October 9: "The Snakes," Chasing Butterflies, Bigfoot

Mary Oliver and the serpents . . .

The Snakes

by:  Mary Oliver

I once saw two snakes,

northern racers,

hurrying through the woods,

their bodies

like two black whips

lifting and dashing forward;

in perfect concert

they held their heads high

and swam forward

on their sleek bellies;

under the trees,

through vines, branches,

over stones,

through fields of flowers,

they traveled

like a matched team

like a dance

like a love affair.

Another poem in keeping with the season--this one about snakes.

Of course, being Mary Oliver, she doesn't simply write about snakes in the spooky, Halloween kind of way.  Her snakes are two black whips swimming forward, dancers having a love affair in the vines and stones and fields.  Oliver is in love with these creatures, as she is with most things in nature.

I find myself tonight sitting on my couch, listening to the rain outside, a steady timpani against the windows.  Almost like a tapping, as if someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.  "'Tis only the rain," I think.  "Only this, and nothing more."

I've spent most of today struggling to remain focused, at work and at home.  That's a tall order for me.  I've been an easily distractible person most of my life. Both of my kids have been diagnosed with ADD, so they must have gotten it from somewhere.  Although I've never officially had ADD added to the list of things wrong with me, I recognize how much of my time on this planet has been spent pursuing sudden passions--chasing butterflies, if you will.  

Yet, there's something wonderful about being swallowed by strong emotions.  I mean, Mary Oliver spent her life chasing snakes and dogs and bears.  A lot of people never experience that kind of passion, and I think that's pretty sad.  Me?  My life has been a series of love affairs with various subjects.

But that's what poets do--they fall easily in love.  Emily Dickinson loved Death, among other things.  Walt Whitman loved America, each blade of grass that touched his naked limbs.  Poe loved ravens and his dead wife, who also happened to be his cousin.  Pick up any collection of poems, and it will be filled with love letters to whatever/whomever the poet is currently sleeping with, living with, and conjugally encountering.

For the last several years, my particular distraction has been Bigfoot.  I've been chasing the big hairy guy for quite a while.  Of course, I've been a lover of all things dark and monstrous all of my life.  I spent most of my Saturday afternoons as a kid and teen watching old Hammer horror movies.  Plenty of blood and nudity to keep my adolescent mind fixated.  Thus, Halloween has been my jam practically since birth; it fights for supremacy in my heart with Christmas.

You may ask if I ever get tired of my monstrous obsessions.  The short answer to that query is "yes, of course."  I am currently trying to finish my Bigfoot manuscript because I'm ready to move on to some other love affair.  I have no idea what the next object of my affection will be, but I can say with certainty that it will certainly be smaller and smell a whole lot better.

However, right now, it is an October night.  Rain is falling.  Bigfoot is prowling.

And Saint Marty isn't ready to let any more snakes or skeletons out of his closet just yet.

February 20: Series of Love Affairs, Billy Collins, "Aimless Love"

I slept in this morning because my kids got a day off from school.  Freezing rain last night that shagged the entire world with ice.  When I shoveled, the snow flaked up like pieces of dried paint.  It was heavy and wet.

I cleaned my house this afternoon, took my daughter to her orthodontist appointment.  Tomorrow morning, I rejoin my regular life.  Work and teaching and parenting and poetry.  Each competing for my attention.

Today, however, I had a chance to fall in love with a lot of things.  The layer of ice on my car.  The branches of the trees outside my window, still holding some frozen winterberries, red as paper cuts against the snow.  The omelet I had for breakfast.  The nap I took after lunch.

That really is what a day is all about.  A series of love affairs.  Ask Billy Collins.

Saint Marty is ready to fall in love with his pillow.

Aimless Love

by:  Billy Collins

This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.

In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor's window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.

This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.

The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.

No lust, no slam of the door--
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.

No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor--
just a twinge every now and then
for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.

But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.

After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,

so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.