Fireflies
by: Mary Oliver
At Blackwater
fireflies
are not even a dime a dozen--
they are free,
and each floats and turns
among the branches of the oaks
and the swamp azaleas
looking for another
as, who doesn't?
Oh, blessings
on the intimacy
inside fruition,
be it foxes
or the fireflies
or the dampness inside the petals
of a thousand flowers.
Though Eden is lost
its loveliness
remains in the heart
and the imagination;
he would take her
in a boat
over the dark water;
she would take him
to an island she knows
where the blue flag grows wild
and the grass is deep,
where the birds
perch together,
feather to feather,
on the bough.
And the fireflies,
blinking their little lights,
hurry toward one another.
And the world continues,
God willing.
This poem is about closeness. The fireflies seek each other out by flashing in the oaks and swamp azaleas. Rivers rush toward lakes and seas and oceans. Foxes and flowers--basically, everything--are hungry for each other, because that's what we're all crave: proximity. Companionship. Love.
The world continues because of this impulse.
I am the youngest of nine children. That means that I never lacked human companionship as a kid. I was surrounded by my sisters and brothers. All the time. There were few places in our home where privacy existed. Bathrooms. Bedrooms, sometimes. (Until I was in high school, I shared a bedroom with one of my older brothers. When you're a horny teenage boy, closeness like that puts a cramp in your style.) Dinners were huge events where we all sat around the table, competed for food, and unpacked our days.
So I came to be a pretty social animal, at least within the confines of my family. I like people. I like being around people. Until I don't.
As with most individuals, I have my Greta Garbo moments when I want to be alone. Being a poet sort of necessitates a certain amount of solitude and isolation. That doesn't always mean physical isolation. I watched a documentary once about the life of writer James Baldwin. A friend of Baldwin described how he saw the writer in the middle of a loud, unruly party. Baldwin was scribbling in a notebook. After a while, he put down his writing utensil, closed the notebook, and said something like, "It's done, baby." He'd just completed the manuscript of The Fire Next Time, if memory serves. That book went on to become one of the seminal works about race relations published in the 1960s. And Baldwin finished it in a house full of drunken guests.
Most of the writing I'm able to complete in a day isn't done in sound-proof, panic room conditions. I don't lock myself in my office and yell at noisy family members because, for the most part, noisy family members are my inspiration. Just as Baldwin seemed to thrive on the energy of throngs. My poems and blog posts and essays are cobbled together during or between moments of chaos. For example, this blog post started life this morning after a library staff meeting. Was continued during and after lunch. Now, I'm finishing it as I wait for a concert to begin at the library. This whole day has been a piecemeal of stolen writing moments surrounded by gaggles of people.
Sometimes, I wish for a schedule that would allow me to write consistently for a few hours in complete aloneness. But, except for one or two writing conferences I've attended, that has never been my reality. Instead, I'm a firefly flashing in a field of fireflies. The dampness inside the petals of a thousand flowers. James Baldwin scratching out words in the middle of a crowded room. Proximity. Companionship. Love.
And now, Saint Marty has just one thing left to say--"It's done, baby."
Two of Saint Marty's favorite fireflies . . .
