My Mary Oliver Moment

It seems weird to be writing this post to go live two days after my carpal tunnel and trigger thumb surgeries but it's on my dominant hand and it will be out of commission with a splint on it for a week. The problem with writing ahead is that I generally have to wait for more ‘life’ to happen for me to have anything to write about. I need at least a spark---a tidbit in a conversation, some quality people watching---to inspire a post. And as a secondary excuse, I’ve been sidetracked trying my hand at writing poetry and reading Mary Oliver books. She’s immensely popular and, to be honest, I can’t figure out why precisely. Poetry is a tough genre to make a name in and she’s managing to make it to the top of the modern heap. 

When I was a teenager I wrote long poems mostly about unrequited love and they were all rhyming verses with meter and metaphors. My very first attempt at writing a poem was for a high school assignment. It’s documented in an early 1950s diary and starts out, “Oh, how I hate to sit at home and rack my brain to write a poem.” One of the first poems I remember studying in school was Robert Frost’s Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. It’s included in Mary Oliver’s book, A Poetry Handbook. Here’s some gobbly-goop she says about that classic poem: “The initial four lines are rife with w’s and th’s; f is there and v. Three sets of double ll’s. The heaviness of the vowels is increased by the use of diphthongs.” Blab, blab blab. It’s too deep in the language weeds for me and it’s hurting my head to break down Frost’s poem into mutes and semivowels the way Mary does. 

Frost:

Whose woods these are I think I know

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

to watch his woods fill up with snow.

 

Me:

 

Oh, how I dearly hate to sit at home

learning the proper way to write a poem.

Even with Mary Oliver trying to teach me

I am like a blue bottle tossed out to sea

bobbing one way on the waves, then another 

as I recall the poems written by my brother.

My brother really could write heart-felt poetry and I don’t know where he got that ability or the desire to create them. He wasn’t the best student in high school---had the brains but he was more into  cars and girls instead of English Literature. And I’ve never known him to be much of a reader over the years. It wasn’t until the ‘80s when I got the rude awakening that he could write better poems than me. I was working on a family history book and had asked everyone in the family to submit something I could include…poems, essays, photos, special memories, recipes, answers to a questionnaire. That request revealed a lot of hidden talent. Both of my nieces sent me poems and one of their husbands did, my brother too, even my dad recited a poem on a cassette tape he wrote in the third grade. It was printed in his hometown newspaper where they called him the new Longfellow. We ended up with twenty poems and only four were written by me and I can honesty say my brother’s blew mine out of the water---thus the metaphorical bobbing in the waves (above).

From my superficial and extremely brief research I learned that poetry has been around in the spoken form since the twelfth century and much earlier in the form of verses sung to tell stories with its humble beginnings in ritual and religious chants. I have no trouble visualizing roaming bands of troubadours discovering words that rhyme and pleased the ear could bring more coins into their purses. I have no trouble visualizing monks doing their lovely chanting and receiving food offerings in their 'begging bowls.' Considering that music is universal in all cultures it safe to say that free verse and poetry is innate in all of us. In other words, we all could write it if we set our minds to do it, especial the newer free verse style where if there are any rules I haven't found them. Yet. It might not be good poetry but if we write about love, loss and life experiences other readers will find their stories in our words. If nothing else it’s good exercise for the brain to try to be our own versions of Mary Oliver. Or we'd accidentally write a few good old country western songs.

And guess what, I just finished writing a generic post for the week when I’ll be recovering from my trigger thumb and carpal tunnel surgeries. The eighth was the big day.  I'll try to update you in the comment section, should anyone leave one. ©