September 15: Worry and Kids, Gabriela Mistral, "The Sad Mother"

If you are a parent, you understand tonight's poem.  It doesn't matter whether your child is 6 weeks or six months or sixty years old.  You always worry about your kids.

One of the saddest moments of my life was watching my octogenarian mother sitting by my dying sister's hospital bed, holding her hand, and saying over and over, "It's okay.  Mommy's here."

Tonight, Saint Marty is thankful for his two beautiful, healthy kids.

The Sad Mother

by:  Gabriela Mistral

Sleep, sleep, my beloved,
without worry, without fear,
although my soul does not sleep,
although I do not rest.

Sleep, sleep, and in the night
may your whispers be softer
than a leaf of grass,
or the silken fleece of lambs.

May my flesh slumber in you,
my worry, my trembling.
In you, may my eyes close
and my heart sleep.

September 14: State Fair Almonds, Gabriela Mistral, "Decalogue of the Artist"

I am sitting in my office at the university at the moment, having just finished an eight-hour shift in the medical office.  I have lots of time to kill, as my daughter and son have dance until late this evening.  In front of me is a bag of cinnamon sugar almonds, the kind you get at state fairs and carnivals.  I'm eating the nuts, listening to "Thriller" by Michael Jackson, and thinking about the end of summer. 

This past week, temperatures in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan have been unusually warm.  In the 80s most days, including today.  It's as if September is trying to make up for the rain and cold of June, July, and August.  The leaves have started changing already.  Lots of orange along U. S. 41 on my home. 

I'm not ready to let go of summer just yet (hence my snack of state fair almonds).  Not ready to relinquish warm afternoons, nights of cricket song under thick stars.  I'm not whining here.  Just saying that this sun and heat can hang around until about Christmas.

Saint Marty is thankful this afternoon for the beauty of summer, even if it's three months late.

Decalogue of the Artist

by:  Gabriela Mistral

I. You shall love beauty, which is the shadow of God
over the Universe.

II.There is no godless art. Although you love not the
Creator, you shall bear witness to Him creating His likeness.

III.You shall create beauty not to excite the senses
but to give sustenance to the soul.

IV. You shall never use beauty as a pretext for luxury
and vanity but as a spiritual devotion.

V. You shall not seek beauty at carnival or fair
or offer your work there, for beauty is virginal
and is not to be found at carnival or fair.

VI. Beauty shall rise from your heart in song,
and you shall be the first to be purified.

VII.The beauty you create shall be known
as compassion and shall console the hearts of men.

VIII.You shall bring forth your work as a mother
brings forth her child: out of the blood of your heart.

IX. Beauty shall not be an opiate that puts you
to sleep but a strong wine that fires you to action,
for if you fail to be a true man or a true woman,
you will fail to be an artist.

X. Each act of creation shall leave you humble,
for it is never as great as your dream and always
inferior to that most marvelous dream of God
which is Nature.

September 13: St. Francis of Assisi, Gabriela Mistral, "The Lark"

Most of my disciples know that I'm a sucker for St. Francis of Assisi.  I've read several books about him.  Written essays and poems about him.  If the name "Francis" is in a piece of writing, I will stop and take notice.

So, when I came across today's poem by Gabriela Mistral, I stopped.  Took notice.  I tried to find out if Mistral is addressing St. Francis in the poem.  Couldn't find anything to substantiate that connection.  She did, early in her life, write a poetic biography of Francis.  There is that. 

However, because this is my blog post, I'm going to believe that Mistral is talking to/about St. Francis in this poem.  I mean, certainly Francis loved the lark, and there's all the stuff about a vertical flight to a haven where we can rest in light.  St. Francis could have said that.

Of course, the problem is that, being humans, our humanness always gets in the way.  Our daily troubles and worries.  Work.  School.  Bills.  Heartbreak.  All those things get in the way of following the lark in its vertical flight. 

I have been distracted most of the day by trifling, human concerns.  And I'm not done yet.  I have to teach for three hours tonight. 

There isn't going to be any vertical flying in Saint Marty's evening.

The Lark

by:  Gabriela Mistral

You said that you loved the lark more than any other bird because of its straight flight toward the sun. That is how I wanted our flight to be.

Albatrosses fly over the sea, intoxicated by salt and iodine. They are like unfettered waves playing in the air, but they do not lose touch with the other waves.

Storks make long journeys; they cast shadows over the Earth’s face. But like albatrosses, they fly horizontally, resting in the hills.

Only the lark leaps out of ruts like a live dart, and rises, swallowed by the heavens. Then the sky feels as though the Earth itself has risen. Heavy jungles below do not answer the lark. Mountains crucified over the flatlands do not answer.

But a winged arrow quickly shoots ahead, and it sings between the sun and the Earth. One does not know if the bird has come down from the sun or risen from the Earth. It exists between the two, like a flame. When it has serenaded the skies with its abundance, the exhausted lark lands in the wheatfield.

You, Francis, wanted us to achieve that vertical flight, without a zigzag, in order to arrive at that haven where we could rest in the light.

You wanted the morning air filled with arrows, with a multitude of carefree larks. Francis, with each morning song, you imagined that a net of golden larks floated between the Earth and the sky.

We are burdened, Francis. We cherish our lukewarm rut: our habits. We exalt ourselves in glory just as the towering grass aspires. The loftiest blade does not reach beyond the high pines.

Only when we die do we achieve that vertical flight! Never again, held back by earthly ruts, will our bodies inhibit our souls.

September 12: Feeling Old, Gabriela Mistral, "Dusk"

I am feeling old tonight.  Tired.  Angry.  Disappointed.

Don't ask me what brought this mood on.  I'm not sure.  It could be that I have a teenage daughter who is a junior in high school and thinks, at times, that she has the world all figured out.  It could be that I've been working since 6 a.m., and there doesn't seem to be an end in sight until Thursday night.  It could be the text that my sister sent me this afternoon:

Dad just told me he had a dream the other day that he and Sally were walking in heaven, "just a nice smooth walk."

Saint Marty is feeling evening closing in.


Dusk

by:  Gabriela Mistral

I feel my heart melting
in the mildness like candles:
my veins are slow oil
and not wine,
and I feel my life fleeing
hushed and gentle like the gazelle.

September 11: Dreamers, Poet of the Week, Gabriela Mistral, "Tiny Feet"

Since it is Nobel Prize season, I've selected Gabriela Mistral as Poet of the week.  In 1945, Mistral was the first Latin American writer to receive the Nobel Prize in Literature. 

Mistral was a Chilean educator and diplomat.  In particular, she concerned herself with the plight of children in her work, placing hope in the youth of the world. 

She seems like a voice of reason for the United States at the moment, where the future of thousands of immigrant children and young adults hang in the balance.

Saint Marty salutes Dreamers this evening.

Tiny Feet

by:  Grabriela Mistral

A child's tiny feet,
Blue, blue with cold,
How can they see and not protect you?
Oh, my God!

Tiny wounded feet,
Bruised all over by pebbles,
Abused by snow and soil!

Man, being blind, ignores
that where you step, you leave
A blossom of bright light,
that where you have placed
your bleeding little soles
a redolent tuberose grows.

Since, however, you walk
through the streets so straight,
you are courageous, without fault.

Child's tiny feet,
Two suffering little gems,
How can the people pass, unseeing.