July 24: "Summer Poem," Ice Cream, Flossing My Teeth

Mary Oliver enjoys the heron's poem . . . 

Summer Poem

by:  Mary Oliver

Leaving the house,

I went out to see

the frog, for example,

in her shining green skin; 

and her eggs

like a slippery veil;

and her eyes

with their golden rims;

and the pond

with its risen lilies;

and its warmed shores

dotted with pink flowers;

and the long, windless afternoon;

and the white heron

like a dropped cloud,

taking one slow step

then standing awhile then taking

another, writing

her own softfooted poem

through the still waters.

Some days, it's an accomplishment just to get out of bed in the morning.  Other days, it's a victory if you remember to put on underwear.  And then there are days when you work and work from sunrise 'til past sunset, and you don't seem to accomplish a whole lot of anything.

I've literally been sitting with my laptop all day long, editing a podcast, answering emails, and writing scripts.  It is now past 10 p.m., and I'm feeling a little empty.  A couple hours ago, I went and got ice cream with my wife and son.  Actually, they got ice cream, and I got a vanilla malt.  Since it was a beautiful summer evening, a lot of people had the same idea.  There was a lot of Mackinac Island Fudge being sold tonight.

Mary Oliver's summer poem is filled with frogs and ponds and lilies and pink flowers and a softfooted heron.  My summer blog post is about work and exhaustion and ice cream.  I didn't sit down with my journal to work on a new poem today.  Aside from the vanilla malt, I really didn't feel very inspired by anything.

I've been writing about Oliver's poems for over seven months now, and, in my head, I've developed an image of her and her life.  It probably isn't very accurate.  I think she was a quiet person who didn't go out of her way to say "hello" to strangers.  A creature of habit, she rose before dawn every day and went for a hike before breakfast, saying "good morning" to the birds and frogs and snakes of Blackwater Pond.  Then, after a cup of good, strong coffee, she sat down on her front porch with her pen and journal.  And she wrote.  The poems flowed out of her like breath.

That's my version of Mary Oliver.  As I said, it's probably highly inaccurate.  Today's poem is Oliver's version of summer, with all of its inherent Mary-ness.  After having spent so much time in Oliver's company now, I could have guessed that "Summer Poem" belonged to her.  Just the poet heron at the end sort of gives it away.

If anyone read all 5,349 posts on Saint Marty, I'm sure a certain version of me would emerge.  It wouldn't be quite as idealistic as the Mary Oliver in my mind's eye.  Perhaps I'd come across as depressed or angry or exhausted.  Maybe inspired every once in a while.  I can say that, if you imagine me getting up before the sun every day to write for a few hours, like Mary Oliver, you are definitely wrong.  I don't have that kind of energy.

Here is what Saint Marty has energy for at the end of this summer day:  brushing his teeth and flossing.