September 22: "Searching," Snowflake, Bigfoot

I'm kind of obsessive, in case you haven't noticed.  Most poets are, in my experience.  We become entrapped by our preoccupations.  A Cajun poet friend of mine became engrossed with the life of the French explorer Cadillac; she ended up writing an entire bilingual collection based on his biography.  Another poet friend loves birds; she can listen to birdsong in bright morning light and tell me the singer's name, feather color, and migration habits.  That friend just published a book of poems about her winged obsessions.

There's nothing better than having a passion--something that piques your curiosity and sparks your creativity.  I've going through several in my life.

Billy Collins gets obsessed over an albino gorilla . . .

Searching

by: Billy Collins

I recall someone once admitting
that all he remembered of Anna Karenina
was something about a picnic basket,

and now, after consuming a book
devoted to the subject of Barcelona—
its people, its history, its complex architecture—

all I remember is the mention
of an albino gorilla, the inhabitant of a park
where the Citadel of the Bourbons once stood.

The sheer paleness of her looms over
all the notable names and dates
as the evening strollers stop before her

and point to show their children.
These locals called her Snowflake,
and here she has been mentioned again in print

in the hope of keeping her pallid flame alive
and helping her, despite her name, to endure
in this poem where she has found another cage.

Oh, Snowflake,
I had no interest in the capital of Catalonia—
its people, its history, its complex architecture—

no, you were the reason
I kept my light on late into the night
turning all those pages, searching for you everywhere.

So, Collins obsesses over Snowflake, the albino gorilla of Barcelona.  He stays up late, searching for Snowflake in the pages of a history of the city.

I, of course, have been obsessed with a different kind of ape, but one just as mysterious and elusive.  My preoccupation began almost 20 years ago with a single love poem written for my wife on our anniversary.  I've been hunting Bigfoot ever since.  Two decades of writing.  I've driven myself crazy at times (and probably driven my loved ones a little crazy, as well).

Now that my Bigfoot poetry collection is being published soon, I'm feeling a little unmoored.  The big guy has been a part of my life for a very long time.  He's taught me a lot about myself and my world.  In a lot of ways, I think Bigfoot is smarter than me.  More authentic.  

I lead a life where I wear many masks.  I teach college English.  Schedule and host programs at a public library.  Perform on a radio variety show.  Play keyboard/pipe organ at several churches.  Host a few podcasts.  And I write poetry.  Some people know me primarily as an instructor.  Others recognize me as an event organizer.  I was in Walmart this afternoon and met a person who recognized me from my appearances on TV.  It's all me and not all me at the same time.

Bigfoot is just . . . Bigfoot.  He doesn't pretend to be anything else.  At least my version of Bigfoot doesn't.  He doesn't diet or exercise.  Gets annoyed by people who stare at his feet.  Struggles with grief and loss.  There's nothing hidden or obscure in Bigfoot's psyche.  If he's pissed, he kills a porcupine with a rock.  If he's lonely, he chases Lady Bigfoot up mountains and through blizzards.  If he's happy, he opens his mouth and howls at owls.

I've enjoyed the company of Bigfoot these last score of years.  He's kept me sane through a lot of insanity in my life.  (By the way, Bigfoot is not a fan of Donald Trump.)  But, it's time to release him back into the wilds.  Maybe he'll come knocking on my door again, insist on being written into another poem.  If he does, I will oblige him.

In the meantime, Saint Marty is on the hunt for a new obsession.  Maybe a book of poems about saints.