June 21: Broke the Surface, My Bigfoot, Walt Whitman or Emily Dickinson

Santiago watches flying fish . . . 

Now the old man looked up and saw that the bird was circling again.

"He's found fish," he said aloud. No flying fish broke the surface and there was no scattering of bait fish. But as the old man watched, a small tuna rose in the air, turned and dropped head first into the water. The tuna shone silver in the sun and after he had dropped back into the water another and another rose and they were jumping in all directions, churning the water and leaping in long jumps after the bait. They were circling it and driving it.

If they don't travel too fast I will get into them, the old man thought, and he watched the school working the water white and the bird now dropping and dipping into the bait fish that were forced to the surface in their panic.

I did a poetry reading on the shores of Lake Superior this evening.  Summer solstice.  The beach was crowded with people sunning, playing frisbee, swimming and splashing.  There weren't any flying fish or schools of tuna, but there was a boat anchored a ways out, listening to the music and poems.

Bigfoot came to the sand.  Ran and howled.  And people stopped what they were doing to hear him.  I won't say that I brought the crowd to a standstill, but it was pretty magical to manifest the big man on the first day of summer by a freshwater ocean.

I think it's time to release my Bigfoot into the world.  I've been selfishly keeping him close for over six years.  Sharing him occasionally with friends.  He's seen me through some pretty tough times.  The deaths of my dad, mom, and three siblings.  Marriage problems.  High school graduations.  My son's struggles with suicidal depression.  If it's possible, I've become protective of my Bigfoot.

I've always had a problem with letting go of my poems, sending them out into the world.  I guess I prefer the Bigfoot approach.  Letting my poems stay deep in the forest, seeing the sun only occasionally, just long enough for someone to glimpse them as they slip back into the trees.  But it's hard to control Bigfoot.  Especially if he wants to be seen.

So, my goal is to release my Bigfoot into the world by the time the leaves start turning.  Perhaps nobody will notice him, and he'll disappear back into the woods.  That's the danger of being Bigfoot.  And a poet.  You're never sure whether to show yourself or stay hidden.  Be Walt Whitman or Emily Dickinson.

Or Saint Marty may just find a dark cave to live in.