Cowrie Dreams

Having had this dream over many nights,
of singing in a church
with a stained glass window
depicting God’s eyes, ears and lips
as cowrie shells,
I confess to cowrie dreams
having haunted my daydreams
and daytime thoughts
about this world of beauty
and of crisis.

Amazing that shells are invested so much
meaning over the epochs
of human existence:
as pawns in the games of children;
as money for trade,
great strands of them roped around
the necks of men striving
over mountains and across deserts;
tools of divination into the divine mystery;
potent symbol of feminine power,
for creation and for renewal.

The cowrie see,
the cowrie hear,
the cowrie speak,
and settled in the fossil record,
they uphold each fragile footstep
and crushing blow to the crust
of an ever growing and complex planet,
while yet soft sea breezes
play through them
on bleached white beaches,
where mothers fish
while keeping watch
over their small children
playing the ancient first games,
manipulating sticks, stones and shells
—where rules are of expedient moment,
and later lost, consigned to memory,
or buried with all that is deemed childish
once ways, means and manners are cultivated.

But still the cowrie see,
the cowrie hear,
the cowrie speak,
the cowrie take it all in
reporting, sorting, retorting
from the depths of silence,
marking, remarking and remaking
from within deep wells possibility
on wings of wind and weather.

What is?
What has been?
What shall be?

What is real?
What is truth?
What is imagination?
What is good and bad?
What do the cowrie see,
the cowrie hear,
the cowrie speak,
if indeed they impart
by way of the shifting winds?

One true day,
these feet found their fragile way
over a patch of fossil record
into a sanctuary lovingly rebuilt
by generations following
its eve of destruction
by hurricane.

There, above an altar
to human resilience,
the very modern clerestory
depicts Omniscient Divine
as having cowrie eyes, ears and lips
—and there I sang, I sang there,
my voice joined with others,
while in concert this descant
sang potently within my soul:
I called to you, and you came,
and here we are, together.

The song of the watchful cowrie:
In this existence,
nothing is guaranteed,
but even so,
anything is possible,
because no matter where we are,
we are together.

© 2019 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

//

The dream depicted in this poem is real, and it recurred over a number of months in 2010. In 2013, I traveled to Cuba on a cultural exchange visa with the choral group, Pacific Mozart Ensemble, now known as Pacific Edge Voices, under the direction of Lynne Morrow. One of the places in Havana where we performed was Iglesia de San Francisco de Paula. When we entered the building, it dawned on me (as I moved closer to the altar window) that I had met my dream! Not in the depiction of Jesus, which is so standard, even cheesy, in conforming to a European standard of what Jesus might look like, but in the depiction of the All Seeing Divine, which can just be vaguely discerned in the photo within a bluish bubble above Jesus, at the very top of the window. There was the Divine depicted with cowrie openings, always open both ways. I was to see the metaphor in other art works, while in Cuba, but at that moment, I was astonished that dream had met reality. 

earth and air, water and light

—on the trail,
engaged in a counterpoint of breathing
over an ostinato of stepped footfalls,
meeting a rising and falling landscape—

ferns reach out to stroke ankles and shins,
as if to say,
too long, too long have you been away—

even the rising dust from these stamping feet
joins an alleluia chorus of motes,
dancing,
suspended in shafts of light,
trained and focused by the benevolent branches
of these sentinel redwoods
that guide this way;
it is a music of welcome,
quiet but potent—

sorrel and trillium,
their delicate blossoms content just to be;
even violet and columbine
speak a language of color and moment;
wild ginger carpets each moist patch below,
visually cooling the warmth of this day—

and ahead are the rocks,
tumbled there from time immemorial—

and imperceptibly the trail rises,
drawing nearer to a water music,
heard from over the next ridge—

mingled medicinal aromas
of coyote mint and yerba buena
drift from somewhere below,
or from over yet another ridge,
one that seems a world away—

an awareness overtakes,
of height having been achieved,
these feet drawn over pathways
traced earliest by small creatures,
then by migrations of deer,
and followed by others for millennia,
only to be discovered again, today—

then comes a sudden touch;
water reaches out whenever
riparian proximity is achieved
—playfully errant spray
tickles and teases the flesh
with its coolness—

rushing up from the depth and darkness
of its rock-hewn source to meet the light,
water rushes all a-tumble,
falling all over itself in joyous freedom,
to flow and drift into the meditative rest
of pools below blue-hued skies,
spiegel im spiegel,
there to be serenaded by what congress of birds
is berthed in the surrounding canopy—

too long, too long you have been away,chants the feathered choir
in their various languages,
but you are here with us now,
reply earth and air, water and light,
the only truth worth knowing—

but you are here with us now,
alleluia!

© 2018 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Relations

Breeze off the water cools,
sun off the surface glares with good will,
birds rise up in flight, raining beads of water, beaks full,
the fox in freedom runs through the tall grasses,
and the land that holds us up is home,
a place of habitation for all that breathe here,
& life is the experience of moving through this beauty,
in continual migration, from here to there,
by each dreamer of dreams.

We meet on this bridge,
as we might meet on any bridge,
for every meeting truly is a bridge,
every bridge an opportunity
to share this dream as expansive reality.

Toward such encounter,
how shall it be?
Shall we pass one another like ghosts,
or with a whispered hello?
Shall it be a challenge to a duel?

Or shall we meet the dream,
     sip the air together
            and share the song.

Cup your hand, my friend, and
hook it with mine in the time honored bond;
reaching out, from above,
below, around or between boundaries,
our greeting as equals helps to map
the extensive lifeline.

© 2017 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Sonnet on a Poem by Ch'iu Wei

To this place, at the mountaintop,
have I climbed, in search of you and of truth;
my knock at the door echoes without stop.
Table and hearth are revealed in the booth,
but your presence is lacking, forsooth;
perhaps you fish the pools of the river.
In vain have I called on you, so uncouth

my need to know, guised to deliver

greeting. Instead, visited by shiver

of fresh rain on grass and murmuring pines,

thus I breathe in peace, sliver on sliver,

‘til purified, cleansed, emptied of designs.

Descending your mountain, light on my feet,

I know I’ve been met, and now am replete.

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

A note to readers:

This sonnet is the result of an experiment. A hyperactive reader, I far too often (for the sake of my pocketbook) find myself in bookstores. I particularly like secondhand shops, as there are treasures to be found that are no longer in print; many of these are unlikely to ever be reprinted. One such treasure, a recent find, is a Chinese/English printing, entitled (in Chinese and English) “Three Hundred Poems of the Tong Dynasty.” It is a trade paper, sewn edition. Because I cannot read Chinese, neither do know the publication information or year, or the name of the translator(s). The only clue I have as to the book’s origin is the book seller’s stamp in the back of the volume: Hansan Trading Company, 28 Pell Street, New York, NY 10013; This business no longer exists.  

While waiting for my dental appointment to begin, I opened the book and started reading. One poem, not very far in, struck my eye. Thematically, the poem represents so much of what I feel life is like and about, for me and for many others: A trip through the wilderness, in search of answers.

This is the poem, as translated (by Witter Bynner, I later discover) in the Hansan Trading Company book:

After Missing the Recluse on the Western Mountain

To your hermitage here on the top of the mountain
I have climbed, without stopping, these ten miles,
I have knocked at your door, and no one answered;
I have peeped into your room, at your seat beside the table.
Perhaps you are out riding in your canopied chair,
Or fishing, more likely, in some autumn pool.
Sorry though I am to be missing you,
You have become my meditation—
The beauty of your grasses, fresh with rain,
And close beside your window the music of your pines.
I take into my being all that I see and hear,
Soothing my senses, quieting my heart;
And though there be neither host nor guest,
Have I not reasoned a visit complete?
After enough, I have gone down the mountain.
Why should I wait for you any longer?

Digging around on the internet, I found this translation by Mike O’Connor (at https://www.unf.edu/mudlark/mudlark07/recluse.html):

On Failing to Meet the Recluse of West Peak

On the mountain top: 

one thatched hut,

thirty li 

from nowhere.

Knock on the door: 

no servant to answer.

Look in: 

only a table for tea.

The firewood cart 

is covered;

have you gone fishing 

in the autumn stream?

I looked among the pools, 

but missed you;

wanting to pay my respects,

they must go unexpressed.

Grass shines 

in the fresh rain;

pines murmur 

at evening windows.

Here, at this moment, 

a harmony deep and unrivaled;

the self completely cleansed, 

the heart, the ear.

Although there is no 

guest and host precisely,

I'm able to intuit 

your pure thought.

Purpose fulfilled, 

I head back down the mountain;

what need now 

to wait for you?

Looking further into the matter, I find out that this book is an iteration of the classic collection of poems from the Tang Dynasty (618–907), first compiled in the Qing Dynasty by the scholar Sun Zhu, around the year 1763. Ch’iu Wei or Qiu Wei or 邱為 lived from 694 to around 789, and his work is represented in this anthology by this single poem. The poem was written in a form known as five character old style or Gushi. I will leave you to investigate the form on your own.

While I was having my teeth cleaned, I was rolling this poem around in my mind, and I wondered if I could take this material, which had been translated into free verse, and work it into at least somewhat of a metrical setting. I don’t know why I selected the sonnet form—perhaps because the way the poem is presented in Chinese is in groupings of five characters.

As to the success or failure of my experiment, that is up to you.

In the Garden of Delights: 1. et invisibilium

the thin veils
of invisible realms,
they softly flutter,
the breeze flowing
free upon the brow
—and I know you are near,
your vibrations pooling
in the autumn afternoon.

I have often wondered:
if I were to completely falter,
should I spark and go up like straw?

but, none has ever sparked such flame,
and I forestall madness
while time shifts at my foundations,
visibilium et invisibilium,
with gentleness and loving kindness.

had I tried,
I could have sent them away,
but they fly to me
—for conversation, mostly—
for I am a light, too.

we are all frustrated and
colorful intelligences,
reckless, even mad;
all that is missing
is the convivial cup of tea.

refuge is found in capitulation,
a weaving in with the pattern integral:
a unique delight, lightly balanced.

© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Culminations

that dream of long ago
has proved prescient, and
now lies manifest, in a being
of sorts and sundries

for, into the eye of the storm,
into the ring of fire,
as into a vivarium,
my soul has wandered
from the places of desolation

voices, as song and wind,
make their vital way center,
make their offerings heard,
and depart on wings of flame

i gather their many threads,
some of silver, some of gold,
some bronze, all bold,
and weave them by stead
on the canny loom
of my ruminations,
where they bloom
by culminations
into soft embraces
of shimmering folds

likely no final destination, this,
in our soul’s journey,
and how i arrived here,
i know not, but how
surely purposed it was,
this centering:
to tune me now,
to test me,
to gather and
to weave me
to ravel and
to give me
as my thoughts
to God

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

The Point

Many people ask the difficult question,
“What is the point?”

This = ,
this point,
this is where we meet;
this is a place, both metaphorical and real:
now.

There may have been a before,
which speaks to some other point of fact or being,
or may even indicate a point of origin,
if such is possible,

But this is the here-and-always-now,
the ultimate point on which we must focus our attention—
all comings and goings depend upon ti,
all shall-be and ever-beens, as well—
the turnings of universes within universes
rely on how well met we are at this point.

Shall we dance like angels on the head of a pin?
The point is what we make of it, within it,
whether guiding or following it as a moving path,
in lines or waves,
flowing on it as a stream,
surrounding it, avoiding it,
on point or off,
melding into or averting from
(rendering either a going and a return
or a point of departure)…

Now is always;
whether we “decide” to meet there or not,
now happens,
here, there and everywhere.

Now is the wellspring of creation,
the hub,
the crux,
the point of being
and, more to the point,
of beingness.

How shall we make our point?
How shall we be?
What shall we do?

Now is an opportunity that requires action
(for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health),
but action depends on how we define our point.

Shall we dance?


© 2010 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen