August 15: "Wrens," Worrier and Fretter, Miracles Happen

Mary Oliver admires feathered diligence . . . 

Wrens

by:  Mary Oliver

here I go

into the wide gardens of

wastefields blue glass clear glass

and other rubbishes blinking from the

dust from the fox tracks among the

roots and risings of

buttercups joe pye honey

suckle the queen's

lace and her

blue sailors

the little wrens

have carried a hundred sticks into

an old rusted pail and now they are

singing in the curtains of leaves they are

fluttering down to the bog they are dipping

their darling heads down to wet

their whistles how happy they are to be

diligent at last

foolish birds

I'm not quite sure why Oliver thinks the wrens are foolish in this poem.  They could be foolish because they're drinking from the bog.  Or because they're happy.  Or because they're diligent and industrious at last, instead of frittering away their days and nights among the buttercups and Joe Pye weed.  If I were a betting person, though, I'd lay $20 on the diligence and industry thing.  Oliver strikes me as a person who, if she had wings, would have spent all of her waking hours flying from trees to lakes to fields of Queen Anne's lace.  She wouldn't have wasted her time with the work of worry.

Of course, I'm a worrier and fretter.  Most faithful disciples of this blog know that about me.  A good portion of my days are spent in a state of anxiety, trying to keep up with work and grading and blogging and poeting.  For instance, final grades for the summer semester were due by noon today.  So, like a diligent wren gathering sticks, I spent yesterday, all of last night, and this morning writing my final comments on papers, responding to student emails, and putting my math minor to work calculating grades.  In total, I've had about three hours of sleep in the last 48 hours.

I write this not because I'm looking for sympathy or amazement or disdain.  Far from it.  I write this because I think Mary Oliver would probably have shaken her head at me, as she does with the wrens, and said to herself, "Foolish saint."  And she would be right.

I haven't experienced a whole lot of Mary moments in the last two days.  Because I  haven't had the time to pay close attention to the world around me.  Instead, I was focused on computer screens and electronic essays, with not a whole lot of amazement to spare.  

Now, Mary taught at universities and colleges for almost 20 years.  She was very familiar with the inside of a classroom.  So, I'm sure that she experienced the grading crunch at certain times in her life.  That means that she probably had to take time out of her miracle chasing to pick up a red pen and sit with a stack of student writing.  In short, she was a foolish bird at times, too.

When I got home this afternoon, I took a nap.  Then I ate and watched the movie Inception.  After that, I got off the couch, picked up my iPhone, and stepped outside to flush a covey of wonder from the world.  I listened to the birds talking back and forth in the twilight.  Found some interesting trees and a rabbit or two in my backyard.  And saw the sunset.

Even when Saint Marty's tied up in knots with work and worry, miracles happen.  Right outside his window.

July 20: With a Friend, Bluegrass Concert, a Little Joy

Santiago talks to some friends . . . 

"Stay at my house if you like, bird," he said. "I am sorry I cannot hoist the sail and take you in with the small breeze that is rising. But I am with a friend."

There's a lot of tenderness is this tiny paragraph.  I can sense how much Santiago cares about the world and the creatures in it.  Santiago knows his place.

It has been a strange kind of day for me.  I worked all morning, into the afternoon.  I went home for a little while, worked some more, and took a nap.  In the evening, I hosted an outdoor bluegrass concert at the library.  It rained in the morning pretty heavily, but it cleared up in the afternoon.  Then, right before the concert was set to start, the sky turned sheet metal gray and started spitting.

For the hour that the musicians picked and fiddled and strummed, I kept me eye on the clouds.  But God must like bluegrass music, because the rain held off, and about 170-plus people clapped and whooped and danced for 60 minutes.

I stood there, thinking that I had helped bring a little joy into the world tonight.  I felt connected.  Like Santiago, I knew my place.

And that was Saint Marty's blessing today. 

March 12: Counterpoint the Surrealism, Took a Nap, Treading Water

Arthur and Ford are currently being poetically tortured by a Vogon . . .

He [the Vogon captain] threw himself backward into a huge leathery bat-shaped seat and watched them.  He did the smile again.

Ford was rasping for breath.  He rolled his dusty tongue around his parched mouth and moaned.

Arthur said brightly, "Actually, I quite liked it."

Ford turned and gaped.  Here was an approach that had quite simply not occurred to him.

The Vogon raised a surprised eyebrow that effectively obscured his nose and was therefore no bad thing.

"Oh good . . " he whirred in considerable astonishment.

"Oh yes," said Arthur.  "I thought that some of the metaphysical imagery was really particularly effective."

Ford continued to stare at him, slowly organizing his thoughts around this totally new concept.  Were they really going to be able to bareface their way out of this?

"Yes, do continue . . ." invited the Vogon.

"Oh . . . and, er . . . interesting rhythmic devices too," continued Arthur, "which seemed to counterpoint the . . . er . . . er . . ." he floundered.

Ford leaped to his rescue, hazarding, ". . . counterpoint the surrealism of the underlying metaphor of the . . . er . . ."  He floundered too, but Arthur was ready again.

" . . . humanity of the . . ."

"Vogonity," Ford hissed at him.

"Ah, yes, Vogonity--sorry--of the poet's compassionate soul"--Arthur felt he was on a homestretch now--"which contrives through the medium of the verse structure to sublimate this, transcend that, and come to terms with the fundamental dichotomies of the other"--he was reaching a triumphant crescendo--"and one is left with a profound and vivid insight into . . . into . . .er . . ." (which suddenly gave out on him).  Ford leaped in with the coup de grace:

"Into whatever it was the poem was about!" he yelled.  Out of the corner of his mouth:  "Well done, Arthur, that was very good."

There you go.  An explication of Vogon poetry, which, I must remind you, is the third worst poetry in the Universe.  Arthur and Ford do a pretty good job of saying a lot and absolutely nothing at the same time.  In fact, their remarks remind me of some student essays that I've graded in the past.

Poetry can be a pretty lonely avocation at times.  You work for hours by yourself on a piece.  You write.  Rewrite.  Write some more.  Revise some more.  Eventually, you throw your journal across the room, roll into a fetal position in the corner, and contemplate the state of your worthless life.  And that's on a good day!  (On the upside, you can do all of this without having to change out of your sweats and tee shirt from the night before, so small victories.)

This afternoon, when I got home from work, I had every intention to sit down and revise I poem that I wrote this past weekend.  Didn't do it.  Took a nap instead.  I was exhausted.  These last two weeks have been very strange.  Although my work load has been considerably lighter in my new office space, I've found myself more tired than I've been in a really long time.  Every day.

Of course, I am not a big fan of change.  Change kind of saps my energy.  Plus, I've been worrying quite a bit about my future job situation.  I have one job that I know I could walk into right now--but it would require me to get up even earlier than I currently do, and I'm pretty sure it would mean a reduction in salary.  I have another job prospect that I've been promised (for a higher salary at a place I've worked in the past), but the posting for this job is still nonexistent.  And then there's a third job that sounds really exciting, but I'm not sure of the wage or benefits.

As you can tell, everything is a little . . . unsettled in my world.  And that is why I took a nap this afternoon.  I needed a break from the chaos.  I wish I were back at Walt Disney World . . . or Calumet . . . or strapped to a Vogon Poetry Appreciation chair.

I did, once I got out of bed, accomplish quite a bit of work.  I answered some e-mails.  Set up a poetry reading at the university library for the month of April, sent out some reminders about a reading that I'm doing this Thursday, and made my son Ramen noodles.  (Don't criticize me.  It's what he asked for!)  Tonight, I plan on revising that poem from last weekend.

If I sound a little down on myself, I apologize.  I've been struggling with some depression again.  Pushing through mud some days.  I'm trying to see my way through this tunnel I'm in at the moment, but it's a little difficult.  But, hey, I'm in good poetic company--Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Robert Lowell, Dylan Thomas, Theodore Roethke.  (Ignore the fact that most of these people died of alcoholism or suicide.)

Tomorrow will be better.  I know this turmoil is temporary.  It's just a little difficult to see the shore when I'm treading water.

And Saint Marty didn't really do that well in swimming in high school.