Poppies
by: Mary Oliver
The poppies send up their
orange flares, swaying
in the wind, their congregations
are a levitation
of bright dust, of thin
and lacy leaves.
There isn't a place
in this world that doesn't
sooner or later drown
in the indigos of darkness,
but now, for a while,
the roughage
shines like a miracle
as it floats above everything
with its yellow hair.
Of course nothing stops the cold,
black, curved blade
from hooking forward--
of course
loss is the great lesson.
But also I say this: that light
is an invitation
to happiness,
and that happiness,
when it's done right,
is a kind of holiness,
palpable and redemptive.
Inside the bright fields,
touched by their rough and spongy gold,
I am washed and washed
in the river
of earthly delight--
and what are you going to do--
what can you do
about it--
deep, blue night?
Oliver admits that the indigos of darkness are inescapable. As she says, ". . . nothing stops the cold, / black, curved blade / from hooking forward--". Death is the leveler of all fields, "that great lesson" that we all have to learn some day. Oliver owns this idea, but she also knows that light fosters happiness. When happiness "is done right," it is a holy thing, like the congregations of poppies in the poem.
Today was the first day of the fall semester at the university, and I taught my first class this morning. I will own up to the fact that I'm still in summer mode, so my mind hasn't quite caught up with the rest of me. My body may be at the end of August, but my heart is still lingering around the first few days of July. I was not in a good mood when I left the house.
I pass a beautiful little inland lake when I drive to and from work every day. I've learned to judge a lot of things by studying that lake. Weather, for instance. I gauge what kind of day it's going to be by whether the water is gray and choppy, pounded with rain, or a mirror of the sky. I know that, when a snowstorm is on the way, the lake becomes weirdly calm beneath gun-metal clouds.
This morning, the water was calm as baby breath, and a long finger of sunlight stroked its liquid belly. The sun itself was huge. It looked almost too heavy for the heavens to keep holding. It was a joyful sunrise, and I felt my indigo darkness slip a little, some light entering into my being. I carried that image with me until after I was done teaching.
Tonight, I hosted one of my favorite local bands at the library. Over two hundred people showed up, and the music was fast and happy. I was surrounded by people who love and care about me, including a friend who knows me practically better than anyone else in my life. She's seen me in the throes of despair on more than one occasion, and she still wants to hang with me. That is a real blessing.
I'm home now. Dog tired. As soon as I type the last period of this blog post and click "Publish," I'm going to brush my teeth and go to sleep. Usually, I'm awake until about 1 a.m., as my mind doesn't know when to stop doing its thing. (Its thing is to fill my head with worry and sadness.) Tonight, I don't think I'll have that problem.
Saint Marty had a good day. A sacred day of happiness. And now, he's going to type the last period of this post. Are you ready? Here it comes: .
❤️
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