November 27, 2024: "The Suggestion Box," Thanksgiving Eve, Surrounded by Poetry

I often say that, if you are a poet, you're surrounded by poetry.  I have a poet friend who, in her birthday messages to me, says, "Happy birthday!  Now go write about it!"  I laugh every time, and then I start thinking about my next poem or blog post or essay.  

This evening, on a night-time walk, I saw a mountain ash tree still filled with orange berries, each cluster capped with snow, and I took out my camera to save the image.  This perfect clash of summer and winter.  Now, I'm writing this blog post about it.

Billy Collins is surrounded by possibilities . . . 

The Suggestion Box

by: Billy Collins

It all began fairly early in the day
at the coffee shop as it turned out
when the usual waitress said
I’ll bet you’re going to write a poem about this
after she had knocked a cup of coffee into my lap.

Then later in the morning I was told
by a student that I should write a poem
about the fire drill that was going on
as we all stood on the lawn outside our building.

In the afternoon a woman I barely knew
said you could write a poem about that,
pointing to a dirigible that was passing overhead.

And if all that were not enough,
a friend turned to me as we walked past
a man whose face was covered with tattoos
and said, I see poem coming!

Why is everyone being so helpful?
I wondered that evening by the shore of a lake.

Maybe I should write a poem
about all the people who think
they know what I should be writing poems about.

It was just then in the fading light that I spotted
a pair of ducks emerging
from a cluster of reeds to paddle out to open water,

the female glancing back over her russet shoulder
just in time to see me searching my pockets for a pen.

I knew it, she quacked, with a bit of a brogue.
But who can blame you for following your heart?
she went on.
Now, go write a lovely poem about me and the mister.

If you're wondering whether I'm constantly looking for poem ideas, the answer to that question is "yes" and "no."  Yes, I'm a person who watches for small moments of wonder and astonishment all day long.  I keep my eyes open for sunrises, beautiful leaves, white caps on Lake Superior, or a cobweb breathing in the corner.  No, I don't write a poem about each of those small moments, because I need to work, eat, walk, love.  There are so many poems begging to be written.

It is Thanksgiving Eve, and tomorrow, I will be walking a Turkey trot, drinking mimosas, and cooking a turkey dinner.  It's going to be a full day, with plenty of grace and wonder to be had.  I will say that Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays (not because I buy into the bullshit narrative of a friendly colonial feast between pilgrims and Indigenous people).  I just appreciate getting together with people I love, eating, laughing, and telling stories.  That is a great wonder.

I give thanks tonight for the deep breath of the coming day.  Yes, I may write a poem about eating turkey or walking in the snow with my puppy, or I may not.  There are people right now who are dealing with loss and grief, as well.  I may write about poem about that, or I may not.

Whatever tomorrow brings, Saint Marty is blessed with love in his life, and that just may be poem enough for him.

September 7: "The Buddha's Last Instruction," Hard Work of Living, Mountain Ash Tree

Mary Oliver becomes one with the Buddha . . . 

The Buddha's Last Instruction

by:  Mary Oliver

"Make of yourself a light,"

said the Buddha,

before he died.

I think of this every morning

as the east begins

to tear off its many clouds

of darkness, to send up the first

signal--a white fan

streaked with pink and violet,

even green.

An old man, he lay down

between two sala trees,

and he might have said anything, 

knowing it was his final hour.

The light burns upward,

it thickens and settles over the fields.

Around him, the villagers gathered

and stretched forward to listen.

Even before the sun itself

hangs, disattached, in the blue air,

I am touched everywhere

by its ocean of yellow waves.

No doubt he thought of everything

that had happened in his difficult life.

And then I feel the sun itself

as it blazes over the hills,

like a million flowers on fire--

clearly I'm not needed,

yet I feel myself turning

into something of inexplicable value.

Slowly, beneath the branches,

he raised his head.

He looked into the faces of the frightened crowd.

Make of yourself a light.

I think that was Mary Oliver's mantra for most of her life.  Reading one of her poems, take your pick, is like staring at a beautiful sunrise or sunset.  Her words are like a million flowers on fire.  Pink and violet and green and gold.  Yet, Oliver also knows that, in the grand scheme of things, she's not needed, even though she feels herself blossoming into something mysterious and inexplicably precious in the first light of day.

Me?  I know, also, that--if I don't wake up tomorrow, if my lungs and heart and brain decide to be done with the hard work of living--the planet will keep on spinning.  The sun and moon will continue their journeys across the heavens.  Lake Superior will keep churning and frothing.  Sure, for a little while, someone will mourn me.  Tears will be shed.  But then, winter will arrive, with its cold, white eraser.  In a few years, I'll just be a photograph, words on a page, posts in a blog.

That's the way things work.

A couple days ago, on a walk, I saw a mountain ash filled with berries.  Little globes of sun nestled in the green sky of the tree.  I stopped and took a picture of them.  Because they were beautiful, and because someone needed to recognize that they were beautiful.  They shed their light on me, and now I'm sharing that light with you.

I think that's the main job of a poet.  Noticing.  Recognizing.  Sharing.  I like to believe that Oliver would agree with me on this.  Everyone carries light around with them.  However, only a brave and generous person becomes a sun to others, spreading that light into the dark places of the world.

I hope that I'm a mountain ash tree, filled with a million little suns for the people in my life.  When I'm gone, whether it's tonight, tomorrow, next week, nest year, or later, I want to be known as a child of light.  That should be your hope, too.

And that is Saint Marty's last instruction for tonight.