October 20: "Three Poems for James Wright," People I've Lost, Perpetual Light

Mary Oliver says farewell to a friend . . . 

Three Poems for James Wright

by:  Mary Oliver

1.  Hearing of Your Illness

I went out

from the news of your illness

like a broken bone.

I spoke your name

to the sickle moon and saw her white wing

fall back toward the blackness, but she

rowed deep past that hesitation, and

kept rising

Then I went down

to a black creek and alder grove

that is Ohio like nothing else is

and told them.  There was an owl there,

sick of its hunger but still

trapped in it, unable to be anything else.

And the creek

rippled on down over some dark rocks

and the alders

breathed fast in their red blossoms.

Then I lay down in a rank and spring-sweet field.

Weeds sprouting in the darkness, and some

small creatures rustling about, living their lives

as they do, moment by moment.

I felt better, telling them about you.

They know what pain is, and they knew you, 

and they would have stopped too, as I

was longing to do, everything, the hunger

and the flowing.

That they could not--

merely loved you and waited 

to take you back

as a stone,

as a small quick Ohio creek,

as the beautiful pulse of everything,

meanwhile not missing one shred of their own

assignments of song

and muscle--

was what I learned there, so I

got up finally, with a grief

worthy of you, and went home.

2.  Early Morning in Ohio

A late snowfall.

In the white morning the trains

whistle and bang in the freightyard,

shifting track, getting ready

to get on with it, to roll out

into the country again to get

far away from here and closer

to somewhere else.

A mile away, leaving the house, I hear them

and stop, astonished.

Of course, I thought they would stop

when you did.  I thought you'd never sicken

anyway, or, if you did, Ohio

would fall down too, barn

by bright barn, into

hillsides of pain:  torn boards,

bent nails, shattered

windows.  My old dog

who doesn't know yet he is only mortal

bounds limping away

through the weeds, and I don't do

anything to stop him.  

I remember 

what you said.

And think how somewhere is Tuscany

a small spider might even now

be stepping forth, testing

the silks of her web, the morning air,

the possibilities; maybe even, who knows,

singing a tiny song.

And if the whistling of the trains drags through me

like wire, well, I can hurt can't I?  The white fields

burn or my eyes swim, whichever; anyway I whistle

to the old dog and when he comes finally

I fall to my knees in the glittering snow, I throw

my arms around him.

3.  The Rose

I had a red rose to send you,

but it reeked of occasion, I thought,

so I didn't.  Anyway

it was the time

the willows do what they do

every spring, so I cut some

down by a dark Ohio creek and was ready

to mail them to you when the news came

that nothing

could come to you

in time anymore 

ever.

I put down the phone

and I thought I saw, on the floor of the room, suddenly,

a large box,

and I knew, the next thing I had to do, 

was lift it

and I didn't know if I could.

Well, I did.

But don't call it anything

but what it was--the voice

of a small bird singing inside, Lord,

how it sang, and kept singing!

how it keeps singing!

in its deep

and miraculous

composure.

This is one of the longest Mary Oliver poems I've ever read.  But saying farewell to someone you care about isn't easy.  It's complicated and can take a long time.  Even when you know that the illness is relentless and end is near, it still turns you into a broken bone.  The fracture may heal, but, when rain or snow comes, you will still feel the ghost of pain.

It is Friday evening, and I'm dead tired.  Recently, I've been thinking a lot about people I've lost--sisters, parents, a brother, friends.  Autumn prompts this kind of reflection in me.  I think it has something to do with the world getting ready for a long winter's nap.  

We are approaching All Saint's Day and All Soul's Day.  I've always felt like the veil between this world and the next is a little thinner this time of year.  The spirits of the dead are nearby, tapping on windows, haunting doorsteps.  Many times this week, I've found myself sitting at my desk, staring out my office window at the church steeple across the street, thinking of my catalogue of lost loved ones.

Don't worry.  I'm not going to get all maudlin in this post, although, as night stretches out its fingers earlier and earlier to snatch the sun out of the heavens, I do tend to become more reflective and, maybe, a little sadder.  But I'm not adding logs to that melancholy fire here.  

This afternoon, I drove by the cemetery where my sister and parents were laid to rest.  As I always do, I said a little prayer for them.  Then I thought of all the other headstones in that necropolis.  Some of those dearly departed have probably been forgotten by the living world, their names not given oxygen for years and years.

So, I'm including my lost loved ones' names in this post, to mark that they existed and were important and loved.  In a Catholic funeral Mass, there's a prayer that's recited near the end of the service:  "Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them.  May their souls, and all the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.  Amen."

As you read my list below, please recite a little prayer for my people.  Or, if you knew them, remember their smiles or voices or laughter.  Or just say their names.  Give them breath,  Acknowledge they were here.  And add the names of your dead.  Honor them.  With words.  And memory.

Saint Marty's dead:  Kevin Achatz . . . Sally Achatz . . . Fred Achatz . . . Betty Achatz . . . Rosemarie Achatz . . . Cheryl Hoiem . . . Emmett Hoiem . . . Corinne Hoiem . . . Bruce Hoiem . . . Sally Zanetti . . . Ray Ventre . . . Helen Haskell Remien . . . 

November 15: The Whole Roll of Our Order, My Mother, Mother JFK

Nor do heroes, saints, demigods, and prophets alone comprise the whole roll of our order . . . 

Ishmael is writing about whalers in this sentence.  He's trying to convince his readers of their nobility and worth.  Thus, whalers are heroes and holy men, kings and gods.  For Melville, whalers embody all the best qualities of human nature.

For some reason, my mother has been on my mind a lot these last few weeks.  I don't exactly know why.  Perhaps it's the approach of Thanksgiving.  (For those disciples who do not live in the United States, Thanksgiving is a holiday that takes place on the fourth Thursday of every November.  It's a time when friends and family sit down together, eat a huge turkey dinner, and--ideally--feel grateful for the blessings of their lives.)  My mother was an amazing cook and spent two or three days making sides and relishes and breads and Jell-Os for Thanksgiving.

Anyway, last night, in the composition class I'm teaching this semester at the university, I gave my students the following prompt:  Write about a person in your family for whom you are thankful.

This is what I wrote in my journal:

Let me tell you about my mother who gave birth to a baby girl with Down syndrome in 1965.

Let me tell you that the doctor who delivered my sister told my mother about a place where she could drop off her baby, a place for mental defectives and cripples and castoffs who would never be able to walk or talk or go to the bathroom by themselves.  "There's no hope here," he said.

Let me tell you that my mother wrapped her baby in a blanket, walked out of that hospital, and brought her home.

Let me tell you that my mother didn't treat my sister any differently than she treated me when I was born a few years later.

Let me tell you that my mother taught my sister her letters and colors and numbers, how to write her name:  Rosemarie.  Note Rose.  Not Rose Mary.  Rosemarie.  Four consonants.  Five vowels.

Let me tell you that my mother once marched into a school's office, into a principal's office, and told that man with the wide ugly tie, "You WILL find a classroom for my daughter" in a tone that said, "Fuck.  You."

Let me tell you that my mother never, ever, ever pitied my sister or made excuses for her.

Let me tell you that my mother, at my sister's high school graduation, looked like the mother of a President of the United States on Inauguration Day.  Mother JFK, mother FDR, mother Lincoln, mother Obama, you choose.  See her sitting there, back straight as a flagpole, the air cold, drums snapping in the January bright.  My mother, imagining her baby's face on Mount Rushmore.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for his mother.