The Snakes
by: Mary Oliver
I once saw two snakes,
northern racers,
hurrying through the woods,
their bodies
like two black whips
lifting and dashing forward;
in perfect concert
they held their heads high
and swam forward
on their sleek bellies;
under the trees,
through vines, branches,
over stones,
through fields of flowers,
they traveled
like a matched team
like a dance
like a love affair.
Another poem in keeping with the season--this one about snakes.
Of course, being Mary Oliver, she doesn't simply write about snakes in the spooky, Halloween kind of way. Her snakes are two black whips swimming forward, dancers having a love affair in the vines and stones and fields. Oliver is in love with these creatures, as she is with most things in nature.
I find myself tonight sitting on my couch, listening to the rain outside, a steady timpani against the windows. Almost like a tapping, as if someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "'Tis only the rain," I think. "Only this, and nothing more."
I've spent most of today struggling to remain focused, at work and at home. That's a tall order for me. I've been an easily distractible person most of my life. Both of my kids have been diagnosed with ADD, so they must have gotten it from somewhere. Although I've never officially had ADD added to the list of things wrong with me, I recognize how much of my time on this planet has been spent pursuing sudden passions--chasing butterflies, if you will.
Yet, there's something wonderful about being swallowed by strong emotions. I mean, Mary Oliver spent her life chasing snakes and dogs and bears. A lot of people never experience that kind of passion, and I think that's pretty sad. Me? My life has been a series of love affairs with various subjects.
But that's what poets do--they fall easily in love. Emily Dickinson loved Death, among other things. Walt Whitman loved America, each blade of grass that touched his naked limbs. Poe loved ravens and his dead wife, who also happened to be his cousin. Pick up any collection of poems, and it will be filled with love letters to whatever/whomever the poet is currently sleeping with, living with, and conjugally encountering.
For the last several years, my particular distraction has been Bigfoot. I've been chasing the big hairy guy for quite a while. Of course, I've been a lover of all things dark and monstrous all of my life. I spent most of my Saturday afternoons as a kid and teen watching old Hammer horror movies. Plenty of blood and nudity to keep my adolescent mind fixated. Thus, Halloween has been my jam practically since birth; it fights for supremacy in my heart with Christmas.
You may ask if I ever get tired of my monstrous obsessions. The short answer to that query is "yes, of course." I am currently trying to finish my Bigfoot manuscript because I'm ready to move on to some other love affair. I have no idea what the next object of my affection will be, but I can say with certainty that it will certainly be smaller and smell a whole lot better.
However, right now, it is an October night. Rain is falling. Bigfoot is prowling.
And Saint Marty isn't ready to let any more snakes or skeletons out of his closet just yet.
❤️
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