No, not the ones from Greek mythology, although those Sirens may perhaps be lurking in the background of the poem below. I’m talking about real sirens, the kind that call my attention frequently to the fact that life in the neighborhood where I live may be more or less in a constant state of crisis. We hear sirens night and day.

I’ve been reading my way slowly through a lovely book of reflections by Vietnamese Buddhist monk and scholar Thich Nhat Hanh, nominated by Martin Luther King, Jr. for the Nobel Peace Prize. He has written many books. This one is Going Home: Jesus and Buddha as Brothers. As a Christian, I find this title, and the book itself, compelling.

Hanh writes, “When I was a small child I used to go to the village Buddhist temple…I heard the sound of the bell a lot….I became a novice monk at the age of sixteen, and at that time I had a chance to discover what role the sound of the bell really plays in the practice of Buddhism.” Hanh goes on to speak of “inviting the bell to sound” by reciting a poem while breathing deeply in and out. I made up my mind to remember, and perhaps practice, saying these lines of the poem, though, in my case, without the sound of any kind of bell. Then it occurred to me.

The “bell” in my neighborhood is…a siren. Hardly the sweet, peaceful invitation of Hanh’s Buddhist bell. And yet, in those sirens I hear the reality of suffering. I remember my human connection to everyone and everything those sirens signify. So I have revised the monk’s poem by one word. You’ll know which word that is.

Body, speech, and mind in perfect oneness.
I send my heart along with the sound of this siren.
May the hearers awaken from their forgetfulness
and transcend the path of all anxiety and sorrow.

I wish I could claim the calm mindfulness that the remaining few lines of the Buddhist poem lead into. For now, I’ll settle for mindfulness of where I live and who lives there and what is happening with them and with me.

Below, you will find a poem I wrote about the sirens.

On a brighter note, Bill and I bought a tree to be planted in our front yard. The picture shows the tree as it might someday look. For now, ours is simply an expression of optimism and hope.

Happy Spring.

      Japanese Maple Orangeola

 
SIRENS
 
On 39th Street, screaming east or west,
the sirens rip the air apart and make
a whorl of purpose, fading in their wake,
the destination sure, the fate unguessed.
Something gone wrong, an accident, a crime,
has summoned them, a heart attack or fire.
With help or hindrance as it may require,
the sirens strive to interfere in time.
 
Safe in my room, and startled out of sleep,
I can’t prevent the circuits in my head
from spinning out scenarios of dread
and accusation, all the fear I keep
well hidden, listening with the certainty
that sirens coming on will stop at me.

 
 
Barbara Loots