December 30: "The Summer Day," Smallest of Things, Bigfoot Poems

Mary Oliver learns something from a grasshopper . . . 

The Summer Day

by:  Mary Oliver

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean--

the one who has flung herself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,

who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down--

who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

Yes, life really is all about paying attention, even to the smallest of things--like a grasshopper eating sugar from your palm.  A prayer is simply recognizing the universe's gifts.  Taking heed.  And, above all, celebrating the one wild and precious life you are given.

This post is the second-to-last in the Year of Mary Oliver.  I've really enjoyed my time with Mary.  She has taught me so much about poetry and grace.  Leaving her behind will be difficult.  (In case you're wondering, I have picked out a new author and book for 2024, but you will have to wait until Monday to find out.

However, I will carry the lessons of Mary with me for the rest of my life.  Particularly those lessons regarding joy and happiness.  And I have something to celebrate on this second-to-last night of the year.

This morning, I received an email from an editor informing me that he's accepting seven of my poems for publication, including three Bigfoot poems.  It's the first time I've ever sent my Bigfoot out into the world, and the world seems to like him.

No matter how many times I get published, each time I get a letter or (more often these days) an email, my wild and precious life seems filled with butterflies sipping sugar from my hand.  Sweet and blessed.  My whole day has been sun and celebration, right down to the long walks I took with my puppy and the turkey pot pie my sister made for dinner.  

For Saint Marty, 2023 is going out with a bang instead of a whimper.

March 18: Spot, Cocker Spaniel, Nick

Billy's home was empty.  His daughter Barbara was about to get married, and she and his wife had gone downstairs to pick out patterns for her crystal and silverware.  There was a note saying so on the table.  There were no servants.  People just weren't interested in careers in domestic service anymore.  There wasn't a dog, either. 

There used to be a dog named Spot, but he died.  So it goes.  Billy had liked Spot a lot, and Spot had liked him.

I had a dog once, like Billy.  A crazy Cocker Spaniel named Nick.  He was my wife's dog before we got married, and we inherited him.  Nick was not a well-behaved dog.  Protective.  Aggressive with strangers.  He would steal pizza off your plate and chew up shoes. 


Now, I know all of those things weren't Nick's fault.  He wasn't trained properly as a puppy, and that carried over into his doghood.  Nick could also be very loving.  Loved to sit in laps.  When I came home from work, he would wag his tail so hard that I thought he would helicopter away.

My wife and I had to make a difficult decision when my daughter was born.  Nick was fine when she was an infant and not mobile.  However, when she began to crawl and toddle, Nick got really nervous.  When she came into the room, Nick always eyed her suspiciously. I started having these dreams of Nick attacking my daughter.

Eventually, my wife and I decided to find Nick a new home.  We brought him to the Humane Society.  Told them that he would be a great dog for an older person, without small children in the house.  I petted Nick one last time.  Let him lick my face.  Then, I left.

I cried for an entire week. 

Now, I don't know to this day if we did the right thing.  My wife and I eventually found out that our daughter has severe allergies to animal hair and dander, so we would have eventually had to find Nick another home anyway.  But, every now and then, I think about him.

I imagine some older man picking him as a companion.  That he would go for long walks with the old man.  That he got fat because the old man fed him table scraps all the time.  That he would sleep at the foot of the old man's bed, snoring like he always did at night.

Saint Marty is thankful that he had a dog he liked once.  And that dog liked him.