Little People, Big Mountain


















BOOGERS

Why do they call it, Booger King?
my grandson asks. Let’s write it out,
I say, taking out the notebook,
handing him the pen.
Spell it like the sign says,
B-U-R-G-E-R-K-I-N-G.
Now cross out the “R”
X it out.
Whatcha got?

Jim Bodeen


IN POOR COUNTRIES
I KNOW THAT

families often leave
the youngest child
with grandparents
in old age,
medicine
for their loneliness.

Jim Bodeen
17 February 2013


EARWAX

Sammie's taking pictures trying to make me smile.
I show her how to keep fingers from lens and off flash.
"The lens is the eye. It helps focus, too.
Sometimes the camera's eye is better than the eye in my head.
It can see things your eye can't see."

"Yeah," Josh says, listening from bed, "like earwax."

Jim Bodeen


GRANDCHILDREN TALKING ABOUT GOD
IN THE GOAT ROCKS WILDERNESS

God made the snow we ski on.
He made the snow
and he made the mountain
below the snow.
He made Hogback Mountain.
But he made the snow too.
He made the earth below the snow.
He made the sky and the sun and the moon.
But how did he put them there
in the same time during the day?
He made our skis and our helmets.
He didn't make snow yellow,
that's our pee.
But did he make our pee?
God made us,
but our papa helped him
when we grew with God
in our mommies' tummies.
But we grew in God's tummy first.

Jim Bodeen, listening
February, 2013


















OLD MAN IN THE COFFEE SHOP

Called out by the barista
at Starbucks, I hear the sound
of my green tea frappuccino
coming up from the bottom 

of the glass, going through the straw.
"You're making more noise
than those kids, Grandpa," she says.
We're just done ice skating,

and the kids want hot chocolate.
Her follow-up, which I ask her to repeat,
shows generational condescension.
"Young at heart?" or, "Young in fact?"

I ask, to which Sammie laughs
repeating to her mother
getting into the car.
"The lady said Grandpa's

young in fat, Mama."
I pull out my notebook,
writing "fact" and "fat"
for Sammie to see, asking

if she can hear the difference.
We're in a movie now, back in Starbucks,
Grandpa's causing a scene, a ruckus,
old sucker with his straw.

13 February 2013


IS THE EARTH A GIRL OR A BOY?

Which tree is the Mama Tree, Grandpa?
Sammie asks looking at a family of trees
on the drive up the mountain.
Is the Earth a girl or a boy?

Jim Bodeen
16 February 2013

















POLKA DOTS ON A FROZEN LAKE

Two months now
on the mountain

with little people
on little skis, each day

newly spectacular
as they master themselves

by the moment, sculpting
sandwiches around bread crusts

with their mouths,
mountains in peanut butter,

I stay home, close to the couch,
eyes closed.

Jim Bodeen
12 February 2013

















LISTENING TO CHILDREN ON SKIS

In the car, on the chairlift,
clicking into their skis,

calling for you, calling at you,
and even then skiing away

from you as you want them to.
Their language clicking in too.

Songs you haven't heard
in decades. Songs you haven't

heard since your own children
were young. You also,

so young. Then.
Writing it all down.

Trying so hard
to be poet.

Jim Bodeen
11 February 2013

DRINKING THE LIGHT ON SOLSTICE

THE WAY OF THE MOUNTAIN, THE WAY OF THE CHILD




 





























DRINKING THE LIGHT ON SOLSTICE

Josh, my grandson, is seven,
and today we sweep the mountain
with Ski Patrol at White Pass.
What is sweeping, Grandpa?
Josh asks. You know, what a broom does.
That's what we do. Sweep, looking for anyone
lost, stuck, or just fooling around.
We help get the mountain ready for sleep.
But first, let's look at this light.

Josh is the unexpected gift of solstice.
I know what time it is, and where we are.
White Pass is where I come on this day
to be in the light, with the light,
to watch it go, too, to be a silent part
of this mountain returning to mountain.

With grandkids, our first job is to get to High Camp,
one of the backcountry treasures permitted
in the wilderness, what Goat Rocks gave us
when we promised consciousness.
Josh loves to say, Let's go to Hogback.
Taken by skis and lifts, through Doug Firs
with long hanging strands of Old Man's Beard,
where I first packed in 40 years ago.
We make waffles, loading them with berries and cream.
We take each other's pictures with our phones.
We call and tell parents where we are,
that we're here, and we're all right, at High Camp.

Sweeping the mountain, the work of Ski Patrol,
ends the day in ritual and security.
Working our way back to Pigtail,
we kick off our skis beside toboggans.
Red toboggans, ambulances on the mountain
stacked in readiness by a metal-hatched hut
where black & white crosses huddle in warmth.
So you're Josh, the crew captain says.
You and your Grandpa are going to help us sweep?
Your job will be on Paradise.
Can you ski that run?
Look in the trees, ski slow, look for anything
that doesn't look like it belongs in wilderness.
If you meet any skiers, be nice, but encourage them
to get off the mountain now, and go home.
We'll meet up again at the second pole
above Chair Four and say Good night.

The mountain is the temple in contemplation.
May we open the season closing us down in darkness.
Each one in the mountain hut feeling something new.
Joshua's soft face sweeping the room in quiet smiles.
Craggy faces suggest rescues made, rescues attempted.
Walkie Talkies communicate unimagined trails.
Maybe there is too much tobacco.
For the men in this hut, Joshua is every child at seven.
This hut contains the dangers brought up from town.
A child's joy-face frozen at Solstice.

Jim Bodeen
14 December-22 December, 2012

The Presidential Interview

 

THE PRESIDENTIAL INTERVIEW

I did have to borrow threads,
being in the mountains.

Was I surprised?

I asked Barack about the drones.

He asked me about mileage in the Mothership.

The President loved the Dirt Bag Gallery.
One skier in Carhartt overalls
suggested naming two parallel ski runs,
Fiscal Cliff and Donald Trump's Hair--
having them designated
Double Black Diamonds.
A young woman shouts out,
No, they're both Green--
green for beginners.

The President slapped both thighs laughing.

That place,
neither pastoral or political.
Even in uniform I'm not in uniform.
Not really.
I insisted on tying my own tie.
My knot is not his knot.
He didn't say anything, but he noticed.
It was like he glimpsed that part I give away.
That part that says,
I'm from somewhere else.
He saw that place, for a second.
He didn't know what it was,
but he trusted it.

Jim Bodeen
High Camp
January, 2013








News of the World, Lines Talking to my Mother




 
NEWS OF THE WORLD
LINES TALKING TO MY MOTHER
IN THE YEAR AFTER HER CROSSING
WRITTEN BETWEEN THE COVERS OF PHILIP LIVINE’S

    NEWS OF THE WORLD
 
1.     
 
Mama, we moved. Karen and I.
After you were gone and out of reach.
After 39 years in that house. We moved.
I’m on a boat, now, Mama, Lady of the Lake.
Crossing water on Lake Chelan.
This house is gone. We’re in a new place,
so new it doesn’t have any trees.
I remember your words when we moved you.
I’m planting trees. You’re gone.
I’ve been in mountains talking with men.
Talking about you. Talking like men talk
looking into fire. Sometimes it doesn’t seem
like very much. I’m on my way up lake
to Holden Village, that mining camp
turned temple that first foretold your crossing
years ago. This time you left for good,
like you said, Going to look for Wayne,
Going to find him, too. And just like that,
last breath breathing out, you’re there, together,
the crossroads of eternity where all bills get paid,
and nobody owes. All debts settled.
You left me Dad’s love letters, as promised.
As close to a final word as anyone gets.
So much news, so good to hear,
both of you delivered by your own way
of touching each other into new morning.

2.     

Still looking into your story and ways to tell it, Mama.
Still carrying each responsive storm of beauty
from your lips—ways you found to speak truth
to me, no back burner with you, I'm
turned again towards you—and
your line in the sand,
One doesn’t need to go to El Salvador
to find God, although El Salvador
remains a good place for pilgrims
of all persuasions to turn again
towards that, like you, that redeems.

Love, Jim
11 September, 2011, Lady of the Lake—27 October 2012, 2010 House, West Valley

SEVEN POEMS ABOUT BELIEF


























“IS HE STILL ALIVE?” “IS HE REAL?”

Skiing with my granddaughter
in a snow storm, I reach up
for my goggles. They’re gone.
I reach again. My helmet,

gone, too. “My helmet’s gone!
And my goggles!” You left it at the map,”
Deezus says over sandwiches.
“We were talking about Old Man’s Beard

hanging from trees.” “You lost your helmet,”
my wife said. “How does someone lose their helmet?”
Deezus said I left it at the map.
“But how does someone lose their helmet

on a ski slope?” my wife asks again,
while the child’s eyes search the woods
for a hidden face, green whiskers everywhere
in trees, campfire ready to keep us warm.

Jim Bodeen
30 January 2013


TOM TOM
In the old house, last night,
Mom and Dad in the same dream
for the first time. A video camera,
too. Mom would pick it up,
but kept putting it down.
They were happy. So frustrating
for me. I wanted it all on film.

The man with us, itinerant.
“Didn’t I bring you a drum
like this once before?” “If you did,
you must have dropped it off
at another house.” He had a box
of wood, too. My grandson
watched us all. Large maples

had been pruned. Inside the box
were animals—dog and wolf
walking out of their former selves,
retaining still some tree bark,
the box full of chips from his chain saw.
I wanted my grandson to know it all.
I wanted Mom and Dad to see.

Jim Bodeen
30 January 2013

  •
THE CROSS OF LIGHT
My daughter steps into the mothership.
My granddaughter puts her world into a drawing.
Because the telephone in my hand
takes the photograph
I am able to see the light that blinds me.

Jim Bodeen
30 January 2013




SEVEN POEMS ABOUT BELIEF

 •

In practice I believe
I believe in practicing

•

Practice believing
I believe in the practice
Believing, I practice

•

Creo en la practica

•

He believed it because he lived it.

Jim Bodeen
January, 2013

•

I BELIEVE

As a boy in a North Dakota living room playing a trombone.

As a man, at Christmas, listening to Elvis.

•

Jim Bodeen
27 January 2013

Oracion de buen ánimo


O Dios, tu has llamado a tus servidores a caminos los cuales no podemos ver el final, por sendas aún no transitados, por peligros desconocido. Da nos fe para salir con buen ánimo, no sabiendo a donde vamos, sino que tu mano nos guía y tu amor nos sostiene por Jesus Cristo, nuestro Señor. Amen.

Traducido por Luz



Holden Prayer, or Prayer of Good Courage

O Lord God,
who has called us, your servants, to ventures of which we cannot see the ending, by paths as yet untrodden through perils unknown. Give us faith to go out with good courage, not knowing where we go, but only that your hand is leading us and your love supporting us.

Through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.

Oracion desde la aldea de Holden--antes de miercoles

Oracion de buen ánimo


O Dios, tu has llamado a tus servidores a caminos los cuales no podemos ver el final, por sendas aún no transitados, por peligros desconocido. Da nos fe para salir con buen ánimo, no sabiendo a donde vamos, sino que tu mano nos guía y tu amor nos sostiene por Jesus Cristo, nuestro Señor. Amen.

Traducido por Luz

Holden Prayer, or Prayer of Good Courage

O Lord God,

who has called us, your servants, to ventures of which we cannot see the ending, by paths as yet untrodden through perils unknown. Give us faith to go out with good courage, not knowing where we go, but only that your hand is leading us and your love supporting us.

Through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.