ceremonial pitch. As 1strode to the plate, he cautioned me, “Don’t hit it.” “You want me to strike out?” “Yes. Just act like you can’t touch my slider.” I acted like Iwas reaching for it, and let the ball go by. The crowd roared, with a strange twist to their approval. Then I got it. I had whiffed for peace, a rare opportunity for a Yanqui, and now I could leave, my presence no longer part of the ritual. “Te ponche, you missed,” the kids shouted, beside themselves with glee. 23. TEKUSKANSKAN Guillermo drove us out to Teoteca- cinte, the town in the war zone, only opened up to visits in the past few months. “The great battle was fought here, cuerpo a cuerpo—body to b o d y - in 1984. If the Contras had been able to discussed upcoming nighttime activities. Walking apart from the group, 1 surveyed the place in a near-trance. I trembled as if from a cold wind, here in the depopulated foothills. I felt something beginning to change, like a healing. When I turned back to my friends, I carried a new strength from this spot which had been cleansed of battle. This was the most beautiful valley I’d ever seen, luminous and forested. The hillsides were uninhabited, terrorized to barrenness by the Contras, so they seemed almost virginal. Reentering the hills seemed a pardigm for reinhabiting the soul of Nicaragua. Saying goodbye to Jalapa was easy, partly because it felt we were just leaving momentarily. We drank cane liquor and smoked cigars, danced and bid farewell. “When you come back, the roads will be paved and the walls will have poems on them. You won’t recognize the place.” cars don’t make up for the spirit of life in Nicaragua. Suddenly 1 felt my whole experience come together. I felt the unusual strength I had first felt at Teotecacinte, the moment of being laved by new waters. I looked at Asuzena, speaking softly, curled up in contemplation. Her friends and relatives had died, her country had lost a great deal. When I thought of how people from my country might respond to such difficulty, I realized it would be with rage. Underlying the American drama today is a feeling of frustration and primordial energy, deeper than anger. We seem to feel we have lost something fundamental, like the ability to drink water. If someone cuts in front of us on the freeway, drives too slow, cuts a tree, saves a tree, votes the wrong way, our response is to rage. The people I had met, across Nicara- Hills full of guerrillas, farmers, lost boys, poets and police. From the sky, the details became a blur of green. All 1could differentiate was the damage done to the forests, which still seemed small enough to heal, from a plane soaring to Seattle. The Bridge did not come home in the speeches I made, the people I talked to, the Sister City Programs’- further projects. The Bridge of Poems finally anchored in my heart when I got the first poems back from Nicaragua. Franz Galich had included my home address in his La Ventana interview. 1 felt a thrill, like sliding down a glass mountain, when I thought of every useless poet working in their spirits to build the gifting vision. Concepcion Mejia sent me a poem from La Trinidad. He wrote: “What you referred to in your interview about the power of poetry, was very meaningful to us. We are very glad you North"Americans share this with us. Solitude can be City officials—Jalapa. Oso Ruidoso nearing trip’s end. hold even ten square feet of ground overnight, the Yanquis would have invaded.” Houses were smashed in as if by a herd of giant cattle. Telephone poles were broken, jagged halves reaching into the grim sky, burned trees with no green in this dazzling land, no roads, everything overgrown: the whole area still spoke of the month-long battle that had raged at this terminus of the wonderful Jalapa Valley. Anibal showed us claymore mines, copper-jacketed .30-calibre bullets, spent rockets in the soil. We took a few pieces as souvenirs. I turned to Honduras, a stone’s throw away, and did something I had dreamed of before. Shaking my fist, I shouted,my rage at the support my government had given the Contra killers. Anibal looked concerned. “They have a listening post right there." A large white shelter and radio installation sat halfway down the mountain. I thought of the U.S. soldiers we had listened to on our C.B.s as we drove into Jalapa, Southern accents intact as they 24. THE SEA CHANGE D ack in Managua, I wanted to go to " the famous Yerba Buena Coffee House, where rebellion had been imbibed by the poets, years ago. Iwas in too much pain, my knees twisted severely when I’d whiffed the mayor’s pitch. So Bob and I sat with Asuzena Medina, a Sandinista supporter whose family was putting us up. She told us: “We do believe the Yanquis would have invaded if not for efforts of the American people to stop them.” We talked about subjects her children studied in school, health care, and how difficult it was to live under the U.S. embargo. Then she smiled, “But you see how simply we live. We would not want to have all the things of North America and have to live the way you do. Friends have gone to Miami, thinking life is better, but they write that they want to come home, that all of the refrigerators and gua, were like Asuzena. They seemed to have a core of strength that came from belief in the wind behind the wind. Now I shared the discovery with them. My entire pilgrimage finally had been to thin, gentle Asuzena’s living room. Daniel Nunez, the leader of the national sports program (UNAG) said: “The only way we know we’re on the right path is that we bear no bitterness. And that is what makes us so certain that, in the end, you will be on the same path with us.” 25. TABI WA JINSEI DESU “Travel is human life”—^3sho The Narrow Road to the Deep North Our flight home was like passing through a mirror. The entire 6,000 miles flew by in a few hours. I could look down and see the very hills we had hauled Oso Ruidoso over, weeks before. like a mountain, it can make a wound like a people lost in their own city. Thank you for your message. Perhaps it is not heard in the North, but no one is a prophet in his own land.” Now I ask myself alone, and none too freely, before I’m dead and gone, what is the truth? With that letter, the circle was complete and the poet had something to do against the darkness. That unacknowledged desperation to be healed which had colored my last several years had fallen away. I thought of the Japanese poet Basho’s response to the farmer about his own journey. “There is no other way to find yourself.” The pilgrim has been blessed. Poet TomHeidlebaugh works as a teacher in Tacoma. This is his first story in Clinton St. To help continue construction on the Bridge of Poems, send poetic contributions to: 8423 South 19th, Tacoma, WA 98466 David Suzuki Host of the PBS Series: "The Nature of Things" Toward the 21st Century: The Challenge Saturday, Dec. 16th, 7:30 pm, Schnitzer Hall Tickets GI Joe's Ticket Masten PCPA 248-4496 Non-fee tickets at Catbird Seat Bookstore Presented by the Institute for Science, Engineering and Public Policy and co-sponsored by Oregon Public Broadcasting, Portland State University Continuing Education, The Waggener Group and Oregon Advanced Computing Institute (OACIS). With special thanks to Heathman Hotel. Fritjof Capra Friday, March 9,1990, 7:30 pm Portland Civic Auditorium * PREVIEW OF EXCERPTS FROM NEW MOVIE: MINDWALK Fritjof Capra, Ph.D., physicist, systems theorist and futurist at UC Berkeley, presents a public lecture with extended Q&A. In The Tao of Physics he showed parallels between ancient mysticism and modern physics. In The Turning Point he articulates the holistic approach, ecological and feminist perspectives, and global economic alternatives. In Uncommon Wisdom, he recalls conversations with remarkable people -- from Heisenberg to Krisnamurti. Also. . . Saturday Policy Forum March 10th, 10 am-1 pm, tickets call 224-TIXX. Jane Goodall Friday, April 6,1990,7:30 pm Portland Civic Auditorium On July 14,1960, Jane Goodall, a 26-year-old woman from Bournemouth, England stepped from a government launch onto the sandy shore of Lake Tanganyika. She had been sent by the famed anthro- pologist/paleontologist. Dr. Louis S. B. Leakey, to begin a long-term study of chimpanzees in the wild. Jane's arrival at Gombe began the fulfillment of a twofold childhood dream: "to study animals in Africa and to write about them." Also. . . Saturday Policy Forum April 7th, 10 am-1 pm; tickets call 224-TIXX. Evening Tickets at Catbird Seat Bookstore, GI Joe's Ticket Master or PCPA 248-4496 128 Clinton St. Dec. '89-Jan. '90
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