September 18: "Turtle," Poets and Artists, Chips and Salsa

Mary Oliver saves a turtle . . . 

Turtle

by:  Mary Oliver

Now I see it--

it nudges with its bulldog head

the slippery stems of the lilies, making them tremble;

and now it noses along in the wake of the little brown teal

who is leading her soft children

from one side of the pond to the other; she keeps

close to the edge

and they follow closely, the good children--

the tender children,

the sweet children, dangling their pretty feet

into the darkness.

And now will come--I can count on it--the murky splash,

the certain victory

of that pink and gassy mouth, and the frantic

circling of the hen while the rest of the chicks

flare away over the water and into the reeds, and my heart

will be most mournful

on their account.  But, listen,

what's important?

Nothing's important

except that the great and cruel mystery of the world,

of which this is a part,

not be denied.  Once,

I happened to see, on a city street, in summer,

a dusty, fouled turtle plodding along--

a snapper--

broken out I suppose from some backyard cage--

and I knew what I had to do--

I looked it right in the eyes, and I caught it--

I put it, like a small mountain range,

into a knapsack, and I took it out

of the city, and I let it

down into the dark pond, into

the cool water,

and the light of the lilies,

to live.

Not everything in the world is easy or beautiful.  Oliver watches a turtle, with its pink and gassy mouth, snatch a duckling from its mother.  The mother frantically searches for her lost child, but Oliver knows that this moment is part of the undeniable great and cruel mystery of the world.  The ducks are doing what ducks do, and the turtle is doing what turtles do.  There is a hard beauty in that.

It has been a long Monday.  Of course, most Mondays are long, coming off a couple days of non-work.  Humankind has created a commerce of time.  Work time is considered more valuable than play time.  Being a productive employee is valued more than being a productive citizen of the planet.  So, poets and writers and artists are snapping turtles in society, full of plodding suspicion and menace.

If you think I'm full of shit, try going to a party filled with strangers.  Introduce yourself as a poet, and see what strange looks you get.  People will go out of their way to avoid your company, even if you're standing by the chips and salsa.

I have no idea when artists and poets became pariahs in the great pond of humanity.  Perhaps when the Industrial Revolution hit and people were suddenly expendable commodities, disposable cogs in the machinery of capitalism.  You see, poets and artists reveal truths about the world (sometimes great and cruel truths), and the rich and powerful prefer their workers to be blind and obedient.

So, this morning, when I got to work, I didn't immediately sit down at my desk and turn on my computer blindly and obediently.  Instead, I climbed to the roof of the library and watched the sun rise over Lake Superior.  I started my day with the light of the lilies over the mud and clay and reeds of the shore.

If that makes Saint Marty an unproductive and lazy snapping turtle, so be it.