Clapp's Pond
by: Mary Oliver
Three miles through the woods
Clapp's Pond sprawls stone gray
among oaks and pines,
the late winter fields
where a pheasant blazes up
lifting his yellow legs
under bronze feathers, opening
bronze wings;
and one doe, dimpling the ground as she touches
its dampness sharply, flares
out of the brush and gallops away.
∞
By evening, rain.
It pours over the roof. The last
acorns spray over the porch; I toss
one, then two more
logs on the fire.
∞
How sometimes everything
closes up, a painted fan, landscapes and moments
flowing together until the sense of distance--
say, between Clapp's Pond and me--
vanishes, edges slide together
like the feathers of a wing, everything
touches everything.
∞
Later, lying half-asleep under
the blankets, I watch
while the doe, glittering with rain, steps
under the wet slabs of the pines, stretches
her long neck down to drink
∞
from the pond
three miles away.
Everything touches everything else.
That is Oliver's message in tonight's poem. Clapp's Pond touches the pheasant touches the doe touches the rain touches the acorns touches logs on the fire touches Clapp's Pond again. Throw the speaker of the poem into that mix, and you truly have everything touching everything else all at once.
Today, I celebrated the start of my 56th trip around the Sun. Before I even woke up, people were sending me birthday wishes, from as far away as Germany and New Zealand. And each and every greeting reminded me how lucky I truly am.
Most of us go through our days feeling completely disconnected, as if each of us is a circus of one--ringmaster, lion tamer, clown, trapeze artist, elephant, camel, and Franky the Amazing Dogboy all rolled into one. When my head hits the pillow at night, I find myself already already thinking about the next day's circus.
Yet, disconnection is truly just a feeling--it doesn't reflect reality. At least for me. I have people all over the globe who care about my welfare. The disciples of this blog are spread out from Taiwan to Syria to Dunedin. This little thing called the Internet (you may have heard of it) has managed to shrink the distances (metaphorical and physical) between peoples. I'm sitting in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and just received a message a little while ago from an acquaintance currently in Rome. Small world, small tribe.
Now, I'm not deluded enough to think that just because I have a lot of friends on Facebook means that I'm popular or well-liked. I've said it before: social media is not a good barometer of reality. However, when people take a few seconds out of their days to send me birthday greetings, I get the feeling that I've made some small impact on the world and some lives in that world.
That makes me feel pretty darn connected.
No, I didn't win the Nobel Prize in Literature this year (that went to a Norwegian writer this morning--Jon Fosse). No, I didn't receive a phone call from President Biden wishing me a happy birthday. And, no, Governor Whitmer didn't sign a proclamation designating today Saint Marty Day in Michigan.
However, I had seafood risotto and a raspberry chocolate bomb for dinner tonight. My wife, daughter, and son sang "Happy Birthday" to me. Then, we played a board game. When she left to go home, my daughter laid her head on my shoulder and whispered in my ear, "Happy birthday, Daddy!"
For Saint Marty, that was better than a call from the Swedish Academy.
