Clad in our blue and white guesthouse kimonos

We sit at a low table

Where oval cups repose while tea leaves

Steep.  Calm as anemones.

We have drifted in steaming baths, shed travel

Stress with western clothes.

Lemon lilies smile by the television.

From cherry tree to river

Finch notes drop with white petals.

Kneeling on the tatami mat

The innkeeper’s wife and her maid pull sheets

Smooth as just fallen snow

Tight across fiery red futons.

Later we will stroll along the shore

And cross the bridge to the three-story pagoda.

]]> https://bevtappan.net/2017/01/05/norwich-years-the-inn-at-takayama/feed/ 0 1724 https://bevtappan.net/2015/11/18/norwich-years-back-country-touring/ https://bevtappan.net/2015/11/18/norwich-years-back-country-touring/#respond Wed, 18 Nov 2015 01:45:02 +0000 https://bevpoems.wordpress.com/?p=882 BACK COUNTRY TOURING

The waxless skis whisper behind our backs,

Percussion brushes.  Our poles tap the beat

On the edge of the drum.  Someone has emptied a sack

Of diamonds over the thin crust of the snowfield.

The perfect steps of a fox cross the trail

Angling straight for a hare’s oval snowshoes.

Here where lumber crews have clear cut the swale

A trio of whitewashed peaks smokes into view.

Sapling birch bark is gnawed into curls by moose.

Bears have stapled claw marks up beechnut trees.

In sun-softened snow our glides are long and loose.

The downhill curves we take with thankful ease.

We savor the last mile of the river’s edge,

Remove our skis and cross the covered bridge.

]]> https://bevtappan.net/2015/11/18/norwich-years-back-country-touring/feed/ 0 882 https://bevtappan.net/2013/11/11/norwich-years-reflections/ https://bevtappan.net/2013/11/11/norwich-years-reflections/#respond Mon, 11 Nov 2013 02:55:41 +0000 http://bevpoems.wordpress.com/2013/11/11/norwich-years-reflections/ REFLECTIONS ON THE TOWN DUMP

This pyramid of metal arms and legs

Recalls a stack of antlers

In Jackson Hole, Wyoming:

That shock of recognition sparked

By castoff appendages,

That disturbance of tourists

Decanted into catacombs

Where skulls and bones

Have clattered into silence,

Duckpins struck by bowling balls.

This tangle of lawn chairs

Is one more moraine dropped

By glaciers of purchase power

Onto overstuffed landfills.

Beyond is a small mountain

Of tires, a ridge of refrigerators,

Stoves, washers and dryers.

Workers sort bottles by colors

And stuff trailer trucks full

Of papers.  Oils and toxic

Chemicals are collected

For hopefully safe disposal,

Leaving plastics to be buried

By bulldozers for future

Archaeologists to ponder.

Wood nymphs frisking on the frozen lake,

I see them as I ski around the bend.

They could be leading Pan a merry chase,

Curvetting to a fanfare of March wind.

I yearn to join them on the silver stage

With sunlit birch and cedar scenery,

Lift and bend in an ecstacy of grace,

Dance to the pulsing universal heartbeat.

As David danced at the altar of the Lord,

As wavelets dance on the bosom of the land,

Jete on the wind, the bold leap forward,

Bow and retreat as birches learn to bend.

Hooves and tails melt on a wooded isle.

I blink to clear the water from my eyes.

(For Jim and Loraine)

Some people live in glass houses

And watch the arabesques of waves

Along the shore while making harmonies

Of baroque bassoon, flute and harpsichord,

Or talk of politics and architects while spider

Webs of city lights outshine the stars.

Having climbed peaks and photographed

The ancient sites of arts and wars,

They perch their homes on canyon walls

Softened by swirling mists that flow around

Pines, cedars and jagged vertebrae

That sharpen mountain spines.  These happy

Few have made their lives a work of art

To share with friends and students.  They

Like Hawaiian dancers hold the sun,

Moon, rain, stars and wind in their hands.

As young marrieds we shared a tent,

Pine-needle scented, beside Lake Erie.

After supper we took long walks.

Moonlight bleached the green out of the grass.

Between New England and the Mid West

Letters wove a cat’s cradle of news

Across the miles, harpoons trailing explosives.

We transmitted the years of our lives.

We have pedaled leaf-dappled bike paths

Into Van Gogh”s light-blasted landscapes,

Reddened our mouths with Antwerp raspberries

And spiraled on soprano notes around St. Paul’s.

Watching children and parents disappear

Beyond opposite bends of the river,

We raft the whitewater, exhilarated,

Savoring the swiftness, the infinite variety.

The pain is IT.  Her gambit

Is to hide as in childhood games.

She fills her pack with gear

And takes to hills where mountain

Ashes drop their scarlet tears

On the trail.   She pulls herself

By friendly birchbark handholds

Up over barrier ledges.  

She sucks in air until

The fist within her diaphragm

Unclenches, leaving her

Seared and hollow as a

Redwood drilled by lightning.

The final sprint to the height

Of land is an epiphany.

You can’t hear the music in my headphones.

We’re wired up to different frequencies.

You jog to Bach, I to The Grateful Dead.

It’s Lohengrin for you and Julio for me.

When we dance it’s hard to keep in step.

You dip and turn to waltzes from Vienna.

I rock with The Beetles’ antic drums.

No wonder we tread on each other’s feet.

Chording is difficult in counterpoint while

Humming a tune with Peter, Paul and Mary.

Why don’t we start exchanging our cassettes?

Then we might sing along in harmony.

They had to raise their voices to be heard

Above the hoarsely caroling ghetto box

Exuding Christmas atmosphere for senior

Citizens.  The food was their concern:

Roast beef with cheese on buttered bread would not

Have met with Doctor Pritikin’s approval.

They recollected chickens fed on grain,

Scalded in iron sinks of farmhouse kitchens.

She told of pitting dates and cracking walnuts

With her sister after school and slicing

Maraschino cherries for the cornflake-

Dusted cookies known as cherry winks.

He responded with his memories

Of fingers stained by black walnut shells

And pricked by nutpicks prying out the smoky

Bits his mother folded into clouds

Of sugary egg whites called divinity fudge

That melted on the tongue like snow in summer.

We are constructing castles

Of stone on an alpine meadow.

Sunlight rich as butter

Ignites mica in granite.

High and small, blue-black

Ravens waft past.

Drinking champagne air

We scan sparse grasses

For large but liftable boulders,

Glacier-dropped chips

Off the old mountain block

No longer Himalayan high.

A Cheshire mason’s son

Ad-libs British quips

As we stagger back, arms

Stretched, strapping stones

Against our thighs like refrigerators

Belted to dollies.  He drops

The rocks in their sockets

Just so, broad, level and sturdy

Enough to hold up the upper

Stories.  The pyramid reaches

Its peak.  He bounds on top.

Kodaks capture the moment.

Once in Peru on the hills

Above Lake Titicaca we saw

Such chimneys of fieldstone

But rounder on top and taller:

Local dignitaries’ towers,

Wolf-proof bone repositories

Rippled by sere sedges,

Pre-Incan time capsules

We chose not to open,

Landmarks on the hard-packed

Pathway to Elyssian fields

We were not prepared to follow.

Our cairns today escalate

Our spirits on our high way

And lead us to the blustery summit,

Blistered but lighthearted,

Knowing that some fogbound,

Windswept, rain-driven hiker

Will hunker down behind them,

Lay on thankful hands,

Peer cloudily from marker to marker,

And whistle as he descends

To sheltering evergreen hedges

And the canopy of oak and birch.

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