8.
Trackless snow along a white farmhouse,
dogs bark through the void.
Li Po getting drunk on God— drinking
a whole new way of living.
I’m sick of civilization.
We can’t drive back home.
Maybe it won’t be so cold tonight.
I’ll light a bonfire by nightfall.
Past adventures bless my boyhood.
Grave eyes cry like birds.
The second part of the work is poetry with subjects pertaining to the hermit life. Some lines are a mutation of Buddhist nature fantasy; others are lovingly devoted to talking about cats. Still others speak to a personal history of healing from a difficult childhood. Each poem is rich, a feast for the mind.
Something must also be said about the strength of the nature imagery in here. As a perpetual woods-wanderer growing up in rural western Pa, I can attest to the magic of trees. To me Stewart’s work came off as an autoethnography of self-isolation and the healing powers of meditation. Throughout this section Stewart expands upon his style of flash-memoir, (as opposed to flash fiction,) writing paragraphs about his experiences in nature. These paragraphs are juxtaposed next to 3-5 short lines of poetry, some of which are Tanka and haiku. The combination of those two forms drew me further into the book.
Above all, every poem is meticulously and tenderly worded. This isn’t a stream of consciousness writer who goes all willy-nilly in this book. The Dharma here is the truth of Stewart’s soul laid bare. Some of the poems, like “To life,” add a layer of depth to the work that feels welcome amidst the other themes. Hell, if I can spend time reading poems that other people have written about cats, then I will do so.
To Life
To the cat, I’m no more than a stepladder-- a tool for look-
ing out the window. From here on the bed, I see a scribble
of branches, the occasional flash of bird, and the dusty
underside of drawn-up blinds. The cat reports on the ground
activity. His chatters indicate the robin’s return. His yowls
announce that the calico next-door is all belly and paws in a
patch of sun. Today, there are no big questions I’ll ask or try
to answer. Instead, I’ll fold my hands on my chest, and tap a
finger along to my neighbor’s hammer as he pounds some-
thing beautiful and strong to life.
sundown
sunrise
a butterfly
opens and closes
its wings”
In short, Joshua Michael Stewart’s The Bastard Children of Dharma Bums from Human Error Publishing is an exquisite read. I’m really glad I read it during the first week of spring.
