August 24: "Goldenrod," Extraordinary Ordinary, Performed

Mary Oliver admires weeds . . . 

Goldenrod

by:  Mary Oliver

On roadsides,

     in fall fields,

          in rumpy bunches,

               saffron and orange and pale gold,

in little towers,

     soft as mash,

          sneeze-bringers and seed-bearers,

               full of bees and yellow beads and perfect flowerlets

and orange butterflies.

     I don't suppose

          much notice comes of it, except for honey,

               and how it heartens the heart with its

blank blaze.

     I don't supposed anything loves it except, perhaps,

          the rocky voids

               filled by its dumb dazzle.

For myself, 

     I was just passing by, when the wind flared

          and the blossoms rustled,

               and the glittering pandemonium

leaned on me.

     I was just minding my own business

          when I found myself on their straw hillsides,

               citron and butter-colored,

and was happy, and why not?

     Are not the difficult labors of our lives

          full of dark hours?

               And what has consciousness come to anyway, so far,

that is better than these light-filled bodies?

     All day

          on their airy backbones

               they toss in the wind,

they bend as though it was natural and godly to bend,

     they rise in a still sweetness,

          in the pure peace of giving

               one's gold away.

One of Mary Oliver's greatest lessons:  notice how extraordinary ordinary things are, like goldenrod.  Yes, the difficult labors or our lives are full of dark hours, as she says.  And it is so easy simply to focus on the labor and darkness instead of something that rises in still sweetness to give away its golden beauty.

I'm pretty beat tonight.  It is a little past 11 p.m., and I just got home a little while ago.  I performed in a show tonight with some of my best friends, and it was wonderfully exhausting.  After more than a week of sadness and bad news, it was great to hang with people I love and sing, perform, and read poetry.

Now, I know most of my disciples reading this post would probably lose a kidney rather than get up on a stage.  Public speaking ranks right up there with death in the fear department.  But I love being in front of an audience.  Love the challenge of winning over surly or disgruntled theatergoers.  Love hearing laughter and applause.  All that was my goldenrod this evening.

My miracle today:  friends, a stage, music, and poetry.

Now, Saint Marty is ready for a long winter's nap, but he'll settle for a short night's snooze.

Septmeber 21: Dark Hours, Paul Muldoon, "Vampire"

Well, I have been thinking a lot about October today, even though we are still in September.  Tomorrow is the Fall Equinox.  Summer officially ends, and autumn officially begins.  It seems like the year is ebbing too quickly.  Pretty soon, the dark hours will outnumber the light hours.

In two weeks--14 short days--Saint Marty's Day will be upon us again.  I'm not ready for it.  I haven't even started my Saint Marty's Day shopping.  Haven't watched my favorite Saint Marty's Day movie yet--It's a Wonderful Saint Marty's Day.  I am way behind this year.

This evening, I have a Halloween poem from Paul Muldoon.

Think of it as an early Saint Marty's Day present.

Vampire

by:  Paul Muldoon

Seeing the bird in winter reflected in the sheet of ice,
She recalls that she once covered her walls,
('Carefully appointed mirrors create the illusion of depth')
From floor to ceiling with glass.

Later, she would have the 'carefully appointed mirrors' taken away.
'The thing ought not be bigger than the fact',
She would tell herself.  Or, already spending the daylight hours in bed,
Say, "I am alive because I am alive'.

For even then she believed herself native soil enough for herself,
Though already she rose only as the nights fell,
Quietly lifting the single bottle that stood on her step since morning,
The top repeatedly punctured by a thirsting bird.