WALKING INTO THE LIVING ROOM/REGARDING MY PILGRIMAGE (WALK BUT NEVER LEAVE HOME)---

 

WALKING INTO THE LIVING ROOM, AFTER CHANGING

FROM SUNDAY’S CLOTHES, I SAY TO KAREN,

(WALK BUT NEVER LEAVE HOME),

REGARDING MY PILGRIMAGE TO COMPOSTELA: KAREN,


Yes? she says.


I’m on my last 48 miles.


She looks at me again. Lots of signs to walk around,

I say. I’ve been walking the Development Route since January.

452 miles. Lots of Stop signs to walk walk around.

Walk the short block during television commercials. Nine minutes.

Four-tenths of a mile. Walk to the Stop sign

when cookies are in the oven. She says to me,

My friend is on a cruise. She got to swim with dolphins.

That will shorten the lives of dolphins I say.

Nothing personal about your friend on Facebook.


Camino de Santiago. How did I get here.

One day returning from the morning mile walk,

low sun enables one to see tiny blades of grass

breaking through soil. Work one tiny thing at a time.

Front porch room. Sweep dead leaves in Cairn Park,

dig up seedling Rose of Sharon trees for Xander

and an Autumn Pine for neighbor down the street,

Earth Day will be here next week. And

The Japanese Garden by Sophie Walker

from Inter-library Loan with a surprising

4-week lending period. Time for absorption.

Who would have guessed this walk.


A housing development in Yakima.

Northern Spain. Sahugún was the half-way point

weeks ago, seems like. No middle middle

as they say in baseball.


Santo Santiago—Saint James. A fisherman.

When Jesus came to the Sea of Galilee,

he was fishing with his father and John.

They weren’t having any luck when Jesus said

dip those nets in the water again.


Santiago witnessed the Transfiguration of Jesus.

Did you know that?

Saint James now. He spread the Gospel

He crises-crossed Israel and the Roman Empire.

Spread the word for forty years in Spain.


A monument on the Camino de Santiago

near the Spanish city of Sahagún

marks the geographical halfway point.

Café Bar El Trasgu, one of the best stops

for the caminantes on the Camino.

Located in the center of downtown Sahugún,

better than the Bar Luna down the street.

At this point, the pilgrims have walked 250 miles.

Los peregrinos. Caminantes.

Son cansados. They’re tired. Some are cranky.

Pinche this, pinche that.

Peregrinos mi culo. Son de la cocina.

Some have given up and flown home.


After the discovery of the relics.

St. James opening the 9th century

Plenary indulgence could be earned,

complete in every respect.

Caminantes somos

y en el camino andamos.


Caballero Andante just south of us.


Legend holds that St James’s remains

were carried by boat to Jerusalem to northern Spain

where he was buried, now

the city of Santiago de Compostela.

Saint James and all that preaching in Spain.

Returned to Judaea after seeing a vision of the Virgin Mary

on the bank of the Ebro River.


El Camino de Santiago—also called

The Milky Way

formed from dust raised by traveling pilgrims.


And now these last 48 miles.

Yakima and the short block. Four tenths

of a mile. I said that. The stop signs.

Los ultimos kilometros. Mas en kilomitros.

Another week. Seven days. What country am I in?

I’ll be sitting in the pew during Pilgrim’s Mass.

La Catedral de Campostela

I can’t wait to lay my hands on that pillar

inside the doorway to the cathedral.


But today, still a couple of miles,

a few things. Prepare the garden for May Day.

Wheel that tree to the neighbor.

I suppose I’ll walk a mile at Costco

en el trafico terrible—a dentro Costco no?

Las mujeres manejando sus caritos de la compra.

Shopping carts and John the Baptist.

The Baptist calling for repentance

and all this walking aisles inside Costco.

There’s been a cost to this walk.

And on this walk—I’ll be in Composite

in a week—no one arrives. I’ve learned that

walking. Others know, too. If we understood

that from the beginning, well, you know

where this is going. But it’s beautiful.

It’s nothing if it’s not beautiful. I’ve got some things

to put away before I quit for the day.

The rake and pruners. Shovel and gloves.

Those two pails I used digging up the trees.


Jim Bodeen

February, March,-24 April 2024



MY BROTHER WAS SELECTED FOR HIS LOVE





 MY BROTHER WAS SELECTED FOR HIS LOVE


Myth is the secret opening

through which the inexhaustible energies

of the cosmos pour into human

cultural manifestation

Joseph Campbell

The Hero with a Thousand Faces


On Chuck’s birthday (he’s the coach)

(and today he’s 73), he’s had a call

from a former player, and she tells him

she’s six months sober. Why these stories

keep happening with Chuck! This is not

a question. On the phone he says, We talked

for an hour and all we talked about was God.


This is the side of my brother who sings

when the moon comes out at the beach.


My brother is the evidence of a transcendent world.

One’s own mind turned inside out.

He finds the beam of light in a chalk line on the ball field.


Your brother, Jim

23 April 2024












 

FOUR QUESTIONS

 

FOUR QUESTIONS


Hat? Not on its peg?

Where in long walker’s footsteps?

Am I not home?


Jim Bodeen

23 April 2024

FALLING INTO THE LILAC BUSH

 

FALLING INTO THE LILAC BUSH


Waking early, knowing

Something’s wrong with last night’s pome

Get up, find that root


Jim Bodeen

20-21 April 2024

LITTLE PRAYER WALKING

 

LITTLE PRAYER WALKING

One tenth of a mile

These walks are Little Prayer

Blessingway again



Jim Bodeen

19 April 2024



SPRING RAKING

 

SPRING RAKING


Winter thatch snow mold

Dogwood blossom overseer

Cheerful white petals


Smaller raked doesn’t talk back

Lets your body lean, look up


Jim Bodeen

18 April 2024

TWO LOVE POEMS FOR KAREN

 

TWO LOVE POEMS FOR KAREN



TALKING IN BED


I love when you fall into bed that way


What are you thinking


About getting old


Do you want me to read you a poem


Sure


I knew you did

            Jim

        


KAREN’S PINEAPPLE UPSIDE DOWN CAKE

WITH MARASCHINO CHERRIES


She waits twenty minutes

after her cake comes from the oven.

It’s one of those family recipes

where you’re not told

how to do anything

and when she turns it over

onto the aluminum foil

cookie sheet, she says,

Oh, it turned out just like my mother’s.


Jim Bodeen

13 April 2024


MORNING EPIPHANY

 

MORNING EPIPHANY


Coffee ready as I enter

house before sunrise

after walking

empty dishwasher

wipe down counter

telling myself

I’m taking care of things


Jim Bodeen

10 April 2024

APRIL SNOW ON SATUS PASS

 

APRIL SNOW ON SATUS PASS


Midnight espresso

I would suspect the parrot

Such deep green feathers


Rivers of muted trumpets

Life times with Duke Ellington


Jim Bodeen

4-6 April 2024

JESUS NOW, JESUS, NOW

 

JESUS NOW, JESUS, NOW


     --for Pr A. M.

Jesus laughs.

Already that deep!

Water up to here!


The West Coast poet

said to me, Steps

tiny and wise.


The East Coast poet

said, I am an infant

beginning to run.


Jesus laughs.

Jesus now.

Jesus, now.


Jim Bodeen

25 March 2024

FOR THE LENTEN SOUP AND BREAD MAKERS

 












FOR THE LENTEN SOUP AND BREAD MAKERS


Walk one mile in rain

Patagonia waters

wait for you at home


Was I gracious enough

for the bread and soup?

My favorite bowl, indeed,

my favorite meal--

that first week, Mary says,

For each of you,

one small bowl,

take one slice of bread.


Jim

23 March 2024

FOR THE MUSICIANS DURING LENTEN SERVICE

 

FOR THE MUSICIANS DURING LENTEN SERVICE

                --Bart, Barb, Ruth Ann, Scott


On the day the band

opened for poetry


no one thought

anything odd


or out of order

Music had opened


hearts and minds

No one knew


how we came

to be in a garden


Jim Bodeen

23 March 2024

WHEN ARETHA SANG

 

WHEN ARETHA SANG



How I Got Over,

she was. Mindful, now.

How we end

our Lenten poetry

with Mary Oliver’s

enjambed lines,

like that,

a striding over

smoothly and swiftly

alternating readers

without interruptions

punctuation gone

like screws from door jams

joyful waters

Of descending birth breath


Jim Bodeen

27 March 2024

SUCH A WALKING WAY TO BE

 

A WALKING STORY


Such a way to be. I came back from Viet Nam in mid-August 1968, and less than a month later I was enrolled in an evening drama course at Bellevue Community College. (Stationed at the 85th Evac Hospital in Qui Nhon on the South China Sea, I arrived from Panama, older, 22, we took all of the casualties from Tet. GIs and North Vietnamese, too. The North Vietnamese were 14 or or 15, and wrapped in mountains of gauze because they had been under those B-52 bombs that were dropped on them. I'm 23 then, that first night class, and the drama teacher says to me, Jim, step out into the hall with me for a minute. And on the other side of the door, he says, I'm going to show you how to walk into a room.

That story embellished itself over the years, turning into its own thing, but it's with me everytime a doctor taps on the door for permission to enter. And it shows up every Tuesday in Feldenkrais, too. Astonished, Mary Oliver would say.

So, again, thanks. What a surprise. jim

C--,

I've been savoring your question about walking into the room, What was it like? What was my walk like? holding on to it like a butterscotch candy in the mouth. It's that beautiful for me. Those details, I probably never knew, and I didn't have that awareness, Feldenkrais teacher, until this moment. Maybe that's why I had to wait to respond. I was trying to get it, but without success, going straight into the mythology of it. So I really don't know what I looked like. But I know it happened. And I know, that even though I don't have his name now, I wrote to him more than once, in the next year when we were in Ellensburg at school. And he wrote back. It was a good correspondence, and I believe those letters from him are saved, too. What I can add, is that I loved sharing the story with students over the years on how to walk into a room, going out, coming in like a stick man, arms stuck to my side, no bend in the knees, stiff neck, disconnected eyes. Then I would channel him, talking to him, "Like this? Moving my arms like this?" And, "Bend the knees--at the same time that I'm moving my arms back and forth? Like That? What do you mean, in opposition?" And in the course of two or three minutes, collapsing time over months, gradually I came out entering the room like a Michael Jackson country boy from North Dakota. The students would all be laughing at me, raising their hands and saying, Let me! Let me! Let me go out and walk into the room.!

In another room, at another time, taking Mom to the doctor in her last years, The tap on the door, The doctor entering, looking at Mom, then at me, my notebook open. His silence. I would look at him until we had eye contact before saying, "My name is Jim. I'm Lucille's biographer."

Have a good Friday. See you Tuesday. Zoom, Zoom. 

THE GROCERY LIST INCLUDES BUTTERMILK

 

THE GROCERY LIST INCLUDES BUTTERMILK


Everybody owns their own Holy Week.


Would you like to sit with the poems of Mary Oliver?


You thought we did that already?

Heavens no.

We were just trying to wash

the matter from our eyes.


And when Karen comes to bed

I’ve been dozing, and books

and papers have fallen

to her side of the bed.

She finds me like this,

I’m a bit sheepish,

pre-occupied,

so full of other things

as the beloved approaches.


Jim Bodeen

23 March 2024

I COULD RUIN YOUR DAY RIGHT NOW, FOLKS,

 

I COULD RUIN YOUR DAY RIGHT NOW, FOLKS,


and I just might. It’s the Fifth Week

of Lent and Easter remains two weeks off.

I’ve been with a group of Christians

reading poems, and as days lengthen,

and Jesus’s resurrection (as well as ours),

too far off to contemplate. People

have been struggling with metaphor

and as one who has walked with poems

I’ve been losing sleep myself. The fun part

(and the problem that follows) comes

right now, and I’m on my way

up the mountain with my niece

and nephew, and their dad, to ski,

I’m the uncle and it’s my job

to show them how to turn, part

of the Lenten experience, right?

My task to show them unweighting

and the downhill ski. They’re 5 and 7,

buckled in the back seat

and their Dad’s driving, talking

to his son about a video game:

You don’t want to wear a Yankee’s hat,

why not be an Oriole or a Red Leg?

To which his daughter begins singing,

Yankee Doodle went to town

riding on a pony, and her younger

brother catches up with her before

he sticks the feather in his cap.

And now I’m paying attention

as they sing again, after the feather’s

in the cap, and calls it macaroni.

I’m singing now myself under my breath,

my breathing hearing something coming

up from the deep. The feather.

The macaroni. That’s the answer.

The connection I’m looking for.

Christians will sing out in praise and remembrance.

I’m writing in my notebook as they sing,

singing as I write, I’m your Yankee

Doodle sweetheart, you’re my

Yankee Doodle boy. Sing it again,

the boy cries, mind the music

and your step and with the girls be handy.

Hear the sounds! I write.

The plosive Ds, the rich vowels.

The repetition and the over and over.

This is hot. The Long A and E

The Y and the elusive double o

singing doodle. All song and all sound.

Everything already loaded

into neuron pathway. Instant recall

and deliverance. Yankee Doodle

keep it up, keep it up. And again.

Yankee Doodle Dandy. Keep it up.

The delight and the repetition.

And the children singing in the backseat,

mountains before us. This ride

into the ecstatic. Forget London.

How fun being in this car singing

with my notebook, and just as fast

as I can write keep it up, just

that fast new lines from old lines.

I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy,

Yankee Doodle do or die.

This is no longer child’s play.

Even the voices have changed.

George Washington is gone.

You’re losing your audience.

Keep it up the pony says,

like is he the drive or the driver?

This is evolution as play.

The revolutionary song is deconstructing.

Where did the feather in the cap go?

What happened to the macaroni?

Oh, Yankee Doodle, don’t stop now.

You must keep going. You see,

don’t you where this is going.

This is not a Christian moment.

Look again at Yankee Doodle Dandy.

Consider him for what he is, a Yankee.

Consider the dandy. As a Yankee,

he bears no last name. The doodle

becomes a verb, a doodling.

The doodling is fun, encouraging, too.

A new kind of delight. Dandy evolved,

another shift in our breathing. Some-

thing else is going on. Something, fun,

the body doodling and fine, and OK,

oh yes. Are we approaching

the summit? Skis have been forgotten.

Lent itself is gone. All this joy

as we live out the dark time of book burning.

Poetry itself is suspect.

What is this macaroni? And delight?

Delight in the song? The song remains.

The song still sings. It’s all I can hear,

how can I sleep without singing?

I play Billie Holiday. I channel Frank Sinatra.

I try and bend the notes as Billie taught Frank.

The early upbeat catalog of song.

It’s beautiful. Even But Beautiful

returns from Lady in Satin

with all that sadness. You know

where I’m coming from, don’t you, friends.

After the encore with Lester Young,

after bending melodies, when the stage empties,

it all comes back. Past the metaphor.

All that willful disobedience, beyond

the immaturity. Do or die. Inside the song.

Die and die and die until

you’ve been born again. The poet exposed

crossing boundaries creating chaos.

Jesus will cheer.

Yankee Doodle comes right back.

Maybe you’re making dinner.

I told you I could ruin your day.

You will never be the same.

Poetry will do that. It will ruin you for life.


Jim Bodeen

15-16 March 2024

STUMBLING CAN BE LOVELY

 

MY FRIEND SENDS ME AN EMAIL

               --for Terry Martin


Stumbling can be lovely

A picture of a person

holding up a bike

after a fall


Once she showed

me where a word

came from

and it was like seeing

ball bearings

on your bicycle’s

back wheel


I wrote her back


That's what they say

those experts


Me, I’m an amateur

I practice lots

All us lovers

Sometimes it’s all we got

is our practice



Jim Bodeen

8 March 2024

AFTER YOU WALK THE CAMINO

 

AFTER YOU WALK THE CAMINO


You’re a pilgrim forever.

Notes in my back pocket with my handkerchief.

We all took a pair of Maria’s socks after she died.


Walking with Karen

Sudden hailstones in sunshine

Walking with Mary Oliver in her thirst.


Honor the work of a caregiver

When she was the first lady of California

The Journey upended her life.


When he gave me the walking stick

he said Jesus for sure. We’re both reporters.

When you’re dreaming the other


you become the other.

Her furrowed brow, queer and handsome.

Queer comes into the dictionary in 1513.


Connecting to the words of Emily Dickinson

I almost missed the rhyme.

There were some long nights in North Dakota.


This is everything I had in my pocket.

There was a bit of fudging only because

There remained a couple of fragments from an earlier prayer.


Jim Bodeen

9 March 2024

IT'S THE CURSE OF LUCILLE

 

IT’S THE CURSE OF LUCILLE

         [Talking with my wife, remembering my mother, after the game]


Even when playing

Double solitaire in cards

Rooting for others


Jim Bodeen

9 March 2024

ALTAR FLOWERS


 










ALTAR FLOWERS

            for M. H.


This is how the flowers see us

leaving worship. Just minutes ago

we were seated before them, these beauties,

Lutherans in Central Washington.

In our pews, mums and roses

below the cross, in between

the piano and the choir.

Our cross, an artist’s creation,

gold leaves opening upward like hands,

giving praise, give silent testimony to live,

an object transformed by suffering.


Minutes earlier we walked

towards this cross, and these petaled blossoms,

giving thanks for a Thanksgiving meal,

and after the meal, the pastor folds

a white linen cloth over the silver cup

resting on the altar, also beautiful,

even as this beauty yields to a life fully lived.

A full bouquet placed in water and arranged in a crystal vase,

once more in between, and standing in quiet beauty,

roses a winter pale, off-white,

pink at the top edge of unfurling petals.


Walking past the altar to stand

behind the flowers with the camera,

one can see what the flowers see

in our departure after worship.


What they see in us, we don’t know.

We have words for them,

ephemeral in their short lives.

And we did sit before them

and marveled at how flowers were possible.

Did we say we were also lucky

to be in their presence?

Perhaps not. But we saw them.

We took in all that we could,

and other things we are not even aware of

happened too. We glimpsed ourselves,

I’m sure of that, made more

beautiful because of their presence.


We remembered Marie, too,

we did, and smiled, remembering her joy,

remembering her Ballard roots.

Some of us were new, this Sunday,

and never had the opportunity

to know Marie. And they partake

of what she has given us. The flowers

are silent before so many things.

I’m one of the blessed ones,--

blessings surely, have nothing to do with luck.

Marie and I were confirmed in the same church

in Seattle—different classes--Prince of Peace Lutheran--

Pastor Olin Nordsletton. Pastor Ollie.

Both us glowed saying his name.

Marie told me, We had 59 of us

in our Confirmation Class.

I countered remembering what I memorized

besides the 66 books of the Bible in order.

Marie was a Ballard girl, that gave her some attitude--

and my wife, Karen, also from Ballard,

smiles at that one. Karen reminds us how Marie

loved providing flowers for Sunday worship.


And this morning, this Sunday,

these flowers, present, again.

Before us, as we enter, watching us as we depart.

Much of what we carry we carry unspoken,

uncertain and unknown to others. And yet

so many encounters with beauty, these mortal

blossoms with the cup and cross and altar.

These participants in beauty and our own unfolding,

as we ask ourselves, What just happened?

What was that taking place in our weakness?


Jim Bodeen

3 March 2024




 

BENEATH THE RADIANT MOUNTAIN

 

THE SUPER BOWL BENEATH THE RADIANT MOUNTAIN


Yes, this afternoon, sometime after three


Hours after the Gospel lesson in Mark


Jesus on the Mountain

dazzling, alongside

Elijah and Moses


About wore me out


Karen asking over coffee,

How did that happen


Jim Bodeen

11-13 February 2024

OTHER TO WHAT WE WERE SHOWN

 

THERE IS NO OTHER WAY

TO SAY THIS BEING OTHER

TO WHAT WE WERE

TAUGHT AND SHOWN

          --for B.G.


The prayer

that comes up

has no content

but here’s

your name

as I walk

and this is

my prayer


and it is

prayer

and prayer

it is


Jim Bodeen

4 February—9 February 2024



READING SCRIPTURE

 

READING SCRIPTURE

    --after Michael Edwards


His sudden presence

of being differently

from nostrils comes smoke


Jim Bodeen

3 February 2024

SABBATH, OR SUNDAY

 

SABBATH, OR SUNDAY


Home from the Safeway,

late Sunday morning after worship, unlock

the door to house for Karen, turn

and walk the short block

around the stop sign, up

to Wellington and back around

to 54th and Whitman

where I turn back on 56th

and home. Four point two tenths

of a mile to the front door,

just about eight minutes, maybe

a minute longer than most

television commercials,

and enter the house.


Two playoff football games

have been scheduled back to back,

on different, collaborating channels,

programmed for seven or eight hours,

in what is called prime time.


My country is heavily invested

in having as many people as possible

inside for the duration of the day,

even past sunset. January

is the longest month.


When

I am given this time, these seven

minutes, ok, eight, sometimes

I don’t know what it is. It is so much

other that I don’t recognize it as time.

It frightens me.


Jim Bodeen

28-30 January 2024

KAREN'S BIRTHDAY WEEK IN THE NEW YEAR

 

KAREN’S BIRTHDAY WEEK IN THE NEW YEAR

I.


Three candles in the rain

when Karen comes into the room.

What’s the name of that quilt company?

Missouri Star. I want to call it Morning Star.

But it’s Hamilton, Missouri.

This was the season of your advent, Karen.

All those games we played with two decks of cards,

the ones with the quilt pattern.

Three games a day, errors in proofreading

the cards. Another translation.

Poetry fulfills and it doesn’t.

You’re 79 years old, telling me,

There’s another earthquake in Japan.


If one wants to express and deepen one’s faith,

why write a poem? What is it

touches us in the psalms? Leaving behind

the prose of our daily lives, we cross

into a strangeness, an adventure of sorts,

even in the doctor’s office, handing you

my pen, the fuscia-colored Parker.

Quilters hold the world,

every square a story, every story

a container of loss. Karen telling me

of the mother who lost her son,

whose daughter-in-law, in treatment,

is getting her life together with a quilt

of muted colors for the daughter-in-law.


II.


This is all practice, Karen,

finishing with your clothes before seven,

lighting candles. “My clothes?”

you ask, walking into the living room,


empty and dark but for the two of us

and the candles. What a day

we had with our children ending the year!

And last night we were alone,


watching, listening, soul-stirring voices

of Yolanda Adams and songs of Lionel Ritchie.

And now some light from windows.

I’ll let the candles burn and then


perhaps a walk. Always

more than one piece of reality

available. Three meals for twelve people

in the last seven days. 2023


will be remembered as the year

climate change arrived. Taking notes

from The Bible and Poetry,

“We cross a threshold, find ourselves


among the strange.” Reading psalms,

I’m the only one in the room without an Iphone.

My brother comes over to watch the game.

Your left ankle, fractured years ago, unnoticed,


has been x-rayed, and placed in a plastic boot,

where it’s been for a month. Still, the oatmeal

was good with apple and cinnamon; making

toast for you on this day, even greater joy,--


we made that strawberry freezer jam this summer

after berry picking—you so much, being all that has ever

been real. What I followed, God visible, in you,

this terrible weight to carry. No angels,


no Magnificat, the muse for a lost

young man just home from war. At the beginning

you sustained me in my hungry search

to be human. There was so much work to do


before you could be yourself, and you, too,

with your own work. So much to learn. All

that work of having to be someone’s God.

No angels and your own mother gone.


III.


And you carried us without complaint,

once or twice perhaps, sideways

something offhand, No,

I never felt that way,


so when I read your poems,

they were just poems. We were raising

our kids, and my work at the bank,

it felt important, and I had responsibility


to my customers. After this card game,

when we get up from the table,

I’m going out to my studio.

That embroidery I’m adding,

this morning it just might work.


And getting up from the table

you step into your life with fabric,

an assemblage artist, creator of landscapes,

a colorist, perhaps most subtle

in use of threads. Filling our home

with beauty, ranging from Japanese silks

to Americana folk art on coffee tables.

After birthing others, bringing them along

assenting to vision-dreams in your listening,

birthing yourself again and again.


Love, Jim

2-24 January 2024