Tag Archives: desert

Circa ’69, by Seven Dhar

6 Aug

 
Seven Dhar seeks to push the limits of language, East and West, performing in Sanskrit and Gaelic, Spanish and the awed tongue of mystics; Buddhist, yogi with SoCal Native American roots; graduate of UC Berkeley and UCLA, who also studied at Oxford and Yale. Among many other accomplishments, he was a Pushcart Prize nominee and the 2015 winner of the San Gabriel Valley Poetry Festival chapbook contest. Seven is a poet from a bygone era enmeshed in our own, who combines the excesses of the Western canon with Buddhist, yogic, and Sanskrit sensibilities, Spanish revelry, urban shamanism, and playful mysticism.

*Read much more of Seven’s philosophy and accomplishments at the end of this blog post.

 

We left Twentynine Palms in the life of summer, headed toward the distant smoke signal L.A. under low flickering skies that turned black and exploded and cleared just long enough for us to realize we had yet to turn the ignition.

 

 

 

 

 

 

We sat stationed on the shoulder as the road moved — the wind whipping our faces, crackling across the desert, kicking up grit and scented straw in the wake of the semi speeding by, its bowels a holocaust of cows.

The wind turned a mill in the valley, a pinwheel, iridescent and wobbling — Play-Doh comic peel, mirror images funhouse distorted, ourselves in ink, lifted and warped.

The driver turned, his eyes drooping, to ask: “What do you want them to say about you at your funeral?”

“Start the car.”

“‘Start the car‘?” he echoed.

“Yes, start it. Crank it. I’ll tell you about my funeral when we’re on our way.”

He shifted, lurching forward, unaccustomed to working the gears in an altered state.

 

 

 

 

 

The cat in the catapult, Freedom the Hitchhiker, piped up from the back seat. Our passenger, a nimble wildflower picked at the edge of Joshua Tree National Monument, had provided the day’s sustenance. (We should’ve asked what it was before chasing it with the last of the Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill). “At my funeral,” she enthused, “I want them to say, ‘She was kind. And beautiful! She lived fast, died young, and left behind a most gorgeous corpse'” then purred with satisfaction until she giggled.

 


 

 

The driver coached the stick into fifth as he announced, “As for me, I want them to say, ‘He was wise. Look how long he lived! The last survivor, gentleman-scholar, who left an exhausted cadaver, well worn with the good use of years.'”

We dodged a gauntlet of trucks, then fell behind a battalion of reinforced American models. Eyes leered from windshields quizzically poring over us in our convertible, the contents of which were now being jettisoned and scattering across the highway in our wake.  

“What about you?” the driver nudged.

“What? Those papers? Who needs them?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

            
                 Drawing by Ralph Steadman

“No, no, what do you want them to say about you at your funeral?”

I paused — as if thinking a great deal, but there was no thinking, only a swirl of throbbing tail lights as brilliant as the velvet lining of my future coffin.

What Freedom had against those typed pages, we only discover when we reach the angelic City of the Lost under haze, empty manuscript folder in hand. Until then I have to content myself to guess, never imagining it has anything to do with the leather-bound star in her purse: “The title,” I intuit, “that must be it! Its angular, irregular lines contorting, growing awful in the Etch A Sketch of a mind lost.”

“That manuscript, after all,” she would later explain, “was a typed confession, a litany of aberrant exploits that could land someone in a lot of trouble.”

It’s hard to imagine the Merry Prankster more than glanced at anything beyond the title-page before reacting, artful dodger, careless litterer, who saved us on our trek across the desert.

“Well?!” they asked.

“Well what?”

“What do you want them to say,” Freedom inquired.

                                                  “About you — at your funeral?” the driver added.

Freedom leaned forward as if to stand, ready to step over the sofa-seat and join us as we swerved across lanes. A sudden burst of acceleration held her back. She instead settled her head on the back rest askew, leered at me with pupils as large as mirage pools of oozing asphalt slick with the sheen of searing heat across them.

They stared, no attention giving to the road, they stared, no time for time its arm beating on, they stared, mouths agape, eaglets in an eagle’s nest about to be raided.

“Well?!!” they insisted.

“I want them to say…” I swallowed to clear my throat, dry with wit so wry to utter, “I want them to say, ‘Look, he’s moving!'”

Then came the sirens like wailing desert birds. We sat up, pushed bottles and other incriminating evidence beneath the seat with our heels. Freedom vaulted as we came to the shoulder — the flicker of a purse strap like a lash behind her — showed the trooper something, and in no time we were on our way again.

 

Drawing by Ralph Steadman

*More about Seven Dhar:

Seven believes that “If your mother informs you you’re part Irish, you had better live up to some form of Gaelic lyricism and merge it with the playful wonderment of Lewis Carroll while remaining true to your indigenous Southern California (Tongva/Kizh) roots, capital of this neck of the universe.” It’s not enough to emulate Shakespeare, Coleridge, or Poe, but we laud our forebears best when we laud them loudly or at least a bit ironically. Crisscrossing Europe and Asia in search of a voice is no way to live — sage, minstrel, piper Seven discovered. Thus have I heard: words alone are likely to survive. Whether studying at Berkeley or UCLA, Oxford or Yale, it comes down to this: There may be many heres, but there’s only one now. So what does it really mean to explore the possibilities of language?From the Himalayas down to the plains, from the planes up into space, from space back down to Earth by way of Mt. Sumeru, arriving where no one knew words could reach — the transcendent in the decadent, enlightenment in the Age of Kali.

Seven Dhar was also winner of the 2015 Emerging Urban PoetsSan Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly Chapbook Contest; 2015 San Gabriel Valley Poetry Festival Broadside Contest; both Los Angeles Poet Societys 2015 National Womens Month Poetry Contests (lapoetsociety.org). Published in various anthologies: The Coiled Serpent: Poets Arising from the Cultural Quakes and Shifts of Los Angeles (tiachucha.org); Altadena Poetry Review (Editor Thelma Reyna, Altadena Library); San Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly, Spectrum (Editor Don Kingfisher Campbell); The Border Crossed Us (Vagabond Books); Yay! LA Literary Magazine (yaylamag.com); The Stone Bird (Eagle Rock Branch Library, LAPL); LAWS Review (Los Angeles Word Salon); Poetry & Cookies; Heartbreak Anthology I and II (Editor Karineh Mahdessian, La Palabra, Avenue 50 Studio); Hometown Pasadena (hometown-pasadena.com). He is a featured reader at many venues across the county and beyond including Pasadena LitFest, L.A. Lit Crawl (NoHo), and the L.A. Shakespeare Fest (Celebrity Centre, Hollywood). He is the recipient of various and sundry academic distinctions.

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