Poem- Thank You, Mary Oliver

I've been wanting to share a number of "older" poems from the last few years.  This one, in response to the poetry of Mary Oliver, was finished a few months ago, but started in late 2012.

I like Mary Oliver, but I'm not a "fan" or anything.  I've read her work, and own a book.  Her words are worth reading and giving your time to.  But a year or so ago, she spoke in SF at the Arts Center.  They broadcast it on NPR.  I hadn't written much for over a year at the time, and felt very dry creatively.  I was driving home in the dark, I'm not sure why or from where, but you could hear her coming on stage.  Her voice was old but steady.  She read some poems and spoke, and she gave, in speaking, each word the kind of respect that's heartening to hear.  And something sort of woke up in me.  I sat in the driveway in the car,  in the dark, and listened and listened until my throat was full.


Thank you, Mary Oliver



Those words were dead
when I found them in your dark pond.
I listened to you
pull them from the water.  They glistened
like seal skin or trout
in the moonlight, as you lay their bodies
on the sand.

Thank you Mary Oliver.
You did not bow to the twig,
but embraced it.  Americans
don’t like bowing, but are game for a good conversation.
You conversed with the twig
as it hatched the morning
from its calloused spindles.

Mary Oliver, you
had a kind of cadence
I agreed with. 
Where words have hands
and are used for lifting.
You weren’t afraid of silence,
or that the smooth gun metal chain might break.

You laid your hands upon the fish, no fuss,
and words began to slap against the peppered sand.
Eager for the baptism, you barely had to help them
scootch from the shore.  I liked that— no fuss
about the word laid sideways
in the service of life.  So thank you, Mary Oliver,
for the smell of tadpoles and the rippled ink.



9/6/12

Poem- Folding Clothes

I wrote a new poem last and thought I'd share it.  It was a quiet afternoon and I had chores to do. Kat was out with Tasha.  So I sat down to fold.  I could hear a neighbor working on something with a hammer.  There was someone else listening to a Spanish pop-song on a radio.  Everything felt sort of pleasantly peaceful and not-too-close.  I like some of Emily Dickinson's poems, where she's engaged in trivial, day to day activities and observations.  I like that sort of attentiveness.  I like to imagine someone far away or in the future reading it and wondering "What was daily life like in the early 21st century in the US?  Were they just like us?"  I've written a poem about cooking muffins before, to give an example, and have often thought a sort of Ode to the Ladle would be fun and informative to write.  Anyways, here's this one.

Folding Clothes

I like folding clothes

when the house is quiet

and the windows open.

I tuck the pockets in first, for the pants.

Then I fold them in quarters, tugging at the seams.

The towels I fold in thirds

like my father taught me,

the shorts in half .  The bras

I fold cup into cup, with the straps bundled inside

like a bowl of noodles.  The socks—

I separate them and match at the end, like my mother.

I match

 seam to seam.

I tuck the arms in.

I drape them properly on my lap.

I fold them in half, then half again,

            so they’ll fit in the drawers.

I pull the folds tight, and I place them in their pile.

You can get into a rhythm,

if you’re careful and quiet,

            much like the drapes,

                                                billowing and receding,

that sigh now

against the wood like waves.

9/22/13

Poetry- Weight

I wrote this last month and wanted to share it.  It's been a long quite winter in regards to poetry, after such a flurry in the summer and early fall.  Lots of painting though.  :)

Weight

I know you want to do something true, honest.

That you want to make beautiful things, as real as a boot

falling from a chair,

or a bullet of resin embracing a pinecone, or a vase being filled with water,

but I would ask you

to wait, to not try and be

a vase filling up with water, to not

try and be resin sticking to a finger, to not

try and make a boot be supple.

To float a bit, to be at ease

with not-waiting.

Don’t worry.  The words will come.

And the words will give you weight.

Poetry- Boots

Boots

I wanted to wear the boots,

but I did not want them to be

a fashion statement.  I wanted to earn them, to be the kind of person

that wore those boots.

So I tried them on.  To see how they felt.

My mother liked men who wore boots like that.

And I liked my mother.  I felt

strong,

useful—  I thought

“A person who wears boots like these ought

to feel at ease with a hammer.”

So I got the boots.  And I got a hammer.

I wanted to be the kind of useful person

who would need a hammer.

I wore the boots

to do

true things—  clean gardens,

and plant seedlings,

and water young shrubs.  To build things.  I remembered my father

with his new boots.  He polished them.  Gave them oil.

He was very proud of those boots!

And I wanted to be proud of my boots too.

I wore those boots

until there were holes in them.

There was a kind of pride in wearing used up boots. 

I was given

the blessing of nature, of necessity,

of use

to buy new ones.

Now, I know I’m going to work

when I pull my boots out. 

And those who pay me

expect

a certain kind of shoe to be worn.  I told my wife,

“It’s like a uniform you have to wear.”

Then I recognized

that I did not want to where these boots every day.  I wanted to be free

from having to wear boots.  That there was a pleasure

in air

playing with your feet.  But, by then it felt strange

not to wear them.

Poetry- Coyote

Coyote

This table likes to wobble, and so

does the chair.  Hard to keep a sense

of focus

or balance.  I stop thinking about typing

and start paying attention

to gravity,

what an axis is, to the flute crying

of a coyote

slivering over these moonlight slopes.  I keep trying to fix it,

looking underneath, wiggling things— I want a good footing, but it’s a no go,

and the coyote, I didn’t know,

they make this sound,

a hollowing out that requires a moon.  It’s some sort

of deformed magic, or perhaps it is the floor,

or me…

for it does not shake

until I sit in it.  I decide to write after all— the birth

of dance rambles

up from the floor.  I ride it

as the heaving leads to words.

Poetry- The Puddle

The Puddle

It’d been a while

since I came out.

On my own.

The others

had come and gone, and I felt that itch

to use my body for a time

and hear the bristles of grass crackle like fire beneath my feet. 

So I went on my own again.

I was thinking about being acted upon,

            by the heat,

            glare,

and other representations of grace,

when I came upon a broken pipe.

I’ve never seen a spring, though I’ve often thought

it might look something like this— unannounced,

wedging itself into world

without an apology.  The stream of water

burbled out

and waddled its way over to a puddle.  The birds were having a grand time.

They couldn’t care less

about definitions of nature and society. 

I scared them off

with my approach.  But that sounds more active than it was.  More

that I arrived, and they happened to depart

in a similar proximity. 

The butterfly didn’t seem to mind me too much though.

I decided to take off my flip flops,

and roll up my pants, and wade through. 

If it was good enough for the birds, and babies,

and blades of grass,

then it was probably good enough for me too.

It was soft, the soil, and gave itself to my weight

with a good-natured ease that surprised me.  Not a single complaint.

It’s a good thing

to hear water on a hot day!  I climbed the fence barefoot

and tread through the wet grass. I turned

and saw a sheet of sky

reflected in the grass.  Nice, to see those two

holding hands again.  The frogs, those oracles of blessed dissonance,

where the two seams meet they will be loud there tonight,

and I like the idea

that one of them might find some respite

in the puddle of my footprint.