Rain
by: Mary Oliver
1.
All afternoon it rained, then
such power came down from the clouds
on a yellow thread,
as authoritative as God is supposed to be.
When it hit the tree, her body
opened forever.
2. The Swamp
Last night, in the rain, some of the men climbed over
the barbed-wire fence of the detention center.
In the darkness they wondered if they could do it, and knew
they had to try to do it.
In the darkness they climbed the wire, handful after handful
of barbed wire.
Even in the darkness most of them were caught and sent back
to the camp inside.
But a few are still climbing the barbed wire, or wading through
the blue swamp on the other side.
What does barbed wire feel like when you grip it, as though
it were a loaf of bread, or a pair of shoes?
What does barbed wire feel like when you grip it, as though
it were a plate and a fork, or a handful of flowers?
What does barbed wire feel like when you grip it, as though
it were the handle of a door, working papers, a clean sheet
you want to draw over your body?
3.
Or this one: on a rainy day, my uncle
lying in the flower bed,
cold and broken,
dragged from the idling car
with its plug of rags, and its gleaming
length of hose. My father
shouted,
then the ambulance came,
then we all looked at death,
then the ambulance took him away.
From the porch of the house
I turned back once again
looking for my father, who had lingered,
who was still standing in the flowers,
who was that motionless muddy man,
who was that tiny figure in the rain.
4. Early Morning, My Birthday
The snails on the pink sleds of their bodies are moving
among the morning glories.
The spider is asleep among the red thumbs
of the raspberries.
What shall I do, what shall I do?
The rain is slow.
The little birds are alive in it.
Even the beetles.
The green leaves lap it up.
What shall I do, what shall I do?
The wasp sits on the porch of her paper castle.
The blue heron floats out of the clouds.
The fish leap, all rainbow and mouth, from the dark water.
This morning the water lilies are no less lovely, I think,
than the lilies of Monet.
And I do not want anymore to be useful, to be docile, to lead
children out of the fields into the text
of civility to teach them that they are (they are not) better
than the grass.
5. At the Edge of the Ocean
I have heard this music before,
saith the body.
6. The Garden
The kale's
puckered sleeve,
the pepper's
hollow bell,
the lacquered onion.
Beets, borage, tomatoes.
Green beans.
I came in and I put everything
on the counter: chives, parsley, dill,
the squash like a pale moon,
peas in their silky shoes, the dazzling
rain-drenched corn.
7. The Forest
At night
under the trees
the black snake
jellies forward
rubbing
roughly
the stems of the bloodroot,
the yellow leaves,
little boulders of bark,
to take off
the old life.
I don't know
if he knows
what is happening.
I don't know
if he knows
it will work.
In the distance
the moon and the stars
give a little light.
In the distance
the owl cries out.
In the distance
the owl cries out.
The snake knows
these are the owl's woods,
these are the woods of death,
these are the woods of hardship
where you crawl and crawl,
where you live in the husks of trees,
where you lie on the wild twigs
and they cannot bear your weight,
where life has no purpose
and is neither civil nor intelligent.
Where life has no purpose,
and is neither civil nor intelligent,
it begins
to rain,
it begins
to smell like the bodies
of flowers.
At the back of the neck
the old skin splits.
The snake shivers
but does not hesitate.
He inches forward.
He begins to bleed through
like satin.
Oliver knows that rain can be cleansing and dangerous. As authoritative as God. Smelling like the body of flowers. Full of barbed wire and the cries of owls. She gives us many versions of rain, each one of them true and beautiful, in their own ways.
This afternoon, my wife, son, and I went to visit our friend, Joseph. You may remember him from a post I wrote a couple weeks ago. Joseph is dying. His organs are failing. Only 22% of his heart is working. His doctors have told him that in about two or three weeks, he will suffer a major stroke.
And Joseph is full of happiness and gratitude and grace.
As we gathered at Joseph's house with other poet friends to pop the corks on some bottles of prosecco, I sat in the chair beside him and listened to him tell stories, share wisdom, and recite poems. He has taught me so much about how to live well and die well.
Saint Marty would like to share 13 ways of looking at Joseph . . .
1.
An insurance guy,
milker of cows,
lover of trees,
vagabond.
2.
Popper of corks
who shares
himself
like champagne.
3.
Father,
grandfather,
poet
with
long lungs
and strong bones.
4.
Old hippie.
Still
hates fascists,
goes barefoot
when he can.
5.
Gave up
smoking and drinking
on All Souls' Day
many years
ago.
6.
Took up
smoking and drinking
again
this St. Patrick's Day
because
he enjoyed it
so.
7.
Kicked out
of hospice
because
he wasn't
dying
correctly.
8.
Lifelong Catholic
who prefers
Lutherans now.
9.
Read
Das Kapital
because he fell
in love
with a communist
in a forest
in Denmark.
10.
Can't remember
my son's name.
Calls him Gilead,
a balm
for soothing
and healing.
11.
Mows his lawn
on 90-degree
days when
his body is
going out of business,
says,
I'm a little slower now.
12.
A prophet
with visions
of his own
death
whose last days
are a
psalm.
13.
Say it with Joseph,
say it with me:
Thank you, thank you,
thank you, thank
you, thank
you.
It sounds like
a sparrow
taking
wing.
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