June 9: "Gethsemane," Writing Conference, Chasing Bigfoot

Mary Oliver on waiting and sleeping . . . 

Gethsemane

by:  Mary Oliver

The grass never sleeps.

Or the roses.

Nor does the lily have a secret eye that shuts until morning.

Jesus said, wait with me.  But the disciples slept.

The cricket has such splendid fringe on its feet,

and it sings, have you noticed, with its whole body,

and heaven know if it ever sleeps.

Jesus said, wait with me.  And maybe the stars did, maybe

the wind wound itself into a silver tree, and didn't move,

     maybe

the lake far away, where once he walked as on a 

     blue pavement,

lay still and waited, wild awake.

Oh the dear bodies, slumped and eye-shut, that could not

keep that vigil, how they must have wept,

so utterly human, knowing this too

must be a part of the story.

I think about Jesus' disciples in that garden, unable to keep their eyes open.  Maybe they'd had too much wine to drink.  Maybe they were in some kind of post-Passover food coma (like Americans on Thanksgiving, stuffing themselves with turkey and then passing out on the couch after dinner).  Or maybe they kept falling asleep because that was just part of the narrative that needed to happen, for the story to move forward.

I've been thinking about my personal narrative quite a bit this past week.  Tomorrow morning, I'm the keynote speaker at a writing conference.  The title of my talk is "Chasing Bigfoot:  The Mythology and Truth of Being a Poet/Writer."  Basically, I'm telling the story of how I went from plumber's son to U.P. Poet Laureate.

What I've learned through this self-reflection is that I've been lucky.  Really lucky.  When I was an undergraduate majoring in computer science and math, I had a professor tell me I should apply to the Master's Program in Creative Writing.  So I did, focusing on fiction.  When I was a Master's student, I had a professor tell me that I was a poet and should take some poetry workshops.  So I did.  

So it goes, momentous life decision after momentous life decision made at the suggestions of people I loved and admired and respected.  Even the publication of my book happened because of the prodding of my mentor in graduate school.  She told me to send my completed MFA thesis to one of her acquaintances who ran a small press.  A year later, I was going over the final proofs of my poetry collection.

I had no master plan on how to become a successful poet.  (Am I successful?  I don't know.)  It was more like stumbling down a street and reading the signs along the way.  Stop.  Danger ahead.  Detour.  Yield.  Road closed.  I kept getting advice, and I kept following that advice.

Jesus' disciples didn't follow His advice.  He kept telling them to stay awake and pray.  They didn't, and look what happened.  Scourging.  Crucifixion.  Death.  Yet, the disciples needed to sleep, or nothing wondrous would have happened.  Judas needed to betray.  Peter needed to deny.  Pontius needed to wash his hands.  Because that's the story that needed to be told.

Obviously, my story isn't done yet.  At least, I hope it's not.  I'm still teaching and writing and publishing.  I try to embrace Negative Capability in my life.  I don't need to have all the answers.  In fact, I think I prefer the mystery of the questions instead.  That's what poets do.  That's our thing.

I'm not sure how compelling or useful the Gospel According to Saint Marty will be to all the writers tomorrow.  Maybe what I say will change someone's life.  Maybe not.  I could end up being a road sign or a road block.

But Saint Mary does have the first line of his presentation now:  "Stay awake and pray."

November 11: Veterans Day Sacrifices, Mary Oliver, "Gethsemane"

I will never know the feeling of being in a strange place, defending freedom, keeping peace.  It takes special, brave people.

However, I know that my right to write, express myself, criticize, worship, praise is not protected by the people sitting in Washington, D. C.  That work is done by people in uniform.

Saint Marty give thanks this Veterans Day for sacrifices.

Gethsemane

by:  Mary Oliver

The grass never sleeps.
Or the roses.
Nor does the lily have a secret eye that shuts until morning.

Jesus said, wait with me.  But the disciples slept.

The cricket has such splendid fringe on its feet,
and it sings, have you noticed, with its whole body,
and heaven knows if it ever sleeps.

Jesus said, wait with me.  And maybe the stars did, maybe
the wind wound itself into a silver tree, and didn't move,
     maybe
the lake far away, where once he walked as on a
     blue pavement,
lay still and waited, wild awake.

Oh the dear bodies, slumped and eye-shut, that could not
keep that vigil, how they must have wept,
so utterly human, knowing this too
must be a part of the story.

August 23: Rainy and Dark, Mary Oliver, ""Gethsemane," New Cartoon

The next day was rainy and dark.  Rain fell on the roof of the barn and dripped steadily from the eaves.  Rain fell in the barnyard and ran in crooked courses down into the lane where thistles and pigweed grew.  Rain spattered against Mrs. Zuckerman's kitchen windows and came gushing out of the downspouts.  Rain fell on the backs of the sheep as they grazed in the meadow.  When the sheep tired of standing in the rain, they walked slowly up the lane and into the fold.

E. B. White is fantastic at capturing seasons and weather in his writing.  The above paragraph is soaked with rain.  You can almost hear it pelting through the sentences, draining down the commas and periods, and puddling in the breaths and pauses.  That's White's special brand of authorial alchemy.

I woke to rain this morning.  I could hear it drumming the windows.  It hasn't rained all day, but it certainly has been gray and wet.  The humidity is thick.  Stepping outside right now is like a smack in the face with a moist towel.  When I went to church, I just sat at the pipe organ and sweated.  Even my fingers were perspiring, if that's possible.

I'm going to be by myself again tonight at home.  My son decided to spend another night at camp with my brother.  My daughter is staying at grandma's house.  My plan, once I get this post finished, is to read a lot of Frog Music by Emma Donoghue.  My book club meets this Thursday, and I don't want to be the only person who hasn't finished the book.

So, it will be a quiet night.  I think it's supposed to rain again.  My whole goal is to stay awake this evening, which is sort of what my final poem from Mary Oliver is about.  Staying awake.  Or, to be more precise, falling asleep when you're supposed to stay awake.  And the poem is about nature.  Like E. B. White, Mary Oliver knows how to write about nature.  In this case, wind, crickets, a silver tree, and a lake.  Somehow, she makes everything seem holy with her words.

Saint Marty bets even Mary Oliver's grocery lists read like psalms.

Gethsemane

by:  Mary Oliver

The grass never sleeps.
Or the roses.
Nor does the lily have a secret eye that shuts until morning.

Jesus said, wait with me.  But the disciples slept.

The cricket has such splendid fringe on its feet,
and it sings, have you noticed, with its whole body,
and heaven knows if it ever sleeps.

Jesus said, wait with me.  And maybe the stars did, maybe
the wind wound itself into a silver tree, and didn't move,
     maybe
the lake far away, where once he walked as on a
     blue pavement,
lay still and waited, wild awake.

Oh the dear bodies, slumped and eye-shut, that could not
keep that vigil, how they must have wept,
so utterly human, knowing this too
must be a part of the story.

Confessions of Saint Marty