Mary Oliver says farewell to a friend . . .
Three Poems for James Wright
by: Mary Oliver
1. Hearing of Your Illness
I went out
from the news of your illness
like a broken bone.
I spoke your name
to the sickle moon and saw her white wing
fall back toward the blackness, but she
rowed deep past that hesitation, and
kept rising
Then I went down
to a black creek and alder grove
that is Ohio like nothing else is
and told them. There was an owl there,
sick of its hunger but still
trapped in it, unable to be anything else.
And the creek
rippled on down over some dark rocks
and the alders
breathed fast in their red blossoms.
Then I lay down in a rank and spring-sweet field.
Weeds sprouting in the darkness, and some
small creatures rustling about, living their lives
as they do, moment by moment.
I felt better, telling them about you.
They know what pain is, and they knew you,
and they would have stopped too, as I
was longing to do, everything, the hunger
and the flowing.
That they could not--
merely loved you and waited
to take you back
as a stone,
as a small quick Ohio creek,
as the beautiful pulse of everything,
meanwhile not missing one shred of their own
assignments of song
and muscle--
was what I learned there, so I
got up finally, with a grief
worthy of you, and went home.
2. Early Morning in Ohio
A late snowfall.
In the white morning the trains
whistle and bang in the freightyard,
shifting track, getting ready
to get on with it, to roll out
into the country again to get
far away from here and closer
to somewhere else.
A mile away, leaving the house, I hear them
and stop, astonished.
Of course, I thought they would stop
when you did. I thought you'd never sicken
anyway, or, if you did, Ohio
would fall down too, barn
by bright barn, into
hillsides of pain: torn boards,
bent nails, shattered
windows. My old dog
who doesn't know yet he is only mortal
bounds limping away
through the weeds, and I don't do
anything to stop him.
I remember
what you said.
And think how somewhere is Tuscany
a small spider might even now
be stepping forth, testing
the silks of her web, the morning air,
the possibilities; maybe even, who knows,
singing a tiny song.
And if the whistling of the trains drags through me
like wire, well, I can hurt can't I? The white fields
burn or my eyes swim, whichever; anyway I whistle
to the old dog and when he comes finally
I fall to my knees in the glittering snow, I throw
my arms around him.
3. The Rose
I had a red rose to send you,
but it reeked of occasion, I thought,
so I didn't. Anyway
it was the time
the willows do what they do
every spring, so I cut some
down by a dark Ohio creek and was ready
to mail them to you when the news came
that nothing
could come to you
in time anymore
ever.
I put down the phone
and I thought I saw, on the floor of the room, suddenly,
a large box,
and I knew, the next thing I had to do,
was lift it
and I didn't know if I could.
Well, I did.
But don't call it anything
but what it was--the voice
of a small bird singing inside, Lord,
how it sang, and kept singing!
how it keeps singing!
in its deep
and miraculous
composure.
This is one of the longest Mary Oliver poems I've ever read. But saying farewell to someone you care about isn't easy. It's complicated and can take a long time. Even when you know that the illness is relentless and end is near, it still turns you into a broken bone. The fracture may heal, but, when rain or snow comes, you will still feel the ghost of pain.
It is Friday evening, and I'm dead tired. Recently, I've been thinking a lot about people I've lost--sisters, parents, a brother, friends. Autumn prompts this kind of reflection in me. I think it has something to do with the world getting ready for a long winter's nap.
We are approaching All Saint's Day and All Soul's Day. I've always felt like the veil between this world and the next is a little thinner this time of year. The spirits of the dead are nearby, tapping on windows, haunting doorsteps. Many times this week, I've found myself sitting at my desk, staring out my office window at the church steeple across the street, thinking of my catalogue of lost loved ones.
Don't worry. I'm not going to get all maudlin in this post, although, as night stretches out its fingers earlier and earlier to snatch the sun out of the heavens, I do tend to become more reflective and, maybe, a little sadder. But I'm not adding logs to that melancholy fire here.
This afternoon, I drove by the cemetery where my sister and parents were laid to rest. As I always do, I said a little prayer for them. Then I thought of all the other headstones in that necropolis. Some of those dearly departed have probably been forgotten by the living world, their names not given oxygen for years and years.
So, I'm including my lost loved ones' names in this post, to mark that they existed and were important and loved. In a Catholic funeral Mass, there's a prayer that's recited near the end of the service: "Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May their souls, and all the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen."
As you read my list below, please recite a little prayer for my people. Or, if you knew them, remember their smiles or voices or laughter. Or just say their names. Give them breath, Acknowledge they were here. And add the names of your dead. Honor them. With words. And memory.
Saint Marty's dead: Kevin Achatz . . . Sally Achatz . . . Fred Achatz . . . Betty Achatz . . . Rosemarie Achatz . . . Cheryl Hoiem . . . Emmett Hoiem . . . Corinne Hoiem . . . Bruce Hoiem . . . Sally Zanetti . . . Ray Ventre . . . Helen Haskell Remien . . .
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