July 28: "Blue Iris," Meaning and Purpose, My Daughter

Mary Oliver wonders who she is . . . 

Blue Iris

by:  Mary Oliver

Now that I'm free to be myself, who am I?

Can't fly, can't run, and see how slowly I walk.

Well, I think, I can read books.

               "What's that you're doing?"

the green-headed fly shouts as it buzzes past.

I close the book.

Well, I can write down words, like these, softly.

"What's that you're doing?" whispers the wind, pausing

in a heap just outside the window.

Give me a little time, I say back to its staring, silver face.

It doesn't happen all of a sudden, you know.

"Doesn't it?" says the wind, and breaks open, releasing

distillation of blue iris.

And my heart panics not to be, as I long to be,

the empty, waiting, pure, speechless receptacle.

This is who Mary Oliver is:  a glass waiting for water, a canvas waiting for paint, a piece of paper waiting for poetry.  I've spent a good portion of my life wondering who I am and who I long to be.  A lot of people spend their whole lives doing the same thing--always searching for meaning and purpose. 

I think I was meant to be a poet.  Everything that's happened in my life has led me to this moment right now, sitting on my couch, reading Mary Oliver, and contemplating what it means to be a poet.  Because there really isn't an official job description, in case you haven't noticed.

Sure, most of you are thinking that a poet is a person who spends a lot of time pondering things that nobody really cares about, like green-headed flies and wind and blue irises.  I'd lay down money that most of you are also thinking, "Who needs poets?"

Yes, the world needs more doctors and teachers and medical researchers and physicists and mechanics.  I know this.  When a person I love gets sick, I don't read them a William Carlos Williams poem.  When my car breaks down, I don't try to fix it by reading "I Heard a Fly Buzz."  When I'm hungry, I don't search through the fridge for Pablo Neruda's "Ode to a Lemon."  

However, when I'm grieving, I may pay a visit to Gerard Manley Hopkins.  When I'm suffering from insomnia (which is most nights), Maggie Nelson is right there with me in all her blueness.  When I need to celebrate, I can always count on Billy Collins to raise a glass of wine with me.  And when I need to be grateful, I have Mary Oliver.  

Who needs poets?  We all need poets.

This evening, we took our daughter out to eat.  She took the MCAT today, which was the culmination of four years of college education and two months of preparation, studying eight hours a day.  Here's where being a poet comes in handy.  It helps me to find words to express what I'm feeling tonight.

I've said it before, but it bears repeating:  my kids are the greatest poems I will ever write.  They fill me with wonder and awe.  My daughter amazes me.  My son makes me laugh every day.  Mary Oliver gets it right:  the job of a poet is to be an empty, waiting, pure, speechless receptacle.  When it's time for me to give my Nobel Prize acceptance speech, I may just hold up a picture of my kids.

Saint Marty's glass is more than full tonight,  It's overflowing.