September 30: "1945-1985: Poem for the Anniversary," Ugliness and Beauty, Common Denominators

Mary Oliver takes a walk in the woods . . . 

1945-1985:  Poem for the Anniversary

by:  Mary Oliver

Sometimes, 

walking for hours through the woods,

I don't know what I'm looking for,

maybe for something

shy and beautiful

to come frisking out of the undergrowth.

Once a fawn did just that.

My dog didn't know

what dogs usually do.

And the fawn didn't know.

As for the doe, she was probably

down in Round Pond, swizzling up

the sweet marsh grass and dreaming

that everything was fine.

                         ∞

The way I'd like to go on living in this world

wouldn't hurt anything.  I'd just go on

walking uphill and downhill, looking around,

and so what if half the time I don't know

what for--

so what if it doesn't come 

to a hill of beans--

so what if I vote liberal,

and am Jewish,

or Lutheran--

or a game warden--

or a bingo addict--

and smoke a pipe?

                         ∞

In the film of Dachau and Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen

the dead rise from the earth

and are piled in front of us, the starved

stare across forty years,

and lush, green, musical Germany

shows again its iron claw, which won't

ever be forgotten, which won't

ever be understood, but which did,

slowly, for years, scrape across Europe.

                         ∞

Oh, you never saw

such a good leafy place, and

everything was fine, my dog and the fawn

did a little dance,

they didn't get serious.

Then the fawn clambered away through the leaves

and my gentle dog followed me away.

                         ∞

Oh you never saw such a garden!

A hundred kinds of flowers in bloom!

A waterfall, for pleasure and nothing else!

The garden furniture is white,

tables and chairs in the cool shade.

A man sits there, the long afternoon before him.

He is finishing lunch, some kind

of fruit, chicken, and a salad.

A bottle of wine with a thin and beaded neck.

He fills a glass.

You can tell it is real crystal.

He lifts it to his mouth and drinks peacefully.

It is the face of Mengele.

                         ∞

Later,

the doe came wandering back in the twilight.

She stepped through the leaves.  She hesitated,

sniffing the air.

Then she knew everything.

Humanity can be ugly.  History bears this out.  The world itself is full of grace, and Oliver forages for grace daily, hiking through the wilderness until something shy and beautiful appears before her.  And when that happens, it renews her faith in goodness.

But it's so easy to succumb to pessimism and darkness.  Think of all of the terrible things that human beings have done to each other and this planet.  The Holocaust.  Hiroshima and Nagasaki.  Rwandan genocide.  Native American boarding schools.  Climate change.  Species extinctions.  The Crusades.  The list is endless.  As time marches forward, we keep finding new and innovative ways to reinvent cruelty.  

Oliver's poem is a reminder of both ugliness and beauty.  The fawn and her dog frolic together innocently, unaware that they should be enemies.  They have no instinct for fear or hatred.  Instead, they recognize something kindred--a yearning for fun and companionship.  Oliver juxtaposes this scene with images of the Holocaust and Josef Mengele as an old man--humankind at its absolute worst.

There is the impulse to always be on guard--the doe, coming out of the woods to sniff the air and recognize danger.  Living in a constant state of worry, however, isn't really living.  It's simply surviving, without the possibility of joy or grace.

Oliver's poem is an argument against that kind of existence.  She gives us an alternative:  so what?  So what if a dog and fawn aren't supposed to play together?  So what if I'm Jewish and you're Lutheran?  So what if I'm a game warden and you're a bingo addict?  So what if I voted for Joe Biden and you voted for Donald Trump?  (Okay, that one may be a deal breaker.)

Too much energy is spent on what separates us these days, instead of finding our common denominators.

For those of my disciples who aren't into math, let me put it another way:  we are all human.  We all need the same things:  food, water, shelter, clothing, friendship, and love.  Without these essentials, life becomes difficult, if not impossible.  It doesn't matter what color your skin is or what God, if any, you worship.  Or whether you're male or female or somewhere else on the spectrum.  Or who you love.  

Like Mary Oliver, we're all walking through the woods, uphill and downhill, looking for those grace-filled moments when we don't feel quite so alone.  And when those moments occur, it's like the sun burning through a cloudy day.

Saint Marty will choose sun over clouds every time.

September 29: "Black Snakes," Off the Grid, Saint Lisa

Mary Oliver has a close encounter of the snake kind . . . 

Black Snakes

by:  Martin Achatz

Suddenly

there I was

on the warm rocks--fear

like a mallet

slung against

metal--it was

that sudden,

that loud,

though in truth

there was no sound, only

the rough wing of fright

rushing

through our bodies.

One flowed

under the leaves, the other flared

half its length

into the air

against my body, then swirled

away.  Once I had steadied,

I thought:  how valiant!

and I wished

I had come softly, I wished

they were my dark friends.

For a moment I stared

through the impossible gates.

Then I saw them, under the vines,

coiled, cringing,

wishing me gone

with their stone eyes.

Not knowing what I would do

next, their tongues

shook like fire

at the echoes of my body--

that column of death

plunging

through the delicate woods.

For the most part, Oliver doesn't seem to fear anything in nature, from lightning to mice.  She admires and respects the untamed, knows that, in the grand scheme of the universe, humans are the most dangerous animals, each person a "column of death" in the fragile wildernesses of the world.

I spent most of today off the grid.  No cell service.  No way for anyone to send me a text or call me with a question.  Total disconnection.  Lisa, a wonderful poet friend, invited me to her camp in the middle of the woods, right on the shores of an inland lake.  We ate pizza and chocolate cupcakes, discussed poetry and cardinals.  Hiked all over her property, visiting her writing cabin and other outbuildings.  We ended our time together sitting on lichen-shrouded rocks, golden leaves snowing down around us, admiring the sunlight dancing on the lake.  

Now, I also love and respect nature.  However, I'm not an expert in identifying plants or birds or mushrooms.  If I had ever been a contestant on the TV show Naked and Afraid, I wouldn't have lasted more than a few hours.  I probably would have sat on a yellowjacket nest and died of anaphylaxis, my ass and scrotum swollen to the size of a black bear cub.

Lisa, on the other hand, is completely in her element in the woods.  Instead of killing a hornet that's trapped in her camp, she opens the screen door and escorts the hornet outside, saying, "Come on, little guy."  Think Francis of Assisi with long dark hair and a love of chocolate.  Once, when Lisa was giving an outdoor poetry reading a year or so ago, I watched a gaggle of geese slowly approach, listening attentively, as if her voice was some kind of siren song for them.

Today, we didn't see any snakes, black, brown, sienna, or plaid.  Didn't run into a moose or wolf or skunk.  If we had, I'm sure Lisa would have simply remarked, "Hey, sister skunk/wolf/moose, we're just passing through," and walked by, without being sprayed, eaten, or stomped to death.  As Lisa said to me during our hike, "I'm in their home."

I need these kinds of total breaks more often.  It seems like most of my life is about teaching, answering texts and emails, hosting large gatherings of human beings.  In short, being very connected all day and night.  I never turn off my phone, and, more often than not, receive messages in the middle of the night.  My "me" time during a normal day consists of trips to the bathroom.  (I used to joke with another friend that the nearest toilet was my breakroom.)

My time with Lisa today reminded me of the importance of selfcare.  The world didn't end because I didn't have cell service.  Nobody died because I was unavailable.  And I didn't get bitten by a poisonous black snake.

Instead, I talked with Lisa about Mary Oliver and Wendell Berry and  blue jays and beavers and loons.  Walked through a carpet of golden maple leaves.  Recharged my batteries.  And it was all grace.

Saint Marty is thankful for his friendship with Saint Lisa.

September 28: "Two Kinds of Deliverance," Gail, Setting Free

Mary Oliver looks for deliverance . . .

Two Kinds of Deliverance

by:  Mary Oliver

1.

Last night the geese came back,

slanting fast

from the blossom of the rising moon down

to the black pond.  A muskrat

swimming in the twilight saw them and hurried

to the secret lodges to tell everyone

spring had come.

And so it had.

By morning when I went out

the last of the ice had disappeared, blackbirds

sang on the shores.  Every year

the geese, returning,

do this, I don't

know how.

2.

The curtains opened and there was

an old man in a headdress of feathers,

leather leggings and a vest made

from the skin of some animal.  He danced

in a kind of surly rapture, and the trees

in the fields far away

began to mutter and suck up their long roots.

Slowly they advanced until they stood

pressed to the schoolhouse windows.

3.

I don't know

lots of things but I know this next year

when spring

flows over the starting point I'll think I'm going to

drown in the shimmering miles of it and then

one or two birds will fly me over

the threshold.

                    As for the pain

of others, of course it tries to be

abstract, but then

there flares up out of a vanished wilderness, like fire,

still blistering:  the wrinkled face

of an old Chippewa

smiling, hating us,

dancing for his life.

The word "deliverance" has a few meanings, but the main one (the one, I'm sure, Mary Oliver intended for this poem) is "the act of being rescued or set free."  So, the geese come to the black pond and set it free of the ice and snow of winter.  The old man in the headdress sets the trees free of their roots.  The blistering face of the old Chippewa tries to rescue his life from the pain and hatred of his and his people's past.

This afternoon, I learned a poet friend was delivered from her suffering two days ago.  Gail had been in hospice care, her heart failing in the bed of her chest.  Over the course of a couple weeks, she had good days and bad days.  Times when she struggled to keep her eyes open, her mind focused, for just a few minutes.  Other times when she was lucid and able to sustain extended conversations.

Yet, as must happen with each one of us, Gail was delivered from the icy black pond of this world to the verdant green world of the next.  Gail was, as I said above, a poet.  She was also a visual artist.  Earlier this summer, I visited her studio, watched her work, and admired her eye for beauty.  She was the real deal--painter and poet, mother and grandmother, friend to all.

What happens when a poet dies?  I've been pondering that question since I found out about Gail's passing.  I imagine her deliverance was like the geese descending out of a moony sky, looking to rest their tired wings after a long and difficult journey.  That's where I imagine Gail is right now, standing with Mary Oliver on the shores of the black pond, listening to blackbirds sing their psalm to spring.

Saint Marty gives thanks tonight for Gail's time on this planet, for her deliverance of beauty with words and brushes and paints.

September 27: "Poem," Spirit, Aubri

Mary Oliver gets into the spirit of things . . . 

Poem

by:  Mary Oliver

The spirit

     likes to dress up like this:

          ten fingers,

               ten toes,

shoulders, and all the rest

     at night

          in the black branches,

               in the morning

in the blue branches

     of the world.

          It could float, of course,

               but would rather

plumb rough matter.

     Airy and shapeless thing,

           it needs

               the metaphor of the body,

lime and appetite,

     the oceanic fluids;

          it needs the body's world,

               instinct

and imagination

     and the dark hug of time,

          sweetness

               and tangibility,

to be understood,

     to be more than pure light

          that burns

               where no one is--

so it enters us--

     in the morning

          shines from brute comfort

               like a stitch of lightning;

and at night

     lights up the deep and wondrous

          drownings of the body

              like a star.

Tonight, Mary Oliver writes about the spirit in her poem "Poem."  The spirit that shines like a stitch of lightning.  That enters the body and lights it up like a star at night.  We can't touch the spirit, or see its airy and shapeless form, until it's clothed in the brute comfort of flesh and breath.  Yet, it is always there.

Tonight, I am writing about the spirit, as well.  Everyone knows a person whose spirit is so bright it can't be completely contained in a body.  A person who lights up the air like a swarm of fireflies.  I've had the privilege of having a few people like this in my life--individuals who've made my journey better just by being in it.  Because of their kindness and humor and compassion.

My niece, Aubri, celebrated her golden birthday today--27 on the 27th.  On more than one occasion in the past, she has reached out to me when I've been struggling with darkness, just to let me know that I'm loved and important to her.  In the deepest wells of my life, she has shared her light and laughter with me, and, in doing so, she's reminded me to look up and see the sun and stars.

So, even though an ocean separates us this evening, I want to send her joy and peace, to let her know that her spirit is a lighthouse to me.  A beacon that makes me smile, fills me with hope.  Because after a long night, the dawn comes with laughter and beauty.  Everyone needs an Aubri in their lives.

On her golden day, Saint Marty wishes his niece all the blessings the universe has to offer.

September 26: "The Journey," Son's Birthday, Right Path

Mary Oliver tells us about . . . 

The Journey

by:  Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice--

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

"Mend my life!"

each voice cried.

But you didn't stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations--

though their melancholy

was terrible,

it was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice,

which you slowly 

recognized as your own, 

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do--

determined to save

the only life you could save.

Rarely do I feel like I know where my life is headed.  I'm old enough to have encountered a lot of voices shouting bad advice, stiff fingers of wind, fallen branches and stones in the road.  There haven't been any maps to follow, and Siri doesn't know what's coming around the bend.

Today, my son turned 15.  When I was young, the idea of being a father terrified me.  If you haven't noticed, I'm not really into a lot of the typical "guy" stuff.  When it comes to cars, I can fill up a gas tank and check oil.  That's about it.  I don't remember the last time I held a fishing rod.  I haven't fired any kind of gun since I was a teenager, and I could care less who the Green Bay Packers are playing next.  My focus, at the moment, is who's going to win the Nobel Prize in Literature next Thursday, which happens to be Saint Marty's Day.  Fingers crossed.

I've tried to be a good guide for my son, keeping him away from swamps and cliffs, potholes and culverts.  His journey has been much shorter than mine, but it has been a long and winding road, as the Beatles say.  Bullying.  Strife at home.  Suicide attempts.  Not to mention a global pandemic.  Helping him navigate all of these challenges has been like trying to climb Mount Everest or explore the Grand Canyon.

I've made mistakes for sure.  As I said, I'm sort of unconventional when it comes to fathering skills.  If my son wants to know how to bait a fish hook or shoot a deer, he will have to talk to one of his uncles or cousins.  If he wants to know how to write a sonnet or understand The Catcher in the Rye, I'm his man.  

The good news is that, despite my deficits as a father (or because of them, maybe), my son has grown into a funny, smart, and sensitive young man.  He makes me laugh on a daily basis and will still say "I love you" to me in public settings.  He treats everyone with respect and doesn't have a mean bone in his body.

In short, at the beginning of his 15th journey around the sun, my son is on the right path.  I don't know where he's headed, and he will certainly encounter more obstacles, but I couldn't be prouder of the person that he's becoming.

Even though he's directionally challenged, Saint Marty has managed to be his son's compass.

September 25: "Shadows," Frightening and Beautiful, Hope

Mary Oliver gets a little spooky . . . 

Shadows

by:  Mary Oliver

Everyone knows the great energies running amok cast

terrible shadows, that each of the so-called

senseless acts has its thread looping

back through the world and into a human heart.

     And meanwhile

the gold-trimmed thunder

wanders the sky; the river

may be filling the cellars of the sleeping town.

Cyclone, fire, and their merry cousins

     bring us to grief--but  these are the hours

with the old wooden-god faces;

we lift them to our shoulders like so many

black coffins, we continue walking

into the future.  I don't mean

     there are no bodies in the river,

or bones broken by the wind.  I mean

everyone who has heard the lethal train-roar

of the tornado swears there was no mention ever

of any person, or reason--I mean

     the waters rise without any plot upon

history, or even geography.  Whatever

power of the earth rampages, we turn to it

dazed by anonymous eyes; whatever

the name of the catastrophe, it is never

     the opposite of love.

This poem reads like a laundry list of fears--from the train-roar of the tornado to the old wooden-god faces.  Human beings associate shadows with those elements of the universe that can be destructive or lethal.  Of course, fear is something humans created.  The shadows in Oliver's poem are all natural phenomenon--the power of the earth.  

Are there shadows in the world?  Absolutely.  Are those shadows filled with pain and suffering sometimes?  Without a doubt.  Can those shadows be frightening and beautiful simultaneously?  Certainly.  There's a reason why people stand outside to watch lightning storms.  Or drive to Lake Superior to watch 15- and 20-foot waves crash into the shore during blizzards.  The power of nature is both terrifying and wonderful.

The one shadow that frightens most people is the future.  Nobody knows what's going to happen tomorrow.  Or in two hours.  Or in the next two minutes.  We all might wake in the morning to find out that an asteroid is on a collision course with our planet and will cause an extinction event.  Or we could step into a crosswalk and be mowed down by a passing pickup truck.  Terrible things happen, despite our best efforts to avoid them.

I'm a planner.  Each day, I curate a to-do list.  I don't always complete everything on that list by the time my head hits the pillow at night, but creating the list provides me with a sense of control.  "This is what will happen today" is what I'm telling myself.  No surprises.  No catastrophes.  Just follow the numbers, step-by-step, and nothing bad can happen.

Of course, that's a load of shit.  Bad things can and still do happen.  Sisters are diagnosed with lymphoma of the brain.  Big dogs attack smaller dogs.  Sociopaths are elected President of the United States.  Rubes are convinced to "peacefully" overthrow of the United States government.  Fear is a natural response to all of these situations.

I could spend all day, every day of my life afraid of these shadows.  Refusing to get out of bed or leave my house.  But I don't.  You see, the remedy of darkness is light.  The remedy of fear is faith.  I don't believe the universe is out to get me.  On the contrary.  I think the universe, and everything in it (shadows included) are gifts to be treasured.  That's my hope for all my disciples.

Some people think hope is for fools.

Saint Marty thinks that hope is what splits open the clouds and lets the sun shine through.

September 24: "Wild Geese," Family of Things, Teeming Life

Mary Oliver reminds us we are family . . . 

Wild Geese

by:  Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

     love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

Oliver says you don't have to be happy or grateful.  You don't have to crawl on your hands and knees for a hundred miles, begging for forgiveness.  You can be angry or floundering in despair.  You owe nothing in order to be a member of the family of things.

It's easy to feel isolated or alone in the modern world.  Despite all of the social media platforms, human beings are more estranged from each other than ever before.  Rather than drawing the citizens of the planet closer together, Facebook and Instagram and X/Twitter/Whatever seem to be driving us further apart.  Just today, I snoozed four people in my Facebook feed because of their mean-spirited posts.

Yet, we really are all one family.  It's just that some of our brothers and sisters thrive on what separates us versus what we have in common.  And a lot of humans also don't get how much our survival depends on trees and animals and birds and fish and all teeming life.  Everything is connected and important, despite what climate-change deniers and oil companies and auto executives say.  

There's a reason why, at the height of the pandemic, when everything was shut down and everyone was staying home, suddenly the people of India could clearly see the Himalayas for the first time in decades.  Nobody was driving cars, and air pollution plummeted.  It took a global epidemic to provide tangible evidence how much harm humans are inflicting on the world.

Every night, I send these little blog love letters out into the world.  I don't intend to piss people off or stir any kind of political pot.  My goal is pretty simple--to make people laugh, think, be kind, and, above all else, love one another.  We all have more in common with each other than we have differences.  The sooner we realize this fact, the better the world will be.

This planet, and everything on it, is a gift and a blessing.  From the clouds above us to the ants beneath our feet, we need to start treating it all as something miraculous and wonderful.  Even wild geese, with their harsh and exciting cries, are our brothers and sisters.  That's what Oliver says.

If a kangaroo sneezes in Australia, Saint Marty will say gesundheit in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

September 23: "Morning Poem," Forgive Me, Gold and Red Leaves

Mary Oliver recites her . . . 

Morning Prayer

by:  Mary Oliver

Every morning

the world

is created.

Under the orange

sticks of the sun

the heaped

ashes of the night 

turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches

and the ponds appear

like black cloth

on which are painted islands

of summer lilies.

If it is your nature

to be happy

you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination

alighting everywhere.

And if your spirit

carries within it

the thorn 

that is heavier than lead--

if it's all you can do

to keep on trudging--

there is still

somewhere deep within you

a beast shouting that the earth

is exactly what it wanted--

each pond with its blazing lilies

is a prayer heard and answered

lavishly,

every morning,

whether or not

you have ever dared to be happy,

whether or not

you have ever dared to pray.

You are going to have to forgive me tonight.  I'm writing this post very late and am not feeling very poetic.  I should have sat down early this morning to write, but I found myself too distracted by life to pull together anything profound or interesting.

So, instead, I will give you a weather report.

It was a warm first day of autumn, and by warm I mean that stepping outside did not require any kind of jacket.  The heavens were mostly blue, and the moon is bright and high, but not full, tonight.  No rain.  Just gold and red leaves lifting their palms in applause or prayer.

I have dared to be happy.  I've also carried around a thorn heavier than lead, too.  Sometimes, I've done both of these things simultaneously.  That's just the way it is.  Happiness and sadness, flipsides of the same coin.

Saint Marty will try to remember to say a prayer tomorrow morning.

September 22: "One or Two Things," Carpe Diem, Low Energy

Mary Oliver has a few things on her mind . . .

One or Two Things

by:  Mary Oliver

1.

Don't bother me.

I've just

been born.

2.

The butterfly's loping flight

carries it through the country of the leaves

delicately, and well enough to get it

where it wants to go, wherever that is, stopping

here and there to fuzzle the damp throats

of flowers and the black mud; up

and down it swings, frenzied and aimless, and sometimes

for long delicious moments it is perfectly

lazy, riding motionless in the breeze on the soft stalk

of some ordinary flower.

3.

The god of dirt

came up to me many times and said

so many wise and delectable things, I lay

on the grass listening

to his dog voice,

crow voice,

frog voice, now,

he said, and now,

and never once mentioned forever,

4.

which has nevertheless always been,

like a sharp iron hoof,

at the center of my mind.

5.

One or two things are all you need

to travel over the blue pond, over the deep

roughage of the trees and through the stiff

flowers of lightning--some deep

memory of pleasure, some cutting

knowledge of pain.

6.

But to lift the hoof!

For that you need

an idea.

7.

For years and years I struggled

just to love my life.  And then

the butterfly

rose, weightless, in the wind.

"Don't love your life

too much," it said,

and vanished

into the world.

Mary Oliver's point in this poem seems pretty clear:  live in the now and don't hold onto anything in life too tightly.  It all eventually goes the way of the dodo, so it's important to embrace each day fully, because tomorrow the butterfly may rise in the wind and disappear.  Carpe diem.

It's Friday night, and I'm a little exhausted from the week's goings on--the teaching and events and meetings.  Low energy and lower enthusiasm.

But, just like Oliver, Saint Marty has a few things on his mind.

1.

Never turn 

down free

pizza.

2.

Read poetry

each day

as if

your life

depended

on it.

3.

When the moon

is full,

beware of

skunks

in your backyard

4. 

and always

put the lid

tight on

your trash can.

5.

Go for walks

at dusk

when you can

smell the maples

turning

gold.

6.

Tell your kids

you love

them

at least three times

every day

7.

because tomorrow

is not

a promise.

8.

Open 

your mouth

and sing

loudly

9.

when you

hear your

favorite song

on the radio.

10.

Always stop

what you're doing

to watch

rainstorms

11.

and sunrises.

September 21: "Five A.M. in the Pinewoods," Right Place, Close Encounter

Mary Oliver has a close encounter . . . 

Five A.M. in the Pinewoods

by:  Mary Oliver

I'd seen

their hoofprints in the deep

needles and knew

they ended the long night

under the pines, walking

like two mute

and beautiful women toward

the deeper woods, so I

got up in the dark and

went there.  They came

slowly down the hill

and looked at me sitting under

the blue trees, shyly

they stepped

closer and stared

from under their thick lashes and even

nibbled some damp

tassels of weeds.  This

is not a poem about a dream,

though it could be.

This is a poem about the world

that is ours, or could be.

Finally

one of them--I swear it!--

would have come to my arms.

But the other

stamped sharp hoof in the

pine needles like

the tap of sanity,

and they went off together through

the trees.  When I woke

I was alone,

I was thinking:

so this is how you swim inward,

so this is how you flow outward,

so this is how you pray.

I don't know how Mary Oliver does it.  

I've been reading and writing about her for over nine months now.  Each night, I sit down with one of her poems, and I find myself stunned into wordlessness by Oliver's lines.  Her poems are like the deer in the pinewoods--shyly emerging from the trees in all their mute beauty.  You stand immobile, or they'll startle and disappear.

My job as a reader is simply to be in the right place at the right time and take it in.  Let the poems approach, look at me from under their thick eyelashes, and stamp their hoofs to warn or frighten.  Of course, poems, like deer, are skittish and unpredictable.  They flee at the threat of human presence.  

This is a close encounter of the poem kind.

I struggled to find my Mary Moment all day long, from my 8:30 a.m. meeting to my 7 p.m. virtual poetry open mic.  I told myself I didn't have time to search for any kind of miracle.  I just worked and worked and worked.  When I got home from the library, I worked on my laptop for a couple more hours.  And then I did it.  I went hunting for a miracle.  

It didn't take long.  I found a bank of beautiful clouds piled up in the sky, deep blue and white.  Now, I know that clouds aren't living things.  But, as a kid, I would transform them into dragons and elephants and blue whales.  These celestial creatures never startled or ran away from me.  They hung above, watching, guarding.

But clouds, like deer or poetry, are momentary miracles.  They appear, inspire, and vanish, leaving behind only memory and breath.  Clouds are carried away by winds.  Deer are startled away by noises.  And poems are given life by voice and breath, briefly, before disappearing like the aurora borealis. 

Deer watching.  Cloud watching.  Poem watching.  They're really all the same thing:  being open to everyday miracles.

This Saint Marty believes.

September 20: "Some Herons," Word of God, Word of Poet

Mary Oliver, a preacher, an old Chinese poet, and . . . 

Some Herons

by:  Mary Oliver

A blue preacher

flew toward the swamp,

in slow motion.

On the leafy banks,

an old Chinese poet,

hunched in the white gown of his wings,

was waiting.

The water

was the kind of dark silk

that has silver lines

shot through it

when it is touched by the wind

or is splashed upward,

in a small, quick flower,

by the life beneath it.

The preacher

made his difficult landing,

his skirts up around his knees.

The poet's eyes

flared, just as a poet's eyes

are said to do

when the poet is awakened

from the forest of meditation.

It was summer.

It was only a few moments past the sun's rising,

which meant that the whole long sweet day

lay before them.

They greeted each other,

rumpling their gowns for an instant,

and then smoothing them.

They entered the water,

and instantly two more herons--

equally as beautiful--

joined them and stood just beneath them

in the black, polished water

where they fished, all day.

In case you didn't notice, Oliver is writing about herons.  The preacher and Old Chinese poet--they wade into the water at the end of the poem, and they' re joined by "two more herons"  The most important word here is "more."  More herons in a poem already filled with herons.  The preacher flies toward the swamp, and the old Chinese poet hunches in the "white gown of his wings."  The promise of feather and flight is all through Oliver's lines.

At the end, all four--heron preacher, heron poet, and two more equally beautiful herons--are in the black, polished water together, fishing.  All are connected to words--the word of God, word of poet, and words of nature.  There's really no separating any of them.

Words are things with feathers--they beat their wings against air and water.  They insist on being admired and fed, kept alive by breath and scale.  Emily Dickinson said Hope is a thing with feathers.  Perhaps there's no difference between words and Hope.  They're one in the same.  In his gospel, the poet apostle John describes Christ as the "word made flesh."

What I'm getting at tonight is the power of language.  To pray.  To inspire.  To save.  To create.  Think of the Book of Genesis, how the universe is composed.  God speaks everything into being--light, land, sea, sky, and all the teeming creatures.  God breathes life in humans.  We are breath, if you subscribe to Christian doctrine.  We are all words made flesh.  Herons, diving from the orange heavens of sunrise or set, from the black shadow trees, into the swamp waters of God's poem.

God says let there be poetry, and so does Saint Marty . . . 

September 19: "The Loon on Oak-Head Pond," Moonlit Walk, Puppy Paradise

Mary Oliver and a loon . . . 

The Loon on Oak-Head Pond

by:  Mary Oliver

cries for three days, in the gray mist.

cries for the north it hopes it can find.

plunges, and comes up with a slapping pickerel.

blinks its red eye.

cries again.

you come every afternoon, and wait to hear it.

you sit for a long time, quiet, under the thick pines,

in the silence that follows.

as though it were your own twilight.

as though it were your own vanishing song.

I just went for a moonlit walk and then I did what a lot of people do at the end of long and busy days--scrolled through my Facebook feed to see whose birthday it is, who experienced a loss, who ate something delicious for dinner.  It's a bad habit, and I know that Facebook reality is very different from real life.  However, those few moments every night keep me abreast of what's happening in the lives of people I know and love.

Tonight, I came across a post by a good friend who lost her beloved dog today, and it broke my heart.  My friend included about 50 candid shots of her beloved fur-child, from young doghood to old doghood.  For a few moments, I lost myself in the dog's soulful eyes and black-lipped smile.

If there's one poet who knows how to write about loss beautifully, it's Mary Oliver.  The word "cries" starts the first two lines of this poem.  That's a pretty good indication that death is close by, waiting to loom out of Oak-Head Pond, perhaps in the beak of the loon.  

Every morning for the past month or so, I've heard a loon calling to the rising sun.  (I live close to a small lake, so loons often summer near me.)  If you've never heard a loon's cry, you won't understand its gray mist and craving for north.  It's a sound that's filled with longing and lament.  At least for me.

Oliver doesn't identify the "you" in the second half of the poem--the one that visits every afternoon, sitting under the thick pines, waiting, waiting to hear that sound and the silence that follows it.  The you could be a lover.  A parent.  A child.  Or an old, beloved dog.

Lots of people write about pets crossing the rainbow bridge.  I prefer this version.  A dog in its twilight years, patiently sitting in the shade of a pine, listening to the loon sing its vanishing song.  This image gives me comfort because it's full of the lap of waves, smell of pine, and birdsong echoing across the pond.  It's dog paradise.

So, tonight, this post and this poem are for my friend, Amber, whose gentle giant of a dog is relaxing on the shores of Oak-Head Pond, beneath the needles and cones of a tree, listening patiently as a loon serenades him to puppy paradise.

Saint Marty does think that all dogs go to heaven.

September 18: "Turtle," Poets and Artists, Chips and Salsa

Mary Oliver saves a turtle . . . 

Turtle

by:  Mary Oliver

Now I see it--

it nudges with its bulldog head

the slippery stems of the lilies, making them tremble;

and now it noses along in the wake of the little brown teal

who is leading her soft children

from one side of the pond to the other; she keeps

close to the edge

and they follow closely, the good children--

the tender children,

the sweet children, dangling their pretty feet

into the darkness.

And now will come--I can count on it--the murky splash,

the certain victory

of that pink and gassy mouth, and the frantic

circling of the hen while the rest of the chicks

flare away over the water and into the reeds, and my heart

will be most mournful

on their account.  But, listen,

what's important?

Nothing's important

except that the great and cruel mystery of the world,

of which this is a part,

not be denied.  Once,

I happened to see, on a city street, in summer,

a dusty, fouled turtle plodding along--

a snapper--

broken out I suppose from some backyard cage--

and I knew what I had to do--

I looked it right in the eyes, and I caught it--

I put it, like a small mountain range,

into a knapsack, and I took it out

of the city, and I let it

down into the dark pond, into

the cool water,

and the light of the lilies,

to live.

Not everything in the world is easy or beautiful.  Oliver watches a turtle, with its pink and gassy mouth, snatch a duckling from its mother.  The mother frantically searches for her lost child, but Oliver knows that this moment is part of the undeniable great and cruel mystery of the world.  The ducks are doing what ducks do, and the turtle is doing what turtles do.  There is a hard beauty in that.

It has been a long Monday.  Of course, most Mondays are long, coming off a couple days of non-work.  Humankind has created a commerce of time.  Work time is considered more valuable than play time.  Being a productive employee is valued more than being a productive citizen of the planet.  So, poets and writers and artists are snapping turtles in society, full of plodding suspicion and menace.

If you think I'm full of shit, try going to a party filled with strangers.  Introduce yourself as a poet, and see what strange looks you get.  People will go out of their way to avoid your company, even if you're standing by the chips and salsa.

I have no idea when artists and poets became pariahs in the great pond of humanity.  Perhaps when the Industrial Revolution hit and people were suddenly expendable commodities, disposable cogs in the machinery of capitalism.  You see, poets and artists reveal truths about the world (sometimes great and cruel truths), and the rich and powerful prefer their workers to be blind and obedient.

So, this morning, when I got to work, I didn't immediately sit down at my desk and turn on my computer blindly and obediently.  Instead, I climbed to the roof of the library and watched the sun rise over Lake Superior.  I started my day with the light of the lilies over the mud and clay and reeds of the shore.

If that makes Saint Marty an unproductive and lazy snapping turtle, so be it.

September 17: "The Swan," Paradise, Prayer Card

Mary Oliver ponders paradise . . .

The Swan

by:  Mary Oliver

Across the wide waters

     something comes

          floating--a slim

               and delicate

ship, filled

     with white flowers--

          and it moves

               on its miraculous muscles

as though time didn't exist,

     as though bringing such gifts

          to the dry shore

               was a happiness

almost beyond bearing.

     And now it turns its dark eyes,

          it rearranges

               the clouds of its wings,

it trails

     an elaborate webbed foot,

          the color of charcoal.

               Soon it will be here.

Oh, what shall I do

     when that poppy-colored beak

          rests in my hand?

               Said Mrs. Blake of the poet:

I miss my husband's company--

     he is so often

          in paradise.

               Of course! the path to heaven

doesn't lie down in flat miles.

     It's in the imagination

          with which you perceive

               this world,

and the gestures

     with which you honor it.

          Oh, what will I do, what will I say, when those

               white wings

            touch the shore?

Oliver says the path to heaven doesn't stretch out before us in flat miles.  No, the way to nirvana is about how you perceive the world around you, and how you praise it for all of its blessings.  Oliver even drags out the big gun--William Blake, who, she notes, was often lost in paradise, according to his wife, because of his poetic imagination.

For some reason, the path to paradise has seemed very close to me today.  I attended two church services this morning, and, as I played and sang the hymns, recited the prayers, listened to the readings and pastor's message, I found myself sort of breaking open like a seed, reaching through the dirt toward light and water.  Or maybe I was like Mary Oliver, watching that swan glide over the water with its cloud of wings, me brought to a standstill by its miraculous approach.

Whatever metaphor you prefer, I've felt very raw and vulnerable today.  I know that I just passed the birthday of my brother, Kevin, who died about nine years ago.  The beginning of September is also the anniversary of my sister Sally's funeral, which happened eight years ago.  Maybe it's simply the shift from summer to fall, the world preparing to go fallow for six or seven months.

Or it may be something much simpler.  Yesterday, as I was sifting through the junk I hauled out of my old car, I came across a prayer card from my sister Rose's funeral.  On one side is a picture of an angel in a gauzy white gown, her head crowned with white flowers (possibly daisies), swan wings spread against a starry sky.  On the other side, an almost thumbnail photo of Rose above the words to the "Hail Mary."

I've been carrying this card around with me since yesterday, thinking of Rose every time I took it out of my pocket to look at.

Perhaps heaven really is closer than any of us think.  It may be all around us, every day.  In the morning light puddled on the grass.  In a swan slowly sailing across a lake.  In a little card found in the glovebox of a car.

What will Saint Marty do, what will he say, when the tips of those angelic swan wings brush the tears away from the shores of his eyes?

September 16: "The Kingfisher," Imperfect Moments, Best Version

Mary Oliver longs to do something perfectly . . . 

The Kingfisher

by:  Mary Oliver

The kingfisher rises out of the black wave

like a blue flower, in his beak

he carries a silver leaf.  I think this is

the prettiest world--so long as you don't mind

a little dying, how could there be a day in your whole life

that doesn't have its splash of happiness?

There are more fish than there are leaves

on a thousand trees, and anyway the kingfisher

wasn't born to think about it, or anything else.

When the wave snaps shut over his blue head, the water

remains water--hunger is the only story

he has ever heard in his life that he could believe.

I don't say he's right.  Neither

do I say he's wrong.  Religiously he swallows the silver leaf

with its broken red river, and with a rough and easy cry

I couldn't rouse out of my thoughtful body

if my life depended on it, he swings back

over the bright sea to do the same thing, to do it

(as I long to do something, anything) perfectly.

The kingfisher lives his life perfectly, guided by the story of hunger.  He dives into the bright sea, surfaces with a silver leaf in his beak, and then swings back with a rough and easy cry.  He doesn't have to think about what he's doing because it's in his kingfisher DNA.  He inherited his perfection.

I don't strive to be perfect.  In fact, I would say that most of my days are filled with one imperfect moment after another, from the time my alarm goes off in the morning until I collapse into exhaustion at the end of the day.  Human beings are imperfect creatures doing imperfect things, making imperfect choices.

Today was a slow day of imperfection for me.  I imperfectly slept in (couldn't sleep past 8 a.m.).  Imperfectly practiced music for weekend church services (hey, it's called practice for a reason).  Imperfectly played the pipe organ for Mass at 4 p.m. (yes, I hit a few jazz chords).  Imperfectly finished going through leftover shit from my old car (I now own a car without a CD player--so there were lots of unusable CDs).  Imperfectly ate dinner (spilled sauce on my shirt).  Imperfectly took my puppy for a walk (she was the Energizer bunny, wanting to go on and on).  And imperfectly sat down to write this blog post (my internet crapped out on me, and I had to contact customer support).

I would say that the only thing I do perfectly is being imperfect.  I'm not the greatest musician in the world.  Or the greatest teacher or brother or husband or father.  All of the poems I write are approximations of the poems I envision in my head.  Let's call them near misses.  Even this blog post, when I type the last period after the last sentence, will be a pale imitation of my real thoughts and feelings.  

But being human is not about perfection.  It's about striving to be better.  I try to be the best version of myself each and every day, and I usually fail each and every day.  But, true failure isn't failing.  True failure is not getting up and dusting myself off after I stumble and fall.

At the end of my last puppy walk this evening, I snapped a picture of the sun trapped in a maple tree.  A Mary Oliver moment.  I thought it was beautiful.  Perfect as only nature can be perfect.  Ask the kingfisher.  

So, I can recognize something perfect, just like Oliver, and I can try to write something about it, a blog post or poem or essay.  But I will inevitably fail because I am human.  And I'm not Mary Oliver.

I'm Marty, patron saint of fucking up.  

September 15: "The Hermit Crab," Stressful Week, What Will Be

Mary Oliver on a walk along a beach . . . 

The Hermit Crab

by:  Mary Oliver

Once I looked inside

     the darkness

          of a shell folded like a pastry,

               and there was a fancy face--

or almost a face--

     it turned away

          and frisked up its brawny forearms

               so quickly

against the light

     and my looking in

          I scarcely had time to see it,

               gleaming

under the pure white roof

     of old calcium.

          When I set it down, it hurried

               along the tideline

of the sea,

     which was slashing along as usual,

          shouting and hissing

               toward the future,

turning its back

     with every tide on the past,

          leaving the shore littered

               every morning

with more ornaments of death--

     what a pearly rubble

          from which to choose a house

               like a white flower--

and what a rebellion

     to leap into it

          and hold on,

               connecting everything,

the past to the future--

     which is of course the miracle--

          which is the only argument there is

               against the sea.

To live somewhere a long time is an act of desperation and hope, especially a place that defies hospitality sometimes.

That's what the hermit crab does in this poem.  As Oliver peers into the front window of the hermit crab's shell, she sees a creature that is both past and future. defying the tides and wrack and ruin of the sea.  It crawls into an ornament of death and scuttles away, carrying on its back what was into what is and what will be.

It has been a very long and stressful week.  When I woke up this past Monday morning, I had no idea that, five days later, a brand new car would be sitting in my driveway.  Of course, I'm enjoying all the bells and whistles of this vehicle.  Touch screen.  Backup cameras.  Lane departure warnings.  And that new car smell.  It's the same make and model as the car I drove to work five days ago, so it's not like I've traded up for bigger and better.  My foot is still firmly planted in the past as I move through the present into the future.

What was into what is and will be.

I'm not a person who deals with change easily, as most of my faithful disciples know.  I'm a creature of habit, enjoying routine and predictability.  Except for around four years in Kalamazoo, I've lived the majority of my adult life in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  In that time, I've worked in healthcare for over twenty years, and I've been teaching at the local university for going on thirty years (through six English Department Heads and seven university presidents).  Three years ago, I started a new career at a library, and I have no plans of movin' on up any time soon (cue The Jeffersons theme song).

The hermit crab is an introvert.  Tries to avoid Oliver's prying stare.  Leave me alone, it seems to say as it retreats further into the pearly recesses of its chosen home.  Yes, the sea is constantly revising itself and its shoreline.  From day to day, nothing remains exactly the same.  Yet, the hermit crab thrives in this ever-changing environment, stubbornly surviving.  

My life has sort of been the same--an act of stubborn survival.  I've clung to my marriage and family like the hermit crab clings to its pastry shell, through winter and summer, hurricane and nor'easter.  There have been times when I've been battered by well-intentioned advice about what I should or shouldn't do, from divorce to parenting to new car purchases.  Some of my choices have confounded my loved ones.  And that's okay.  Sometimes the only argument against the sea is just to hang on and wait out the waves and winds and tides.

I do it for moments like tonight.  After picking my son up in my new car and driving him home, I stood outside and wondered at the blaze of sunset in the sky.  In the distance, I could hear the high school marching band playing at the football field, followed by the muted roar of the crowd and the announcer.  It was a miracle moment--reminding me of where I started, where I am, and where I'm going.

And Saint Marty has a new car to get there.

September 14: "Singapore," Rules for Poetry, Subaru Impreza

Mary Oliver writes a poem about birds and trees and rivers . . . 

Singapore

by Mary Oliver

In Singapore, in the airport,

a darkness was ripped from my eyes.

In the women's restroom, one compartment stood open.

A woman knelt there, washing something

     in the white bowl.

Disgust argued in my stomach

and I felt, in my pocket, for my ticket.

A poem should always have birds in it.

Kingfishers, say, with their bold eyes and gaudy wings.

Rivers are pleasant, and of course trees.

A waterfall, or if that's not possible, a fountain

     rising and falling.

A person wants to stand in a happy place, in a poem.

When that woman turned I could not answer her face.

Her beauty and her embarrassment struggled together, and

     neither could win.

She smiled and I smiled.  What kind of nonsense is this?

Everybody needs a job.

Yes, a person wants to stand in a happy place, in a poem.

But first we much watch her as she stares down at her labor,

     which is dull enough.

She is washing the tops of the airport ashtrays, as big as 

     hubcaps, with a blue rag.

Her small hands turn the metal, scrubbing, and rinsing.

She does not work slowly, nor quickly, but like a river.

Her dark hair is like the wing of a bird.

I don't doubt for a moment that she loves her life.

And I want her to rise up from the crust and the slop

     and fly down to the river.

This probably won't happen.

But maybe it will.

If the world were only pain and logic, who would want it?

Of course, it isn't.

Neither do I mean anything miraculous, but only

the light that can shine out of life.  I mean

the way she unfolded and refolded the blue cloth,

the way her smile was only for my sake; I mean

the way this poem is filled with trees, and birds.

I love this poem for many reasons.  However, my favorite part of it is Oliver's "rules for poetry."  She basically describes the perfect Mary Oliver poem.

According to Oliver, a poem . . . 

1) should always have birds in it

2) is made better by the presence of rivers

3) and trees

4) and a waterfall (or a fountain rising and falling if a waterfall isn't possible)

These are elements that belong in Oliver's "happy place," and Oliver believes that a poem should let a person stand in a happy place.  So, even though Oliver is standing in an airport bathroom, watching a woman scrub ashtrays in a toilet bowl.  Oliver finds birds and rivers and trees.

Of course, my happy place is very different from Oliver's, and your happy place, dear disciple, is probably very different from mine.  Happiness is subjective, and, while chocolate makes me happy, it may give you a migraine.

I think the point is that a poem is a respite, a deep breath in the middle of the chaos of life.  I've always had very visceral reactions to poems.  This first time I read "To Christ Our Lord," I remember just sitting in my seat, stunned by the beauty of Galway Kinnell's words into a ten-minute moment of poetic nirvana.  (By the way, there are quite a few birds in that poem, so Oliver would have been very happy with it.)

So, as I write the final paragraph of this post, let me try to employ Oliver's rules of poetry.

Monday morning, as I was driving to work, I watched the sun rise over Lake Superior.  It was a golden green day, the leaves of some of the maples along U. S. 41 already being chewed up by autumn.  (There's the trees.)  I didn't drive slowly or quickly, but like a river.  With purpose toward another week of work and school.  (There's the river.)  I had no idea how things were going to change for me.   This afternoon, I purchased a new car, ending four days of uncertainty and worry.  It's a 2024 Subaru Impreza the color of goose wings.  (There's the bird.)

Now the waterfall:  Saint Marty feels as if he's just ridden in a barrel over Niagara and is bobbing safely in the foam at the bottom of the falls, gazing around in wonder at where he started and where he ended up. 

September 13: "White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field," Version of Death, Negative Capability

Mary Oliver's metaphor for death . . . 

White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field

by:  Mary Oliver

Coming down

out of the freezing sky

with its depths of light,

like an angel,

or a buddha with wings,

it was beautiful

and accurate,

striking the snow and whatever was there

with a force that left the imprint

of the tips of its wings--

five feet apart--and the grabbing

thrust of its feet,

and the indentation of what had been running

through the white valleys

of the snow--

and then it rose, gracefully,

and flew back to the frozen marshes,

to lurk there,

like a little lighthouse,

in the blue shadows--

so I thought:

maybe death

isn't darkness, after all,

but so much light

wrapping itself around us--

as soft as feathers--

that we are instantly weary

of looking and looking, and shut our eyes,

not without amazement,

and let ourselves be carried

as through the translucence of mica,

to the river

that is without the least dapple or shadow--

that is nothing but light--scalding, aortal light--

in which we are washed and washed

out of our bones.

Death is a thief that comes in the night.  The Grim Reaper.  We kick the bucket.  Give up the ghost.  Slip away.  Cash in our chips.  We do no go gentle into that good night.  (Thank you, Dylan Thomas.)  We go belly up.  Buy the farm.

And now Mary Oliver gives us this:  death is a white owl, full of so much light, soft as feathers.

Oliver's version of death is the opposite of the Grim Reaper.  Instead of a dark thresher of souls, the owl is an angel, a buddha with wings. diving out of a freezing sky to claim and carry us away to a river of aortal light where "we are washed and washed / out of our bones."

I find this image of death comforting.  Beautiful even.  Certainly, owls have gained a certain reputation in popular culture as creatures associated with darkness--anything gothic, filled with ghosts or vampires or witchcraft.  The owl in Oliver's poem is less avenging angel and more Hedwig from Harry Potter:  a deliverer of important messages, harbinger of good (or bad) news.

Not to worry, faithful disciples.  Nobody in my life has died.  I've received no horrible news today.  (I also haven't received a phone call from the mechanics working on my car, so this may change.)  And, as far as I know, my health is good.

All of that could change very quickly.  The one thing that all versions of death have in common:  surprise.  Nobody knows when death is going to appear, hence the thief in the night, the owl diving out of the heavens.  None of use knows when our numbers will be up (another popular death metaphor).

At the beginning of the week, all my loved ones were safe and upright, taking oxygen into their lungs, hearts pumping like furnaces beneath their ribs.  It's now Wednesday.  My car is at the garage, possibly suffering from some fatal illness, and everyone in my life is still safe and upright.  But perhaps the white owl is circling over the car dealership right now, waiting to swoop down and carry my car to the river of light.  (It's a Subaru Impreza, so it's possible.)

Metaphors are ways for humans to comprehend the incomprehensible--things like suffering, grief, life, death, life after death, and Donald Trump supporters.  So, it's not surprising that so many incarnations of death exist.  They help us live in a state of negative capability.  We don't have to have all the answers.  Instead, we embrace the mystery, let it exist and give thanks for it.

My car may be toast (another death metaphor), or it may not be.  Like Schrodinger's cat, it is both alive and dead.  Fixable and terminal.  

Until Saint Marty hears otherwise, the white owl can stay in the marshes, washing someone or something else out of its bones.

September 12: "Roses, Later Summer," Unstinting Happiness, My Car

Mary Oliver wants another life . . . 

Roses, Late Summer

by:  Mary Oliver

What happens

to the leaves after

they turn red and golden and fall

away?  What happens

to the singing birds

when they can't sing

any longer?  What happens

to their quick wings?

Do you think there is any

personal heaven

for any of us?

Do you think anyone,

the other side of that darkness,

will call to us, meaning us?

Beyond the trees

the foxes keep teaching their children

to live in the valley,

so they never seem to vanish, they are always there

in the blossom of light

that stands up every morning

in the dark sky.

And over one more set of hills,

along the sea,

the last roses have opened their factories of sweetness

and are giving it back to the world.

If I had another life

I would want to spend it all on some

unstinting happiness.

I would be a fox, or a tree

full of waving branches.

I wouldn't mind being a rose

in a field full of roses.

Fear has not yet occurred to them, nor ambition.

Reason they have not yet thought of.

Neither do they ask how long they must be roses, and then what.

Or any other foolish question.

Unstinting happiness.  That's Oliver's only condition if she had another life.  She doesn't care whether she's a fox or a tree or a single rose in a field choked with roses.  As long as she's happy, Oliver will take whatever second life she's given.

I know yesterday's post was not very happy.  In fact, I would go so far as to describe what I wrote as a little depressing.  I couldn't help it.  I wasn't feeling the whole Pollyanna vibe last night.  Or the Mary Oliver vibe.  Nope.  I was feeling the Holden Caufield, the-world's-full-of-phonies vibe.  And my mood hasn't changed much today.  I'm still not sure what's wrong with my car, or how much it will cost to fix.  

Life would be simpler if I were a rose in a field of roses.  You see, human beings are the only living creatures on this planet who worry about things like car repairs or the future or death.  On the other hand, flowers need just a couple things for happiness:  sunlight and water,  That's it.

So, I understand Oliver's inclination to life as a rose.  No foolish questions or ambitions to screw things up.  Just unstinting sweetness and beauty.

And Saint Marty wouldn't mind a little more of that in his life right about now.