Singapore
by Mary Oliver
In Singapore, in the airport,
a darkness was ripped from my eyes.
In the women's restroom, one compartment stood open.
A woman knelt there, washing something
in the white bowl.
Disgust argued in my stomach
and I felt, in my pocket, for my ticket.
A poem should always have birds in it.
Kingfishers, say, with their bold eyes and gaudy wings.
Rivers are pleasant, and of course trees.
A waterfall, or if that's not possible, a fountain
rising and falling.
A person wants to stand in a happy place, in a poem.
When that woman turned I could not answer her face.
Her beauty and her embarrassment struggled together, and
neither could win.
She smiled and I smiled. What kind of nonsense is this?
Everybody needs a job.
Yes, a person wants to stand in a happy place, in a poem.
But first we much watch her as she stares down at her labor,
which is dull enough.
She is washing the tops of the airport ashtrays, as big as
hubcaps, with a blue rag.
Her small hands turn the metal, scrubbing, and rinsing.
She does not work slowly, nor quickly, but like a river.
Her dark hair is like the wing of a bird.
I don't doubt for a moment that she loves her life.
And I want her to rise up from the crust and the slop
and fly down to the river.
This probably won't happen.
But maybe it will.
If the world were only pain and logic, who would want it?
Of course, it isn't.
Neither do I mean anything miraculous, but only
the light that can shine out of life. I mean
the way she unfolded and refolded the blue cloth,
the way her smile was only for my sake; I mean
the way this poem is filled with trees, and birds.
I love this poem for many reasons. However, my favorite part of it is Oliver's "rules for poetry." She basically describes the perfect Mary Oliver poem.
According to Oliver, a poem . . .
1) should always have birds in it
2) is made better by the presence of rivers
3) and trees
4) and a waterfall (or a fountain rising and falling if a waterfall isn't possible)
These are elements that belong in Oliver's "happy place," and Oliver believes that a poem should let a person stand in a happy place. So, even though Oliver is standing in an airport bathroom, watching a woman scrub ashtrays in a toilet bowl. Oliver finds birds and rivers and trees.
Of course, my happy place is very different from Oliver's, and your happy place, dear disciple, is probably very different from mine. Happiness is subjective, and, while chocolate makes me happy, it may give you a migraine.
I think the point is that a poem is a respite, a deep breath in the middle of the chaos of life. I've always had very visceral reactions to poems. This first time I read "To Christ Our Lord," I remember just sitting in my seat, stunned by the beauty of Galway Kinnell's words into a ten-minute moment of poetic nirvana. (By the way, there are quite a few birds in that poem, so Oliver would have been very happy with it.)
So, as I write the final paragraph of this post, let me try to employ Oliver's rules of poetry.
Monday morning, as I was driving to work, I watched the sun rise over Lake Superior. It was a golden green day, the leaves of some of the maples along U. S. 41 already being chewed up by autumn. (There's the trees.) I didn't drive slowly or quickly, but like a river. With purpose toward another week of work and school. (There's the river.) I had no idea how things were going to change for me. This afternoon, I purchased a new car, ending four days of uncertainty and worry. It's a 2024 Subaru Impreza the color of goose wings. (There's the bird.)
Now the waterfall: Saint Marty feels as if he's just ridden in a barrel over Niagara and is bobbing safely in the foam at the bottom of the falls, gazing around in wonder at where he started and where he ended up.
