la escuela

caminando al super

la clase de nuestra hija—

Karen y yo, esposa/o

abuelitos llevando

chalecos de amarillo

y naranja para cruzando

la calle, escuchando

m’ija, cuidado

con los perritos

agarrando las manos

los niños llamando Karen

mi novia, tomando mi mano

caminando en una fila

cada estudiante con su compañero

calles peligrosas

podemos, queremos, tenemos

Llegando el super

vamos a probar las frutas

un paseo al parque después

¿Cual es su primer comida?

Presten atención

Comida a veces, comida siempre

¿Porque? Porque  tiene azucar

El panadero Rubén

Hago pastelitos, hago bolillos

Es muy rico aquí

Hey guys want to see something cool?

¡Hace frio! Ha, ha, ha

Prueba la chocolate de soya

Pasan después

Estamos hablando de comida saludable

Medicina importante

Bocas cerradas aquí

la ultima parada

lapiz, agua, arregla

gracias

Seguimos caminando

al parque a comer

y jugar

caminantes somos

No estamos cansado

Sí estamos cansado

No estamos cansado

Sí estamos cansado

Su papa, Jim

17 de abril 2010

LINES FOR MY BROTHER ON WILLIE MAYS

You’re carving ham on Easter

when I ask you that question on Willie.

James Hirsch says he sits right next to Ruth

and I wanted your thoughts before

putting a 600-page book in your hands.

Your careful answer runs the list of names

through all possibilities, Pujols and Griffey,

before circling back to Say Hey Mays.

Mays had no interest in toppling sacred records,

like the way you coach fastpitch,

Chuck. I love to watch you work—

practice more than games. You’re conditioned

for joy to this play. Mays outperforms Ruth

at the same age. Mays defies his biology

when he doesn’t retire. You take another life

in an alternative universe, show how

many ways to win exist in a single game,

breaking innings into pieces as small

as the next pitch. Hope as fact,

basket catches made running away.

Your brother, Jim

16 April 2010

WALKING THE ICE IN MALIGNE CANYON

            —for Tim Bodeen

As the farthest point North,

Jasper has one place to buy diesel, 
so diesel’s on our minds. We want

to find Maligne Canyon, too. The man

at the pump next to me tells us how.

He’s local. Yes, Maligne Canyon.

It’s not really a cave, but the river’s frozen,

you can walk it, be careful,

the man from Jasper tells me.

It’s close, you don’t need a guide.

I put sand in my pockets

and spread it on the ice

as I walked. It’s at the 5^th bridge

out of town. You’ll see where

people duck under the fence

and walk to the river.

I ended up breaking my arm

doing things I shouldn’t

have been doing. It’s after 5

when we get out of the truck

and begin walking. I’m beat

but the ranger says there’s time

and it will be light until after 7.

In a couple of months there won’t

be anything but light, he says.

My son and I, man and man,

on the Ice Field Parkway.

Now if I can make it to the ice.

Tim, energized by the drive

and ice on frozen rivers,

carries the camera working the documentary

in the same way he’s taken care

of the mothership. I slip,

ducking under the fence,

making my first fall. Mud

before ice, I say to myself.

Where the Maligne River runs frozen

I step towards a rock and sit.

In silence I say the names

of my friends. I don’t need to go

any farther. The young man goes

farther than the old man. For the first

time, I feel old. Tim guides me across ice

from rock to rock, much as the way

he skied me down

Double Black Diamond runs

at Kicking Horse, as though

cornices weren’t cornices. Past

frozen falls, into caves with running water.

Step in there, Tim says, and I say OK,

taking off my hat, washing

head and face, a ritual bath.

We find a natural hole in the ice

and lean together with our heads,

listening to music of water below.

Slip the camera in, I say,

all the way into the ice, record the music

of the water. Ice light

surprises even the camera, side-

lighting the under-river in reflection.

Now I’m done, I say. I let you go.

You let me go a long time ago, he says.

No, I didn’t, I say.

I’m dizzy by the frozen moments.

Crossing water gives me vertigo.

You go, I say. Turn around so that

you get us back to the truck

in good light. Record what you find.

This is the farthest point North for me.

30 minutes on this rock

turns into 30 minutes of sleep.

I’ll fall on the way back, but won’t get hurt.

Tim’s eyes will guide my feet.

Walking north into his own truths,
the guide isn’t young in his confidence.

Jim Bodeen

14 April 2010


I AM THE SHERIFF

I didn't know if I still
wanted the job, but I do.

Overalls, boots, hat,
and a morning's work

with music, walking
with my rake,

pruners holstered
on my hip. I stop

my neighbor, the new guy
from Texas, and he rolls down

his window. I am the sheriff,
I say. You're FBI,

but I'm local authority.
My job is wood smoke,

music on three corners,
and slowing traffic.

Jim Bodeen
13 April 2010


GREEN DAYS OF MORNING JOY

            —for Amy Huacani

Unwrapping the surprise carefully,

(What would a potter send but a pot?),

I take the first cup and place it

inside my arthritic left hand,

sacred outsider who cares for me,

saying to myself, This is morning

pleasure medicine for daily use.

Yunomi cups from Amy in North Carolina.

Japanese teacup with no handle.

I’ve been using a cup whose handle broke

when Sadie’s tail took it off the table.

Best way to hold it, Amy says,

is at the top rim, and bottom

so you don’t burn yourself.

Yesterday my granddaughter

burned herself drinking China

green tea from the metal cup.

Now I can show her how.

The cup will cool fast.

The cups come in pairs,

called meoto yunomi,

meoto means married couple.

Same pattern, one slightly larger,

in similar, but different, shape—

husband, wife cups. We’ll

call them Grandpa/Katie cups,

or Grandpa/Josh cups. For green tea,

daily use, comfort ceremony.

Jim Bodeen

12 April 2010

CELEBRATING WITH YOU, AGAIN, MOM

—for Lucille Bodeen at 86

Nine of your great grandchildren

huddle around you at the kitchen table,

Mom. Josh holds your cupcake

with the lit candle close.

Evelyn smiles from her open book.

Your children, grandchildren, great grandchildren

gather around you. We sing,

and you make a wish. When the candle

goes out and we cheer, we look

around the table and glimpse

your creation once again.

Jim

11 April 2010

REMEMBERING EARLY DAYS AT WHITE PASS

            —for Nelson Bennett

Nelson walks through the lodge

like he did then, when he ran this place.

Nelson’s 95 and 3 months.

Nelson Bennett came to White Pass

in 1960, from Sun Valley,

a few years after they cut Highway 12

across the summit. 10,000 bucks a year.

Nelson said stumps were six feet tall

and you had to have eight feet of snow

to ski. Old baseball cap and sweater,

blue vest, red suspenders, mussed hair.

Nelson’s here to take questions.

I’m here to thank him for Tom Mullen

who isn’t here, and hundreds of kids

from the alternative school who skied free

when Tom told him their story. I still see

those lives you saved with Tom. Thanks.

I taught with Tom and school

was on this mountain every Friday for ten years.

Tom died, but it sure seems he’s here with us.

Nelson smiles. It’s a selfish sport,

he says. You don’t need a team

to change your ways on a mountain.

Before you cut a new trail,

Nelson says, walk it for three years.

Build it narrow. Widen it later

if you need to. His best day of skiing?

Two weeks ago in New Hampshire.

He still races. 10^th Mountain Division

Ski Team—two runs, slalom.

I will not bore the hell out of you,

Nelson says looking around,

but 95% of you are overbooted—

the bar is open.

Jim Bodeen

10 April 2010

AFTER MORE THAN A YEAR'S SEARCH

TO GET HER LIFE BACK, MY DAUGHTER,

WIFE, MOTHER AND TEACHER,

EARNS THE DIAGNOSIS OF MULTIPLE SCLEROSIS

AND DECLARES FOR LIFE

    

             —for Leah

I'm not going crazy

and I'm not going to die.

Jim Bodeen

9 April 2010

CAPTAIN OF THE SHIP

Leaving the launchpad, I hand Tim the keys. He’s a man as much as he’s a son. He shows me this. He’ll show it for the next ten days. Pulling out onto Bell Avenue, the power of the Dodge with its marriage to the Lance Camper all lifted by the air bags underneath, takes his breath away, as it does mine. This is the maiden voyage, the winter practice after the winter practice. We’ve made ritual, burned sage, blessed the ship and did what we could to purify our hearts. Before driving the Columbia Icefields Parkway on this 10-day alpine skiing journey north. I’d cut some sage for the Smudge Ceremony, and I’d bundled some to make some smoke to purify the mothership of any negative energy that might be brought into it, or left over, for that matter. Dan saw the sage I'd cut and didn't like it. He cuts his own and brings it wrapped in ribbon. I wrote friends who knew about journeys and asked for their advice. I have those kinds of friends.

Tim is 39. I’m 64. Tim planned the trip last fall. He drove over the mountains from Seattle, and we’re driving north and east to cross the border. Some of you know Tim. Some of you know me. It has taken me a month to arrive at some kind of epiphany on this ritual. I think it’s been given to me. It comes in the form of a poetry reading Richard Hugo gave in the KIVA at Davis High School nearly thirty years ago now. He began reciting a poem and nobody knew that the reading had started until it was over. That’s the kind of ceremony I’d like to have on Friday. Isn’t that what elders do? Wouldn’t they sit around the back porch wondering how to do this? How to cut and bind the sage? Weren’t they, too, trying to wake from a kind of sleep where they’d forgotten the old ways? Ceremony of no ceremony. So wherever you are, and what ever you offer becomes part of the conversation, part of the porch talk, part of the ceremony. Whatever you bring, whatever you say, however you say it, or sing it. It’s time to load the storyship. Basho, Jesus, Cold Mountain. Buffy St. Marie. Crazy Cloud. Neil Young. Skaay, too, translated by Robert Bringhurst. Sitting out back, then, on the porch, with music and talk, briefly. How do we make this smoke?

Marty, Barry, Jody, Jim, Vance, Dan, participated. Karen, of course. Jody sent an order of ceremony followed by an urgent, P.S. Important: I just remembered something very important! I don't know how I could have forgotten it! At the very beginning of the ceremony, before invoking the Spirits of the Four Directions, the first thing you say is: "Grandmothers, Grandfathers"... I have no idea how I left out the ancestors. Maybe I just assumed their attendance. So here it is again, in toto:

First you face the direction you'll be traveling in.

Then you light the sage.

Cleanse yourself with the smoke by passing the sage around you and waving the smoke towards you, with your hand or with a feather.

First you say 'Grandmothers, Grandfathers,'

Then move the sage in the four directions, saying '
Spirits of the Four Directions'

Then move it up and down, saying
'Father Sky and Mother Earth'

Then make a circle above your head, saying '
The Eagle that flies between the realms'

Then make a circle far above your head, saying,
'And the Great Spirit beyond everything,
about whom nothing can be spoken'

Then say, 'Be with us.'

Then make your prayer, whatever it is.

After that, walk around your rig, waving the smoke to it,

then go inside both the camper and the pickup,
waving the smoke in all the corners.

Then you make an offering,
like four bundles of good pipe tobacco wrapped in squares of cloth:
red, yellow, blue and black.
Hang these, in the four corners of the mother ship.
Hang the feather in the cab of the pickup.

Then you give thanks, ending by thanking the spirits above for attending.

Jody

That’s how we waved goodbye to Karen. After our ceremony. Karen's camera is ceremony, too. Along with her blankets and quilts inside the housemoving. My work was done. Tim would captain the ship and the map. Dan made a film. We carried another bundle of sage wrapped in red ribbon by Dan. I tucked it behind the barbecue in an outside compartment. For the ceremony when we would turn and start for home. Karen waved with the following words, “At the border declare everything.”

Jim Bodeen

3 March-8 April, 2010

LINES FOR MY SON BEGINNING
A 10-DAY SKI TRIP NORTH ON POWDER HIGHWAY


The way to Jasper
began long before you found
it on the map, years before
you proposed this father-son

journey North with skis.
You've given me more than
Sugar Daddy boards,
my son, and this morning

I pause long enough
for this note to place inside
Mountains and Rivers without End,
the way we've made walking,

inside and outside of time.
The mothership is language
I first heard from you
listening to George Clinton.

It's packed and ready to drive
North, a cloud(ship), a dream quilt,
a kind of story-promise, promised
and delivered, sage-sealed.

Love,

Dad
7 March 2010