September 6: "Some Questions You Might Ask," Full of Questions, One Million

Mary Oliver has some questions about the soul . . . 

Some Questions You Might Ask

by:  Mary Oliver

Is the soul solid, like iron?

Or is it tender and breakable, like

the wings of a moth in the beak of the owl?

Who has it, and who doesn't?

I keep looking around me.

The face of the moose is as sad

as the face of Jesus.

The swan opens her white wings slowly.

In the fall, the black bear carries leaves into the darkness.

One question leads to another.

Does it have a shape?  Like an iceberg?

Like the eye of a hummingbird?

Does it have one lung, like the snake and the scallop?

Why should I have it, and not the anteater

who loves her children?

Why should I have it, and not the camel?

Come to think of it, what about the maple tree?

What about the blue iris?

What about all the little stones, sitting alone in the moonlight?

What about roses, and lemons, and their shining leaves?

What about the grass?

Some days, I'm full of questions, like Oliver.  I have questions about suffering and loss, the speed of light, the existence of Bigfoot, the meat used in Chicken McNuggets.  I could spend my whole life asking questions.  Curiosity is one of the greatest gifts we have as human beings on this little blue marble we inhabit.  Oliver is preoccupied by the soul in her poem.  I'm preoccupied by other things.

Early this morning, Saint Marty, this little blog I started 13 years ago, crossed a milestone:  one million pageviews.  That means that, over the course of 5,393 posts, more people than the population of Fiji have read my words.  That astounds me.  

I'm not quite sure what accounts for all the disciples this blog has acquired over the years. Is it my writing?  Or the subject matter?  The pictures?  My sense of humor?  Maybe there are a lot of people out there who simply need to know that someone in the world is more lost than they are.  I'm never going to know the answer to any of these questions.

However, I do put a lot of myself into this blog.  You might even say it contains the soul of who I am as a writer, poet, father, partner, brother, lover, and friend.  Do words have souls?  Poems?  I don't know.

But there are over one million people out there who may be able to answer those questions.

For that, three-year-old Saint Marty celebrates tonight.

August 18: New Poem, Not Much Time

I  don't have too much time to type this post.  I've spent a few hours working on today's poem.  I don't know how good it is.  It's inspired by my daughter going to visit my uncle who is dying of lymphoma.  I hope that my daughter learns something about healing on this trip.

I've been thinking about healing a lot in the last few days.  What it takes to make a situation better.  Sometimes, all it takes is an order of fries from McDonald's.  Sometimes it's a little harder, however.  That's what today's poem is about.

Saint Marty needs a little healing right now.  He may stop and get some Chicken McNuggets on the way home.

How to Heal

My uncle learned how to heal
When he broke his neck
In a car wreck, spent months
With a metal halo bolted
To his forehead, the screws
Sunk in his skull so long
He felt like Boris Karloff, waited
For Dr. Frankenstein to appear,
Jolt him with a tongue of lightning
To heal his damaged vertebrae.
He worked with his hands,
Relearned how to make a fist,
Hold a fork of meatloaf,
Lift it to his mouth.  He gripped
His wife's arm as he swayed
Down hospital corridors,
Moored himself to her, the way
Sailboats moored on the St. Clair River
Against wind and currents, the drift
Toward some distant northern place.
He never let her go.  She pulled him
Home, retaught his fingers how to love
Her, like van Gogh's brushes loved
Canvas, thick with sunflower and stars.
He healed her.  She healed him.
This time, my uncle came home
From the hospital with a tumor
The size of a two-by-four in his belly.
His wife sits next to his bed now
As his grip on the dock loosens.
He knows this healing will be simpler.
No therapy.  No exercises.  No terror
Of deep water or undertows.  His job is easy.
Relax.  Open his fingers.  Let go.