April 15: "Physical," Geese, "Morning Geese"

Billy Collins' heart . . .

Physical

by:  Billy Collins

The nurse quipped

my pulse was so slow

she could take it with a sundial.

In a garden,

she watches the shadow move

while I sit there, ticking away.

It's going to be a short post tonight, disciples.  It's been a long day, and I'm tired.  I can feel my heart slowing down, my mind getting ready to reboot.

This morning, when I took my puppy out for her morning stroll around the backyard, we were surrounded by the cries of geese.  It sounded like an Independence Day parade of honks and barks and horns.

Above us, the sky was overflowing with geese, returning from their winter retreats, I imagine.  It was kind of miraculous to witness.  It lasted almost five minutes--flock after flock forming and reforming into V's, winging across the heavens.

It made Saint Marty's heart beat a little faster.

Goose Morning

by:  Martin Achatz

So many arrows

of Canadians

in the dawn sky,

calling out,

Spring, eh!  Spring, eh!

September 28: "Two Kinds of Deliverance," Gail, Setting Free

Mary Oliver looks for deliverance . . .

Two Kinds of Deliverance

by:  Mary Oliver

1.

Last night the geese came back,

slanting fast

from the blossom of the rising moon down

to the black pond.  A muskrat

swimming in the twilight saw them and hurried

to the secret lodges to tell everyone

spring had come.

And so it had.

By morning when I went out

the last of the ice had disappeared, blackbirds

sang on the shores.  Every year

the geese, returning,

do this, I don't

know how.

2.

The curtains opened and there was

an old man in a headdress of feathers,

leather leggings and a vest made

from the skin of some animal.  He danced

in a kind of surly rapture, and the trees

in the fields far away

began to mutter and suck up their long roots.

Slowly they advanced until they stood

pressed to the schoolhouse windows.

3.

I don't know

lots of things but I know this next year

when spring

flows over the starting point I'll think I'm going to

drown in the shimmering miles of it and then

one or two birds will fly me over

the threshold.

                    As for the pain

of others, of course it tries to be

abstract, but then

there flares up out of a vanished wilderness, like fire,

still blistering:  the wrinkled face

of an old Chippewa

smiling, hating us,

dancing for his life.

The word "deliverance" has a few meanings, but the main one (the one, I'm sure, Mary Oliver intended for this poem) is "the act of being rescued or set free."  So, the geese come to the black pond and set it free of the ice and snow of winter.  The old man in the headdress sets the trees free of their roots.  The blistering face of the old Chippewa tries to rescue his life from the pain and hatred of his and his people's past.

This afternoon, I learned a poet friend was delivered from her suffering two days ago.  Gail had been in hospice care, her heart failing in the bed of her chest.  Over the course of a couple weeks, she had good days and bad days.  Times when she struggled to keep her eyes open, her mind focused, for just a few minutes.  Other times when she was lucid and able to sustain extended conversations.

Yet, as must happen with each one of us, Gail was delivered from the icy black pond of this world to the verdant green world of the next.  Gail was, as I said above, a poet.  She was also a visual artist.  Earlier this summer, I visited her studio, watched her work, and admired her eye for beauty.  She was the real deal--painter and poet, mother and grandmother, friend to all.

What happens when a poet dies?  I've been pondering that question since I found out about Gail's passing.  I imagine her deliverance was like the geese descending out of a moony sky, looking to rest their tired wings after a long and difficult journey.  That's where I imagine Gail is right now, standing with Mary Oliver on the shores of the black pond, listening to blackbirds sing their psalm to spring.

Saint Marty gives thanks tonight for Gail's time on this planet, for her deliverance of beauty with words and brushes and paints.

June 26: "Terns," Trudging Forward, Future

Mary Oliver distracted by terns . . .

Terns

by:  Mary Oliver

Don't think just now of the trudging forward of thought,

but of the wing-drive of unquestioning affirmation.

It's summer, you never saw such a blue sky,

and here they are, those white birds with quick wings,

sweeping over the waves,

chattering and plunging,

their thin beaks snapping, their hard eyes

happy as little nails.

The years to come--this is a promise--

will grant you ample time

to try the difficult steps in the empire of thought

where you seek for the shining proofs you think you must have.

But nothing you ever understand will be sweeter, or more binding,

than this deepest affinity between your eyes and the world.

The flock thickens

over the roiling, salt brightness.  Listen,

maybe such devotion, in which one holds the world

in the clasp of attention, isn't the perfect prayer,

but it must be close, for the sorrow, whose name is doubt,

is thus subdued, and not through the weaponry of reason,

but of pure submission.  Tell me, what else

could beauty be for?  And now the tide

is at its very crown,

the white birds sprinkle down,

gathering up the loose silver, rising

as if weightless.  It isn't instruction, or a parable.

It isn't for any vanity or ambition

except for the one allowed, to stay alive.

It's only a nimble frolic

over the waves.  And you find, for hours,

you cannot even remember the questions

that weigh so in your mind.

I spend most of my days in the trudging forward of thought, distracted by all of the details of life, as Oliver describes.  And I don't think I'm alone in this.  My life sort of requires me to think ahead, plan ahead, worry ahead.  Unless something stops me dead cold, because of its beauty or mystery or weirdness, I am always one or two or three steps/hours/days/weeks/months ahead in thought.

I know this practice isn't healthy.  In fact, it causes me a great deal of stress.  Because none of us really knows what the future holds.  We don't know if we are even going to wake up tomorrow morning or be spirited away in the middle of the night by some little comet of blood in our heads.  (Sorry.  This is the way my brain works.  I'm constantly distracted by these kinds of thoughts.)

Today, for example, was filled with planning ahead.  This morning, I took my puppy for a physical therapy appointment for her injured leg.  For an hour, I worked with the therapist, helping her stretch, ultrasound, and exercise my dog.  I'm doing this so that my dog will have the most mobility possible for the rest of her life.  Planning ahead.

I had an event this evening at the library, and I was a performer in the show.  So, I spent the bulk of my time setting up mics and chairs, printing out sketches and set lists, selecting poems and essays to read.  Basically, doing everything within my power to make sure that the show went smoothly.  Planning ahead again.

You see what I mean.  I didn't have a chance to walk down to Lake Superior and watch the ducks or geese.  (I've never seen a tern in my little corner of Lake Superior, but I'm terrible at identifying birds.)  The only time I lived in the present today were the two hours I was performing.  You sort of have to be in the moment when you're onstage.  Other than that, I was physically here, but my mind was planning for Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas.  

The only creature in my life that lives in the moment is my dog.  She doesn't worry about the future.  Pretty much, she lives from meal to walk to meal, with occasional trots around the backyard to relieve herself.  That's her life.  She gets hungry, food is given to her.  She has a full bladder, out to the lawn she goes.  She gets tired, her pillow is right next to her for a nap.  In. The.  Moment.

I think all our lives would be so much simpler and better if we lived like my dog.  Pay attention to what is in front of your face, be it terns, the moon, or a hot fudge sundae.  Let the future take care of itself until it becomes the present.  

Now, Saint Marty needs to go for a walk around the backyard.  His bladder is full.  (Just kidding.)