July 29: "You Are Standing at the Edge of the Woods," Best Friends from High School, Bald Eagle

Mary Oliver lives with mystery . . .

You Are Standing at the Edge

of the Woods

by:  Mary Oliver

You are standing at the edge of the woods

at twilight

when something begins

to sing, like a waterfall

pouring down

through the leaves.  It is

the thrush.

And you are just

sinking down into your thoughts,

taking in

the sweetness of it--those chords,

those pursed twirls--when you hear

out of the same twilight

the wildest red outcry.  It pitches itself

forward, it flails and scabs

all the surrounding space with such authority

you can't tell

whether it is crying out on the 

scarp of victory, with its hooked foot

dabbed into some creature that now

with snapped spine

lies on the earth--or whether

it is such a struck body itself, saying

goodbye.

The thrush

is silent then, or perhaps

has flown away.

The dark grows darker.

The moon,

in its shining white blouse,

rises.

And whatever that wild cry was

it will always remain a mystery

you have to go home now and live with,

sometimes with the ease of music, and sometimes in silence,

for the rest of your life.

Oliver never has a problem living with mystery.  So much of what she writes is about encountering the unexplained in the forest and simply accepting it without need for explanation or answer.  She hears the thrush, which she identifies immediately, and then she hears something else, a wild red outcry, that leaves her poetically breathless and confounded.

I had a Mary Oliver moment like this tonight.  My family and I had dinner with one of my best friends from high school who is visiting from Florida.  Prior to meeting up with my friend, my wife and I decided to go for a walk because we had some time to kill.  So, I drove to Lake Superior, and we walked along a breakwall jutting out into a sort of cove..

The evening was blue and sunny, and the waves sparked with light.  As my wife and I headed back toward shore, we saw a bald eagle dive down and snatch a large fish from the water.  The fish batted and squirmed in the eagle's talons for a few seconds.  It was magnificent to see.

The eagle landed on the breakwall about 30 feet or so away from us.  It started digging into its dinner with claws and beak while a particularly persistent seagull circled overhead, perhaps waiting for sloppy seconds.  After a couple minutes of snacking, the eagle snatched up its meal and pounded back into flight for a minute or so.  Then it landed on the breakwall again.  The seagull kept circling and screaming, not venturing close.

Finally, the eagle snatched the fish in its talons and took off again.  This time, it headed toward land.  It ended up abandoning the fish carcass on the shore and perched near the top of a tree.  It sat there, cocking its head, hunching its back, watching the small crowd of people gathering beneath it, like some member of the royal family posing for pictures.

It was a fully mature eagle, as its head was white as the North Pole.  And it didn't seem skittish, despite all the humans stupidly standing below, taking pictures and chattering with excitement.  That's what mystery does--it forces us to stop whatever we're doing and take note.

And I took note, after a long and tiring day of church and schoolwork.  

Saint Marty imagines the eagle is still sitting in that tree right now, its crown glowing like a piece of misplaced moonlight in the dusky air.

January 24: Hoopy Frood, Poetry Workshop, Christmas Eve Tonight

Back to towels . . .

More importantly, a towel has immense psychological value.  For some reason, if a strag (strag:  non-hitchhiker) discovers that a hitchhiker has his towel with him, he will automatically assume that he is also in possession of a toothbrush, washcloth, soap, tin of biscuits, flask, compass, map, ball of string, gnat spray, wet weather gear, space suit etc., etc.  Furthermore, the strag will then happily lend the hitchhiker any of these or a dozen other items that the hitchhiker might accidentally have "lost."  What the strag will think is that any man who can hitch the length and breadth of the Galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through and still know where his towel is is clearly a man to be reckoned with.

Hence a phrase which has passed into hitchhiking slang, as in, "Hey, you sass that hoopy Ford Prefect?  There's a frood who really knows where his towel is."  (Sass:  know, be aware of, meet, have sex with; hoopy:  really together guy; frood:  really amazingly together guy."

I have spent a good portion of the afternoon planning for my poetry workshop this evening.  So, at the moment, I'm feeling like a hoopy frood.  I've got my books together, my thoughts gathered, my book bag packed.  In about half an hour, I'll be heading out the door.

The snow has begun to fall, and the temperature is dropping.  By tomorrow morning, the polar vortex will be sitting on the shoulder of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan like a vulture, glaring down with frozen eyes.  Not looking forward to the change in weather.  I've been enjoying the fairly snowless, warm patch that we've been experiencing.  But, all good things must come to an end.

Because of this switch in weather, I'm not sure who is going to show up for my workshop tonight.  It may be only three or four people.  (It's not just the weather.  There's a ballet, as well, that's competing with poetry.)  I don't mind smaller, more intimate groups.  It brings a whole other dynamic to a workshop.  In my experience, participants are more willing to open up and share.

Poetry has a way of energizing me.  When I'm talking about it, reading it, writing it, I feel more alive.  Everything seems present and sparking.  Those non-poets out there might not understand what I'm saying.  If you're a runner, it's like going out for a five- or ten-mile jog.  If you fish, it's like casting your line into a lake.  If you're an actor, it's like standing in front of an audience.

So, tonight, even though I'm a little tired at the moment, I will feel like it's Christmas Eve when the workshop begins.

Saint Marty is lucky to know his passion.

May 12: Coho Salmon, James Scannell McCormick, "Fish"

I have a Michigan poem from my friend Scannnell for tonight.  It's about fishing.

I have never been much of an outdoor sportsperson.  Unlike most native males from the Upper Peninsula, I have only gone deer hunting once in my life.   Didn't shoot anything.  Instead, I sat on a tree stump and ate M&Ms.  However, I used to go fishing quite a bit with my brother when I was a kid.

The largest fish I ever caught was a 28-inch coho salmon, and it was a complete accident.  I was about twelve-years-old, and my brother put a red worm on my hook and told me to cast it into the river while he went back to the truck for some serious tackle and bait.  Seconds later, there was a flash of silver and a tremendous splash.  My line started screaming out from my reel.  I yanked back hard on the rod, setting the hook in the great fish's mouth.  Then I yanked back again.

The salmon came sailing out of the water, landing on the rocks in front of me, where it began smacking and flailing its way back to the water.  I was terrified.  My brother was quickly on the rocks, cornering my prize.  I took it home, got my picture taken with it, and never saw it again.

That's the only really good fishing story Saint Marty has.

Fish

by:  James Scannell McCormick

To the "Michigan Fish Poets"

When I was a little boy I went down to
Big Bay beach, where two older boys, shirtless, were up
To their thighs in water, and they were catching smelt
With their hands, then holding them flat on the concrete
Jetty, where, for fun, they poked out the fishes' eyes
With linden sticks and threw the fish back in again,
And the fish weren't hovering like bullets in gunmetal blue
Stasis, or mouthing prayers, but thick tear-tracks of blood
Followed their pain-curling bodies in the bone-cold water.
Which is why, believe me, I, too, know about fish.

June 28: Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam, Society of Jesus, Bible Camp

I am once again going to simply open up my fairly beat-up copy of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek and stick my finger on a page:

I was created from a clot and set in proud, free motion:  so were they.  So was this rotifer created, this monostyla with its body like a light bulb in which pale organs hang in loops; so was this paramecium created, with a thousand propulsive hairs jerking in unison, whipping it from here to there across a drop and back.  Ad majorem Dei gloriam?

I love this quote.  All about creation and motion, from Dillard to rotifer to paramecium.  Dillard seems to be saying that we all come from the same place for the same reason:  Ad majorem Dei gloriam.  That is the Latin motto of the Society of Jesus (the Jesuits) of the Catholic Church.  It translates as, "For the greater glory of God."

That is the reason we are all here, why we are all created from those little clots of cells.  The glory of God.  We get up in the morning for the glory of God.  Eat breakfast, glory.  Go to work, glory.  Do whatever you do during the day--teach or write a poem or play chopsticks on the piano--and it's all about the glory of God.

Tonight, both of my kids are at Bible camp.  My son is there as a camper.  My daughter is there as a counselor.  I had to drive out to the campground this afternoon to drop off my daughter's sleeping bag.  I've been there many times before, and every time I step out of my car, I'm amazed at the serenity of the place.  The lake is blue, and the air smells of sand and pine and fish.  It's really easy to sense the glory of God when you're there.

Pretty soon, I'm going to publish this post for the glory of God.  (Okay, maybe that's pushing it a little bit.)  But, I hope that my two Constant Readers will take a few moments and think about what they're doing.  When I was a kid, I was often told that I needed to be the Jesus in people's lives.  That's what it's all about.  Remembering that no matter what you're doing, it can be a moment of praise and glory. 

I'm watching the news right now.  It's all about a terrorist attack in Turkey, an explosion at a factory, a shooting in an office building.  There's little of God's glory in those events.  Yet, I believe, truly, that somewhere in all that tragedy, God will find a way to bring about goodness and glory again.

Saint Marty just wrote an entirely positive post.  For the glory of God.

September 16: Topmost Car, Niece, Prayer for Happiness

As they passed the Ferris wheel, Fern gazed up at it and wished she were in the topmost car with Henry Fussy at her side.

It's difficult to see children grow up sometimes.  Mrs. Arable certainly struggles with the idea of Fern being interested in Henry Fussy.  Simply letting her daughter wander off into the Fair without her makes Mrs. Arable a little weepy.  And the highlight of the Fair, for Fern, is not Wilbur's victory.  It's being stuck at the top of the Ferris wheel with Henry.


My niece got married this weekend.  Soon, she will be heading downstate with her new husband.  It's difficult to think of her as a grownup, let alone a married woman.  She's heading out into the world to carve out a new life, create a new family for herself.  Yet, like Mrs. Arable, I can't seem to get past the fact that she and her husband still seem so young.

I'm not worried about them.  They're both smart and resourceful.  And they are really in love.  I was talking with my five-year-old son last night, and he said to me, "She is going away now, and I won't see her any more, right?"  He was genuinely sad at the idea of my niece not being around any more.  I told him that he would see her at holidays and other special times, but it didn't really cheer him up.  He doesn't quite grasp the idea of separation.  His world isn't quite that big yet.

I know my son will adjust to my niece's new existence.  The next time he sees her, he may even refuse to give her a hug, because that's just the way little boys are.  Love is malleable.  He's going to take his feelings about my niece and mold them, like a lump of playdough, into something he understands.  A fish.  Bear.  Goblin.  Heart.

My prayer tonight is for my niece's happiness as she heads out into the world.  I pray that she will always know love and kindness.  That she will never feel want or hunger.  And that, when difficult times arise, she and her husband will know they are never alone.

This is Saint Marty's hope for her.

Home is where the heart is

January 4: Ducks, Lagoon, P.O..E.T.S. Day Mess, Firefox

The funny thing is, though, I was sort of thinking of something else while I shot the bull.  I live in New York, and I was thinking about the lagoon in Central Park, down near Central Park South.  I was wondering if it would be frozen over when I got home, and if it was, where did the ducks go.  I was wondering where the ducks went when the lagoon got all icy and frozen over.  I wondered if some guy came in a truck and took them away to a zoo or something.  Or if they just flew away.

Holden is still speaking with his teacher, old Spencer, in this passage.  However, he is allowing his mind to wander.  Old Spencer is lecturing him about his failures at Pencey Prep, and Holden is worrying about the ducks in Central Park.  He keeps coming back to those ducks as the story continues.  He talks to a taxi driver about the ducks.  He imagines the fish in the lagoon frozen solid in the ice, waiting for spring thaw.  Instead of worrying about his own life, Holden focuses on the plight of ducks and fish, wondering how they survive the snow and ice of winter.

I wish I could have been like Holden this morning.  I wish I could have worried about ducks on this P.O.E.T.S. Day.  Instead, I spent three or four hours trying to solve an issue I was having with Blogger.  Last night, I tried to upload an image from my computer.  I couldn't do it.  No matter what I did, I couldn't get the Upload function to work.  This morning, I tried again, with the same results, so I spent the entire morning trying to troubleshoot the issue.  Now, I may have a minor in computer science and two advanced degrees, but none of those helped me.

Eventually, I started deleting images from my Picasa web albums.  (Don't ask.  I have no idea what they are.  However, some genius on Google suggested that it would solve my issue.)  Well, all that did was eliminate images from a whole bunch of old blog posts.  So, on top of still being unable to upload images, I now had to go back through over a thousand posts to figure out how much damage I'd done.

Eventually, I stumbled upon another user forum on Google where hundreds of people were posting comments like, "What the hell is up with Blogger?  I can't upload any images."  I wasn't going crazy. However, I was the only moron who had unwittingly eliminated dozens of pictures from his blog.  The solution to the problem was pretty simple:  don't use Internet Explorer.  I switched to Firefox, and my uploading issues vanished, just like Holden's Central Park ducks.

Now I have a whole lot of repair work to do.

If you're looking through some old posts on Saint Marty and stumble upon a blog that has a caption without an image, that's just Saint Marty being a moron.

Even these ducks think I'm a moron