AT THE WRITERS' RETREAT by Nancy Shiffrin

I listen
to the infinite qualities of Wind
caressing Wind singing Wind Wind playing chimes
Wind hurtling up from the
bottoms of canyons in the black before dawn
Wind a flute against rocks
Wind carrying predatory bird sounds
jay mockingbird woodpecker
rustle of deer in the backyard
of the guest house where I have come
for two weeks of solitude
no radio television telephone computer
I do not want to calculate the permutations of W-I-N-D
I study Basho
wonder if my noisy self can ever dissolve
completely into the turbulent silence
what can I do for your creative life today?
my Hostess has invited me to give a workshop
to discuss Anais Nin’s influence
at The Lassen County Arts Center
glass work pottery paintings photography
reflect the intoxicating light of the Eastern Sierras
filtered through
golden quaking aspen crimson maple deep green pine
and I listen
to tales of rulers slapping palms
in a boarding school in England
of mothers who can teach their daughters
animal husbandry farm machine repair
of a prison where men are being slowly
poisoned by chemicals from a dry cleaning plant
of difficulties completing and finding time to write

Wind rattles windows
“I don’t like this Anais Nin!” a Student cries out
“she’s so snobby about her Cuban relatives…”
the Student recently published her first poem
would like to leave a memoir for her children
she has never owned a typewriter
is widowed has never before lived alone
there follow sniggers
about incest bigamy promiscuity
everyone has read a few surreal fictions
or a portion of the diaries
a few have seen Henry and June
“I had an abortion when I was sixteen
I almost bled to death” the Student confides
there are no writer’s blocks
only secrets we are afraid of telling
Wind stops Silence opens
I reminisce about the long winding road up
to Anais’s home in Silver Lake
shyly ringing the doorbell Anais answering
diaphanous dress revealing fragile body
my shock at her platinum wig
I had been told she had cancer
was enduring chemo and radiation
would not be teaching very long
I sat in her mauve living room
-- me a bromeliad among the roses --
gazed out onto the Japanese garden
and Anais listened
to a Homemaker from Ohio haunted
by two neighbor women who shared a house
but could never declare their love
begin and end with the dream

my last day
my Hostess and I tour Lassen and Plumas counties
schedule readings at a bookstore
eat goat-cheese and walnut salad savor a mead tasting
then drive 8,000 feet to the summit imagine the lives
of fire watchers who once inhabited the shelter
meander back down to bask on a ledge of lava flow
my Hostess will not allow me to hike by myself
she wants to discuss The Betrayer
who walked all around the lake alone
got sun-stroke and had to be carried back by fishermen
the heart-stabber
who does not have time for a dear friend’s poems
“I thought friendship was forever” my Hostess moans
she has just published her first book
The Betrayer did not attend the launch party
she is so sorry she has better contacts now
“my daughter is pregnant” my Hostess announces
I reflect on the birth story
how living in the shadow of Shoah
Anais poisoned the daughter of her own womb
she sat in the dark talking with her Unborn
there are no fathers not on earth or in heaven
how much better if you had stayed
in the paradise of non-being
then while recovering from stillbirth
I thought of the God I received at Communion
where was the fervor I had as a child?
I fell asleep with my hands folded on my breasts
my breathing another's breathing an inner breathing
I died and was reborn blue sky and sun on the wall
I knew I needed no dogmas no priest no man
by living my passions my creations to the limit
I would commune with the sky the light and God.

Wind blows across the lake
scatters our scraps and napkins
we scurry to gather them
assemble our belongings
I want to channel courage look away
do not brush the tear from my Hostess’s cheek
do not want to listen
can offer no comfort
this is not my landscape after all
one writes to create a world one can inhabit
Wind the shaping hand