June 19: "White Heron Rises Over Blackwater," Accomplishments, Just as Vital

Mary Oliver on being accomplished . . .

White Heron Rises Over Blackwater

by:  Mary Oliver

I wonder

     what it is

          that I will accomplish

               today

if anything

     can be called

          that marvelous word.

               It won't be 

my kind of work,

     which is only putting

          words on a page,

               the pencil

 

haltingly calling up

     the light of the world,

          yet nothing appearing on paper

               half as bright

as the mockingbird's

     verbal hilarity

          in the still unleafed shrub

               in the churchyard--

or the white heron

     rising

          over the swamp

               and the darkness, 

his yellow eyes

     and broad wings wearing

          the light of the world

               in the light of the world--

ah yes, I see him.

     He is exactly

          the poem

               I wanted to write,

It's particularly American to think about accomplishments as a way to measure success.  Whenever I meet a person for the first time, inevitably the same question bubbles to the top of the conversation:  "So what do you do?"

If you have a profession like mechanic or nurse or teacher or plumber, you are accepted into the fold of everyday, meat-and-potatoes life.  Because everyone understands jobs like these.  Tangible occupations with tangible accomplishments.  I take my car to my mechanic friend, and she will change my brake pads.  I talk to my cousin who's a nurse, and he advises me to have a suspicious-looking mole removed.  I turn to a teacher friend for advice if my kid is struggling with math, or my plumber brother if my bathtub drain is gurgling.

However, if the answer to the question "What do you do?" is "I'm a poet," the reactions of new acquaintances are polite--an awkward smile, uncomfortable laugh--or outright confusion, bordering on rudeness--"I better watch my grammar" or "Not much money in poetry, is there?"

Auto mechanics and nurses are essential/necessary.  Poets are mysterious.  They do strange things like watch freighters glide across a morning harbor and then go home to write about it.  Poetic accomplishment can't be readily measured.  I may have written a beautiful sonnet this morning, but that freshly-mowed lawn will receive more attention and praise that my elegant use of iambic pentameter.

Yet, for me, writing poetry is just as vital as being a cook.  Throwing together a lasagna is important work, satisfying hungry bellies.  On the other hand, poetry satisfies a hungry mind and soul.  Think about it.  When a person dies, the immediate response of friends and family is to drop off casseroles and meat trays, I'm assuming because the grief stricken are too grief-stricken to think about food preparation and consumption.

Don't misunderstand me.  Any act of kindness, big or small, makes the world a better place.  But salami and ham rolls simply can't bind up or comfort a broken heart.

The day my sister, Rose, died last year, I sat down with a collection of poems by Peter Markus titled When Our Fathers Return to Us as Birds.  In the book, Markus writes about the death of his father and the grieving process.  That book did more to comfort me than any tuna noodle bake could.  (My wife's cousin did drop off a bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream that night, which also helped.)

Big emotions are difficult to understand and master.  Often, finding the right words to perfectly capture grief or joy or fear or love makes this broken universe a little more endurable.  That is the greatest accomplishment of poetry.

Saint Marty is a poet, so watch your grammar and keep an eye out for white herons rising into the silky blue heavens.