Poetic lives and brushes

Do you need a little darkness to get you going?
Let me be urgent as a knife, then...

As you may know, poet Mary Oliver recently passed away, and while I did not know her work while she was alive, I am grateful to have read her verses as they have popped up in the media and on NPR. One is easily inspired to read more of her poetry, as her refreshing love for words and her in-tuneness with nature is refreshing and delightful, as sensed in poems like this:

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?

And then, the next poem, her four-poem series on her brush with death/cancer, strikes a nerve with me as I recently was at the Cancer Center and was told that they cannot tell me if I will have cancer or not--something I knew but only know the more I read. There has been a lot going on with the discovery of certain things that other FAP patients have had happen, things shared on our forum, and the growing concern over the polyps I actually have is... deafening at times. But then I read this poem, and I understand the overtones of grief AND hopefulness. 

But still... cancer has taken many great people, one of which was my aunt, for a sole example. Mary Oliver beat lung cancer: "It feels like death has left its calling card" and though she survived she was "all the same, kind of shocked." Having had a similar experience in beating cancer, in a way, I appreciate her words. It's hard to speak of, and that is perhaps why it is so important that cancer patients share their story if they wish--first because it is therapeutic. 

I would contend that the arts, literature, music--not to mention chanting hare krishna hare krishna--are the best for any patient, as it helps us look beyond the material, the terminal, the fatalism, the fear, and to hear something else. One can reflect on the end of life with writers and poets. With artists and musicians and good huggers. 

You can also listen to an interview with Mary Oliver as she talks about her cancer episode and reads the following poems aloud:

The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac

by Mary Oliver

1.
Why should I have been surprised?
Hunters walk the forest

without a sound.

The hunter, strapped to his rifle,

the fox on his feet of silk,
the serpent on his empire of muscles—
all move in a stillness,
hungry, careful, intent.
Just as the cancer
entered the forest of my body,
without a sound.

2.

The question is,

what will it be like

after the last day?

Will I float

into the sky

or will I fray

within the earth or a river—

remembering nothing?

How desperate I would be

if I couldn’t remember

the sun rising, if I couldn’t

remember trees, rivers; if I couldn’t

even remember, beloved,

your beloved name.

3.

I know, you never intended to be in this world.

But you’re in it all the same.

so why not get started immediately.

I mean, belonging to it.

There is so much to admire, to weep over.

And to write music or poems about.

Bless the feet that take you to and fro.

Bless the eyes and the listening ears.

Bless the tongue, the marvel of taste.

Bless touching.

You could live a hundred years, it’s happened.

Or not.

I am speaking from the fortunate platform

of many years,

none of which, I think, I ever wasted.

Do you need a prod?

Do you need a little darkness to get you going?

Let me be urgent as a knife, then,

and remind you of Keats,

so single of purpose and thinking, for a while,

he had a lifetime.

4.

Late yesterday afternoon, in the heat,

all the fragile blue flowers in bloom

in the shrubs in the yard next door had

tumbled from the shrubs and lay

wrinkled and fading in the grass. But

this morning the shrubs were full of

the blue flowers again. There wasn’t

a single one on the grass. How, I

wondered, did they roll back up to

the branches, that fiercely wanting,

as we all do, just a little more of 

life?

The dash between the opening and closing dates of her life is a deeply poetic one. She seems to have gracefully lived up to her goal in life, a beautiful sentiment that she phrased so wonderfully: "When it's over, I want to say all my life/ I was a bride married to amazement." This quote is an invigorating source of inspiration, if recalled daily--and the world needs more of this perspective.

And to my dear aunt Robin, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your arm around my shoulder the other night. I thank you for the example of strength and the model of a courageous mother that you continue to be to me.

Thank you for your shining love, a bright star listening in on it all.