North Beach is well named,
Existing where it does, at the edge of water and sea.
It is a made place, no natural land;
Its substrate is earthquake-rubble
And demolition waste and dredgings,
Misnamed landfill, for it fills an arc of bay.
History and mystery underlie its streets, its piers,
And every footstep falls on the remnants of dreams.
In the winter of 'fifty-seven and -eight,
The Navy housed and taught me on Treasure Island,
Another made place, a near place by cable car and train,
Across the wasteland of Market and Mission Streets,
Across the water on the lofty Bay Bridge—
Though by other measure, a country in a different world.
By day I was acolyte and apprentice to the gods
Of war and science and iron and blazing heat,
The modern counterparts of Jehovah, Jupiter, Odin and Zeus,
Mars and Thor and Vulcan and Hephaestus,
In the world of forge and flame, lighning and sun,
Hammer and sword and spear.
It was my choice.
Fatherless, I'd sought the path and companionship of warriors;
No initiate to the world of men, I'd found a hard path,
Where it was easy to stumble, or fall among thorns.
Friendless, I'd found myself too much in company,
And sought solitude in the emptiness of crowds,
And let the tide of human affairs wash me,
Willing jetsam, onto the haunted strand of North Beach.
It was my choice.
There I found solace in the welcoming depths,
Comfort in the easy, shadowed currents,
Delight in play amid the shifting schools of thought.
I had swum before, in the shallows of my youth,
But here I found courage to dive, to plunge and plumb
Even the darkest abyss, where the nameless awaited.
Newly fearless, I named them and embraced them,
For I knew them,
Had felt them before with me,
Though no more of me
Nor less, than of any human.
Since then I have heard them named demon and god,
Avatar and archetype, principle, shadow, noumenon,
Id, and od, and other.
It matters little what they are named, if they are known;
If they are not named, embraced, and honored,
If they are feared, and fought, and fled,
There is no name on any map but monster.
Naming them, I brought them to the light,
Here, between the too-bright day and the dim depths of night,
Here where dream laps upon waking—
Interface of conscious and unconscious—
Here at the waterline
and the park is the same this
cold May morning
the colours
greens in various degrees
the lilacs a bit purple
purple before they burst
...det gör ju ont
'när knoppar brister'
'...it hurts when buds burst'
the same lilac bushes we played
and climbed
until that you know who
came and said you can't
why can't you
but of course you can
you can as freely and
wholly and
entirely
as air is free
and that cavity
in an old rowan-tree
you had that hidden little room
with acorns and berries
as your dolls
they lived there maybe
they still do
I haven't looked for fear
they're gone
(dear)
dolls, too, grow up
(like you)
as free as air
or clouds or rain in May
from day to day
I no longer listen to
news from Iraq
the news is always the same
death
mutilation
sand
but how is San Francisco
and the fogs
and the ocean
that talks
(above all)
do you see that bridge
like a ridge
that can never be crossed
so that was my news this
morning
Saturday
May 17
at 8
am
