by Nils Peterson
I
A friend sent me a day or two ago a poem that contained this story:
The Buddha tells a story of a woman chased by a tiger.
When she comes to a cliff, she sees a sturdy vine
and climbs halfway down. But there’s also a tiger below.
And two mice—one white, one black—scurry out
and begin to gnaw at the vine.
I was reminded, when I read it, of a guy who was a regular on late night talk shows in the 60’s. His first name was Alexander. [I refuse to look him up. Maybe it will come.] He had written a book entitled May This House Be Safe From Tigers and I was thrown back to my young days as a father when this was my prayer at those times I was driven to prayer. I guess I felt my wife and I and our daughters could survive small catastrophes, but we also knew that there were those that were overwhelming, the Tigers of the world, Tygers, really, that could and would maul or eat you. But we were blessed not that we didn’t have griefs, the deaths of parents, friends.
In my 80’s I became aware aware that tigers are very, very patient, are never altogether not there, and the vine where the black mouse and the white mouse gnaw grew thin. Our tyger was the ALS my wife was diagnosed as having.
The story goes on as her poem explains:
At this point
she notices a wild strawberry growing from a crevice.
She looks up, down, at the mice.
Then she eats the strawberry.
Well, what else is there to do but weep or eat the strawberry? The poem ends –
Oh, taste how sweet and tart
the red juice is, how the tiny seeds
crunch between your teeth.
And so we looked for strawberries. In Sweden, my ancestral country, wild strawberries are unbelievably delicious. They even have their own name, Smultron.
“Sweet and tart,” those strawberries, yes they are, whether the early sunlight sifting through autumnal trees as you’re walking your dog, or the taste of good wine at the end of a day, or the affectionate glance and touch of a partner of many years. And so we must try to learn to eat the strawberry, the wild one growing on a cliffside, to taste the red juice, to appreciate the crunch of now between our teeth, aware of tygers, mice, and the growing thinness of the rope.
Well, the mice finally nibbled through my wife’s rope and the Tyger ALS got her. But I admired how she relished the wild strawberries that were in the crevices of the cliffside in front of her. I’m in my 90’s trying to do the same. One has to choose even if you feel the tremors of the gnawing mice.
The poem is “Relax”by Ellen Bass. Its opening is:
Relax
Bad things are going to happen.
Your tomatoes will grow a fungus
and your cat will get run over.
A remarkable poem, a comfort in a way. Look it up.
II
A Memorable Fancy
A friend reads a poem that ends “but the word had courage.” I thought about that, thought about words, thought that a word is hurt when used hatefully.
So maybe words are children of our common spirit, the first born – born at the naming of things.
Words have a lifetime. Many are gone forever along with the languages that mothered them.
Words get old, “twenty three skidoo to you.” Some go on forever, I, am.
Think of freedom. I used to love that word, still do, but every time I hear it used to conceal some slavery, I feel bad for it, feel I must apologize to it, explain that it is not at fault, we are.
This old poem of mine wanders in. I’ll let it say hello:
The dirty joke sighs.
It knew midway
it was in the wrong place.
“I’m just a string of words.”
joke says defensively,
“It’s not my fault he’s got a tin ear.”
But the dirty joke knows
it can’t be unsaid,
so it hangs in the air
defiantly
like soot.
Some words are created to be hateful. That is their virtue. Is it our need? Now I have to think about that too.
Langston Hughes wrote:
Freedom
There are words like Freedom
Sweet and wonderful to say
On my heartstrings freedom sings
All day everyday.
There are words like Liberty
That almost make me cry.
If you had known what I know,
You’d know why.