Animal Orientation

THE DESCENT

Trekking poles shorten

coming off the mountain

leading me, bringing

body closer to earth,

a turning  angle,

animal orientation

more sure of self

one of the four-leggeds,

Jim Bodeen

28 June 2015

WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?

It’s somebody’s pickle jar.

Jim Bodeen

26 June 2015

INVITATION FROM THE OTHERS: ACCOMPANIMENT WITH THE TREES

This hike to the alpine lake—it’s all about the trees,

            the fallen trees—walking through them

on the way to the lake. Standing there.

            The invitation in silence.

O fallen ones, your movement

            restoring community—

standing there, the charred ones—

            As I go out.

I will never forget you—you stood

            for the camera on the way in.

I didn’t see you coming—

            and there it was—

your invitation in silence.

The portraits, present—

            My God—

You’re part of the trail—

            burned black before me

already composed. You, who have been

            so patient—

as it was in your green life

            when you were making leaves

and candles—making leaves and candles—

            your story in your needle making,

in your deep rootedness,

            and in your deep belonging,

your belonging, and our entrance

            asking for treaties and interdependence—

In your great burgeoning forth

            of the cosmos, in which you played

(and so do you still),

            as it is in the great legacies—

you stood there.

            You thought you were

just walking to the lake with your pack

            and your water pump?

You stood there. You stand so still.

            You, the great trees,

in a wilderness place set aside for your well-being,

gave yourself up in flames.

You war word and witness.

            Word in witness—

Greeting me. You greet me,

            and the camera follows you

off trail. You watch as I walk out,

            thinking I know you—

recognizing you in your individuality—

            knowing you as you

went up in flames.

            You are kept as you stood

in mid-flame. The individual flame

            marking you where it took your life.

The point where the camera

            interacts with the flame

calls me out.

           

                        I recognize you now,

walking out. Walking out,

            I know you.

           

            My reach in accompaniment

is always greater than the actual walk.

            You stopped me on the trail.

I left the trail at your invitation—

            unable to resist your dark beauty.

There was no choice—

            You stood as the beloved stands,

and the cameras, which I carry,

            captured your light

coming from all that is unknown

            within me.

                       

                        Who are the lost ones?

                        What might they need to be found?

And all that is unknown and on fire,

            lights up in flames—

the flames remain.

            One follows the beloved

in an easiness, without guarantee.

            This is true as you are true.

Long ago, a young man, in another war,

            my country defoliated you

as part of a conscious plan

            aimed at the destruction

of your jungle family.

           

                        It was my job

to evacuate soldiers

            who had survived the battles,

the wounded ones—burned monks

            in monasteries, eschatons—

and the trees burned before us.

            Totems on the northern shores

of Haida Gwaii—

            How we saw the other—

It was my job to evacuate soldiers

            who had survived the battles,

the wounded ones, to burn centers.

There are no burn centers for the trees.

You have stood for the camera.

You are beautiful in fact, wound, flame.

            Beautiful in texture—

your blond wood shining

            under and after flames.

With and among you.

With and among you.

Asking for that.

Asking what you need.

You are the elders.

You are children of elders.

You are word out of silence.

Word into silence.

Jim Bodeen

26-29 June 2015