Seeing through the smoke

Three decades of poems by Ernest Lowe

The seventies
 

 
In the seventies my poetry focused primarily on my inner journey and the awesome task of learning to love. I only occasionally touched upon the environmental, social, and political themes that have become more important in my writing in the last two decades.

I am thankful to my friends around the planet who have shared and guided my poetry and my life. And I am blessed that my closest friend is Grace, my wife and my lover.

Ernie
 

 

Someplace else

I’ll be blessed!
As I was trying
to start a poem,
                               a whatever words
                                             flow
               from the tip of my
        pen
                       poem,
                                        an ant crawled around
                               on my hand,
                  down the pen,
                                      and off it’s tip
                                                  onto the very paper
                                           I wanted
                                        to fill.

     Now
                 he’s wandering
       through the . . . . .
   No,
             by the time I write it
      he’s
                                    someplace
 

                                                                      else.
 

1970, on a rooftop in Andalusia

 

Anna Moon’s song to the poet

You tell me we’re one,
the two of us are one,
but you keep on forgetting
I’ve got to be me
before being you.

You tell me we’re one
with your eyes soft and warm,
but you never have seen
I’ve got my own way
of being everything.

You tell we’re one.
Your words suck me in,
but you push me away
for dancing my foxtrot
while you’re trying to tango.

I tell you I’m me,
shaped with great care.
Don’t tear me down
with your mystical eyes.
I’ll find my own way.

                        1970
 

“Momma’s waiting”

Crewcut hitch-hiker held out his sign,
“Momma’s waiting.”

“My mother worries about me a lot.
If she knew I was hitching
she’d really be upset.”

“It’s okay for you to be a soldier
but not to hitch?”

“Oh, no. she called the President,
told him he shouldn’t take me.
Talked with one of his aides
at midnight. She couldn’t sleep.
She used to call my commanding officer,
you know, was I getting enough to eat?
But she means well.

When I got out she told me
I should come right home,
my dog has pups and she needs me.
I said, “She can handle it.’
But she said,
‘She’s emotionally upset,
can’t be a good mother.
The pups will grow up disturbed.’”

1970

 

 Stereopoem for My Lady

This poem is performed on stereotape
with two channels of words dancing back and forth.
 

My Lady taught me life.   My Lady taught me love.   My Lady taught me to be   myself.        She feels.        She feels.        She feels.        Deep, deep,               like a bear’s bite,        she feels.     My Lady sings old juke box songs   and drinks white wine in the afternoon.   When she drinks white wine   she talks like a bulldozer . . .   or a bear.              In a forest           or a prison . . .                   My Lady hangs                mirrors in our house,                magic mirrors                blazing out                eternity.      My Lady’s name is Grace.   She walks along behind the tide,   throwing stranded starfish   back into the water.   She talks with clams   before she cooks them.   She’s kind that way.   I think I’ll stick around   and light her fires.                                           Deep, deep,                                        like a bear’s bite . . .                    My Lady taught me life.                 My Lady taught me love.                 My Lady taught me to be                 myself.      A bear   runs through   her dreams.                            Deep, deep,                            like a bear’s bite . . .         Laughter,         my Lady’s laughter,         shapes the universe.

Laughter,   my Lady’s laughter,   shapes the universe.   Love laughter.   Bear’s laughter.                  Magic mirrors,            she hangs magic mirrors            in our house.                           She talks with clams . . .          Love laughter.       Bear’s laughter.        A bear runs   through her dreams   eating mother, father,   sister and brother,   all except My Lady.                                Do not                             leave me,                             says the bear.      Magic mirrors,   magic mirrors   do not lie.                     Love laughter.                     Bear’s laughter.                                      My Lady sings                                      old juke box songs . . .   Do not leave me,   says the bear.                   My Lady’s Hexagram                   is K’un, The Receptive.                   She would flourish                   in a forest or a prison,                   in a castle or a desert.                   She receives life                   wherever she is.   Magic mirrors   blazing out   eternity.        My Lady’s name is Grace.

1971
 

Sproul Plaza 2:00 pm, April 17, 1971

A string trio plays Brahms in the sun.
Students and street people lay back listening
where two years ago they played guerilla war
in tear gas haze laid down by helicopters.
Beyond the trio a crowd surrounds a Chinese Gentleman,
gliding through the flying motions of Tai Chi chuan
and a short-haired German student, translating Chinese.
The old man wears a shiny black beanie,
a Fu Manchu moustache and a wispy white beard,
a white shirt with collar sticking up,
baggy army pants tucked into red socks.

He pauses in his mystical movements
as the reader reaches the key word, ‘crazy’
points at him and winds a finger at his temple.
A puzzled student turns to me, “What’s he doing?”

The Master searches his bundle –
a stick hung with plastic purex bottles,
a gourd mended with scotch tape,
an oil self-portrait in a gilded frame,
a cloth bag full of books, manuscripts and magazines.
“Someone read? You wanna read?” . . . No takers.
“Whatsa matter, no education?” He swings around,
amazement on his wrinkled face.
“No education?”
Taoist laughter splits the air.

He fumbles in his bundle again,
 finding envelopes full of snapshot,
hands one to a girl, shouting in her ear,
“PASS!!!”
Soon the circle is rapidly passing
fuzzy prints of the Master doing Tai Chi
in front of a modern apartment house.
He smiles knowingly,
“Don’t put in a pocket. I see you.”

A girl asks, “How old are you?”
“Seventy-nine only. Healthy. Never sick.
Forty-five more years you see how young I am!”
He gathers his bundle, poses for pictures.
“Goodbye! Happy! I be very happy
                                                        and very hippy.”
The puzzled student shakes his head, mumbling,
“I walk away in wonderment. What did he do?”
 

Medicine bundle

For Rolf, fleeing back to Santa Fe to be arrested for killing a heroin dealer

Take down these things from the Shaman’s tree –
three hairs from a brave white dog
a thorny seed curved round in spiral form
from a place where the earth was soft as breast
two pieces of jerkey from the deer D. J. shot on his first acid trip
a bracken mushroom like a gray furry rainbow.

Go through the bag of rocks from La Playa de Buriana.
Find one that looks like the whole earth.
Lick it to be sure.
Look through the tiny shells from a beach near Algeciras.
Choose the perfect one, though all are perfect.

Take a piece of abalone shell from Schooner gulch
out of your shirt pocket
one with silver waves sweeping a silver shore.
Search in Grace’s drawer for the flowery handkerchief
she bought in Granada.
Gather everything up and tie the bundle
with the leather thong that holds your hair
a limpet shell on one end, a holey rock on the other.

Drive your friend to Sacramento to catch a Grayhound
so he can go home without handcuffs.
Listen once more to the story of the battle,
the bullets through the ear and right arm
of this flamenco guitarist and blues man.
Tell him how he taught you to see your strength
by just saying, “Man, you’re so hip!”
when you felt so seriously square.
Tell him the story of this bundle of charms.
Be silent now.
Be still.

November 1971
 

Dreamers, not Diggers

“I’m a third generation Californian,” I used to brag,
regretting only that my ancestors had stopped too soon,
settling for a hot inland valley
when they could have pushed on
to cool coastal headlands.
They stole land from the Yaudanchi instead of the Pomos.
Three generations, what a brief moment!

Yesterday I saw a drawing of the town of Sonora, newly built.
Somehow I was seeing with the eyes of a Pomo
whose family had camped in that valley for countless generations.
He’d just come over the crest of the hill to discover all those unyielding lines,
those unnatural straight lines chopping across the flow of this valley.
I choke on my heritage and mourn for the loss
and feel the shame of my people.

Sixteen hundred –
  Three hundred thousand lived in this land we call “California”.
Nineteen ten –
  Fifteen thousand survived the hunts by the settlers and the plagues.

When I was a kid I asked my Grandma
the name of the tribe in the next valley.
“Oh, they’re just Diggers. Drunk all the time.”
My ancestors thought they were primitive.
They didn’t fight wars like the Sioux and the Cheyenne.
So primitive they didn’t raise crops like the Iroquois and Mandan.
All they did was dig in the ground for roots and gather the seeds of flowers.
“Oh, they’re just Diggers.”  My people couldn’t see.
Already our life was so torn apart we couldn’t see life that was whole.

Yaudanchi, Yana, Wappo and Kato.
Help me mourn for the loss.
Miwok, Yokuts and Pomo,
Wintun, Salinian, Modoc, and Chumash.
Ohlone, Esselen and Maidu.
Dreamers all, friends of Coyote.
Guests on the land.
Dreamers, not Diggers.

1971

Not a statue

We ran trips
              in the park
                  overlooking paradise,
    lost our way
               when every way was equal
forgot God
           while praising Him,
     thought we were
                 our shadows
         in the midst
   of all this light.

Then she swam
            in a manmade lake
       while I meditated
              by a manmade stream.

Little children
            crossed a bridge
                                  to me.
    "Come here! It's a statue!"
          "No, he's sleeping."
                           "Touch him."
  "No, you touch him."
          "Look!
              His skin moves
                     when I touch him.
     He's not a statue."

1973

The script of my life

I’m hungry
and this room is filled
with eating people.
I’ve eaten and I’m hungry.

Earlier this evening
I looked into a room
inside my right shoulder,
a room in a cheap hotel
where I sat
in lotus
alone.
But suddenly
the person
in the room
in the pain
in my shoulder
was two years old,
locking away
his fear
of being alone,
tucking it under
pain unfelt,
tying white light
into deep
grinding
knots
to remember
who he is / who he isn’t.

I look up
from the past
into a girl’s
clear face.
“Hi, who’re you?”
“I’m nancy.”
“I’m . . .”
and there’s no will
to say more,
no words
to reach out.

Billy comes in
with a new sitar.
It’s full moon night.
Hunger, fear, and pain
are all energy
waiting to sing.

Alone is.
Will I find
my lover
in her lover’s arms?
I sing the blues
until I feel
the red flashing
of my heart
singing,
yes.

I learn to read
the script of my life.
Here I am.
Alone is.

1973
 

From the sun

i.
I taste subtleties
fine as down
on a mountain girl’s cheek
yet I crave
the heavy impact
of strong coffee.

I spent the day with Grace,
looking over her shoulder,
overlooking her gifts,
always wanting something more.

My mouth is full
of the taste of coffee.
If I only had a grape.

All of us are
from the sun.
Coffee is the taste
of the earth
lit by the sun.

I feel
how much
I want
to contact
Your Grace,
Lord,
and I sob
dry tears.

How
I hold
myself
back,
afraid
You won’t
be there,
forgetting
once again
You’re
everywhere.

All of us
are from the Sun.

ii.
So I spent a day
with my wife
beside the sea.
Seeing her
inside her wall
I stayed inside mine
and craved
strong coffee.

From a high hill
we saw the sun
make the Golden Gate
a fantastic
electric display,
waves of white light
crossing each other
on the water’s
single surface.
And I wanted
more from You,
Lord!

All of us
are from the Sun.

iii.
Sounds
like the guy
across the street
is freaking out
again,
pounding,
shouting.
I can’t tell
if he wants
more
or less.

I’m stuffing
unneeded food
into my mouth
and wondering why
I’m not centered
in this poem.
I’ll warm the coffee.
There’s not enough
light
to write more.

All of us
are from the Sun.

1973
 
 

I learned to love

Mom
has a rock
  (I learned
   to love
   rocks
   from her.)
a rock
she swears
is a petrified
heart,
a lamb’s heart,
she says.
   I learned
   to love
   rocks
   from her.

1974
 

Reflections

                  In a black
                         man's
                sunglasses
                                  I see
                                  windows
                                  of Liberty
                                  House
                                  a depart-
                                  ment store
                  reflecting
         sunset-shining
        salmon-colored
                        clouds.

  Ernest Lowe

  1975
 
 

 

Singing the name

The long cycles of my being –
          the closing
                      enclosing
              withdrawing . . .
      the drying of feeling
              forgetting
                          my name . . .
        isolating . . .

         . . . ‘til springing
                       to life again . . .
     opening
                to God in you . . .
          remembering
                    the river . . .
               singing
        the name –
these movements of my
    life are beginning
                        to feel
              like long breaths
        my soul takes.

Out . . .
        I breathe out
    ‘til my belly hurts
          and my heart hurts
      from life closed in
            upon itself.

Then in . . .
          I breathe life in
    ‘til my heart
                    hurts again
             from
                 fullness.

Lord,
    I thank you
            for the air
       I breathe.

1975

No one on this bus

Sitting on the F bus
watching people,
critical, as always.
Look at him,
he's scared
of his necktie.
Oh, lady,
you need
to work
on yourself.

Voice of my guru
reminds me,
there's no one
on this bus
but myself.

Next one
down the aisle
is a Chinese kid
wearing
mirror sunglasses.

1975

 

          I leap
backward
                   and forward
   through spaces
                       I have known
       before
           and again
and I wear
             these spaces
                smooth
    like bedrock
                 the river
      runs through,
smooth,
    like the flow
           of that river
  smooth
           like the wings
                         of a hawk
      who floats
                             on the air
               up above
                      that river,
      smooth
           like forest fire
                 flames
                      along
          that river's bank.

I wear
      these spaces
   as God wears
                   hawk,
    river,
                         rock
             and flame,
dancing backward
                     and forward
   through
                       space
                    without end.

1975
 

I am
    she is
          the sea,
  and I'm roses
                and roses.
She knows
          about me.
      I forget
            what I know.

I am
     she is
           the vase
  full
     with my flowers,
             her roses and roses.

She asks me
              to sing
      a song of her light.

 

I am silent
      as a rose-colored
                             rose
   waiting to feel
                      once again
                                   how
I am
   she is
        the sea.

1977

 

What means it,
                     Lord,
      that you sit on my right arm
 in the form of a cat
    just as I start
           to write this poem?

I didn't intend
                to sing
          Your praises.
   I was moved to speak
               of multi-national
            corporations,
    of Cambodia's Pol Pot
             who murdered her poets,
        Afghanistan,
                         South Africa.

Now You grab my pencil,
                             wobbling
             with these heavy names.

Light?
     Light breaks into a howl
              across my face
   and still
          You ask me
              to sing a song of light.

1980
 

The eighties          The nineties

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