CARRY TIGER UP THE MOUNTAIN
I am posting this poem in honor of Good Friday and the closing of a very difficult Holy Week. I have found that the more focused I have become on spirit the more deeply I am affected by the liturgical calendar. At present, I feel as though my heart is being gripped by enormous hands that want to tear it out of me. At such times, I remember the Qi Gong move called "Carry Tiger Up the Mountain." Years ago when I was doing Qi Gong I would weep every time this motion came into my practice. By the tenth movement I'd be a wreck. Finally I asked my teacher why I wept every time I did this. He told me the movement follows the story of a Tao master who carried the dead body of his pet tiger up a mountain because he knew that was the only way to fully embrace his death.
CARRY TIGER UP THE MOUNTAIN
If you really want it out of
you, then we’re talking the
Himalayas, Sherpa-less, no
gear because who can carry
gear when they’re carrying
a tiger. You really have to
take it all the way. And after
you’ve climbed the whole
mountain, then begins the
journey, then you must name
the mountain. Call it: Tiger
Mountain, and after that, there’s
the mountain inside you you
have to climb that makes
Everest look easy. You long
for low oxygen, pulmonary
edema on this internal peak
that begins with your hair
and goes downward, tearing
through every cloud in your
mind. And you can’t climb
up the outside of it but must
go through the molten interior.
Through the stone sealed earth
and still with that tiger slung
across your back like a scarf,
this thing you loved, this thing
you spoke to as water pours
itself into a cup. You thought
you would drink of this life
forever. One foot and then
another is how you walk,
each drives claws, luxurious,
gold in the dark, to scratch
initials of longing into your
skin. Death is the only ink for
the calligraphy of pain, and
every stroke must be confident.
Carry your love up that wild
mountain. Only then can you
rip that mountain out. Set into
ice and sky you and tiger free.
CARRY TIGER UP THE MOUNTAIN
If you really want it out of
you, then we’re talking the
Himalayas, Sherpa-less, no
gear because who can carry
gear when they’re carrying
a tiger. You really have to
take it all the way. And after
you’ve climbed the whole
mountain, then begins the
journey, then you must name
the mountain. Call it: Tiger
Mountain, and after that, there’s
the mountain inside you you
have to climb that makes
Everest look easy. You long
for low oxygen, pulmonary
edema on this internal peak
that begins with your hair
and goes downward, tearing
through every cloud in your
mind. And you can’t climb
up the outside of it but must
go through the molten interior.
Through the stone sealed earth
and still with that tiger slung
across your back like a scarf,
this thing you loved, this thing
you spoke to as water pours
itself into a cup. You thought
you would drink of this life
forever. One foot and then
another is how you walk,
each drives claws, luxurious,
gold in the dark, to scratch
initials of longing into your
skin. Death is the only ink for
the calligraphy of pain, and
every stroke must be confident.
Carry your love up that wild
mountain. Only then can you
rip that mountain out. Set into
ice and sky you and tiger free.
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