Daisies
by: Mary Oliver
It is possible, I suppose, that sometime
we will learn everything
there is to learn: what the world is, for example,
and what it means. I think this as I am crossing
from one field to another, in summer, and the
mockingbird is mocking me, as one who either
knows enough already or knows enough to be
perfectly content not knowing. Song being born
of quest he knows this: he must turn silent
were he suddenly assaulted with answers. Instead
oh hear his wild, caustic, tender warbling ceaselessly
unanswered. At my feet the white-petaled daisies display
the small suns of their center-piece--their, if you don't
mind my saying so--their hearts. Of course
I could be wrong, perhaps their hearts are pale and
narrow and hidden in the roots. What do I know.
But this: it is heaven itself to take what is given,
to see what is plain; what the sun
lights up willingly; for example--I think this
as I reach down, not to pick but merely to touch
the suitability of the field for the daisies, and the
daisies for the field.
It was a strange day. Productively busy. As a programmer for a library and a university professor, I spend most of my daytime hours answering questions, from both library patrons and my students. That's really all Oliver does in her poems, too: she grapples with big, big questions about small, small things. Like daisies. Notice, I didn't say that Oliver tries to answer those big, big questions. Nope. I think she knows that, most of the time, questions are much more interesting than answers.
So, today I designed documents, printed flyers, finalized projects, and prepared for a poetry workshop that I led this evening. A lot of these tasks was busy work--stuff that didn't require a whole lot of brain power to complete. Necessary everyday/every month busy work. It had to get done.
Then, I spent over an hour on the phone with my medical insurance company, trying to clear up problems that I've been experiencing with my new prescription plan. It was a long conversation, asking lots of questions until I finally got the answers I was looking for.
As you can see, life (or at least my life) is mostly about questions. Even my approach to poetry is all about questions. As Oliver says, a poet (herself) is either the one "who knows enough already" or the one who "knows enough to be / perfectly content not knowing." Poets don't need to know answers. They just need to ask really interesting questions. That's it.
The poetry workshop I led tonight was all about summertime. We wrote poems about fruit picking and fireflies and bounty. Everyone has different ideas about summer. Those ideas are based on personal experiences, most of them from childhood. Writer Willa Cather once famously said, "Most of the basic material a writer works with is acquired before the age of fifteen." So, the question that ruled the evening was, "What does summer mean to you?"
And the answers to the question were multitude, each person bringing very different, very personal childhood visions of summertime, from the surreal to the sublime.
Childhood reality is different than adult reality. As a child, you can accept magic and mystery without question. Reindeer CAN fly. There IS something living under your bed. Fireflies ARE summer fairies. And you CAN stop rainstorms by chanting "rain, rain, go away, come again some other day." No science or Google or Wikipedia needed.
Hence, summer can be a season of questions without answers. Summer is hot because it is. Blueberries are blue because they are. Owls hoot because they do. The corner house is haunted because it is. As a kid, I never thought about climate change or blueberry ripeness or owl predation or human tragedy. As I said before, explanations are just not that interesting. Mystery--that's where it's at, especially for kids and poets. I think Oliver would agree with me.
The next time you hear a weird sound in the woods, don't whip out your phone and try to identify it. It's Bigfoot letting you know he's hungry. If you find a field of beautiful blue flowers you've never seen before, just lie down in it. It's a fairy garden. If a white light streaks across the heavens tonight, make a wish on it.
Saint Marty prefers making wishes to making beds, any day.
The Unknown Creature in my Backyard
after Edward Thomas
by: Martin Achatz
It gallumphed across the lawn, its hunch
of back swaying the way an elephant
sways as it glides over savanna
grass, full of slow dignity and mission.
We were miles from river
or lake, but my mind said "beaver," even
though I knew that was wrong.
That night, and many nights after,
I waited for my visitor to reappear,
waited for my next chance to name
and catalogue and thereby own it.
I never saw it again, except
in my dreams where it lived
in an underground kingdom
of warrens and tunnels lined
with daisies and hematite.
Yes, it nodded at me, I am
here, filling the world with
unknowing, forcing you to exist
in a state of mystery, the way
Joseph did every day with Jesus,
not quite sure what to do
with this little piece of God
living under his roof.
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