Category: mary monday

  • Corona Diary: Mary Monday

    SIP Day 38, wearing a navy blue cotton sundress, writing from my home office; 80 degrees outside today

    Many years ago, when I was an avid blogger, I would share or link to poetry on Mondays. I can’t remember exactly how this began, but it came from my love of Mary Oliver’s poetry and so I called this weekly feature “Mary Monday.”

    Since I began blogging two decades ago, I have all-but-lapsed the past few years, posting only once or twice per year, when I used to post twice per day (generally one text post, one photo post). It feels right to pick up this practice again now, if only in some small effort to document my daily tasks/thoughts/work/reveries. Also, in the past 10 years WordPress has changed significantly, and it seems a worthy project to teach myself how to use the new editor.

    Previous Mary Monday posts

    So true to the roots of Mary Monday, you might consider spending some time with poet Mary Oliver today, being interviewed about her craft, and specifically, about her mornings:

    And below is a bit of a Mary Oliver poem that resonates specifically with me, as she seems to be imagining herself becoming a fish or a mermaid, or remembering some past primordial self where she was a creature of the water:

    An excerpt from The Sea, by Mary Oliver

    Stroke by
    stroke my
    body remembers that life and cries for
    the lost parts of itself–
    fins, gills
    opening like flowers into
    the flesh–my legs
    want to lock and become
    one muscle, I swear I know
    just what the blue-gray scales
    shingling
    the rest of me would
    feel like!

  • close as two pages…

    Because I do like me some book-ish poetry…

    Untitled
    by Elizabeth Bishop

    Close close all night
    the lovers keep.
    They turn together
    in their sleep,

    close as two pages
    in a book
    that read each other
    in the dark.

    Each knows all
    the other knows,
    learned by heart
    from head to toes.

     

    books on my desk
    A few of the books that are regularly stacked on my desk at home…

  • resolved #2, 2015

    This photo has nothing whatsoever to do with poetry. It's a snap of the kids sitting on the back porch in the sunshine over the holidays.
    This photo has nothing whatsoever to do with poetry. It’s a snap of the kids sitting on the back porch in the sunshine over the holidays.   :)

    For those of you who are longtime readers of my blog, you know that I have a certain fascination with poetry.  At times I’ve penned a bit of poetry for this space and have often linked to, or included poetry in my posts.

    Why poetry?  I’m not sure, but I think it has something to do with the chewiness and brevity of a poem.  It does so much work in so little space.  This appeals to the minimalist in me.

    So as a way to include my poetry in my year, I resolved to listen to The Writer’s Almanac podcast each morning as I sit down to breakfast.  I must say that it’s great to start the day with beautiful words.

  • Mary Monday: an interview about prayer and other morning rituals

    Getting Monday off to a great start with “A Thousand Mornings” by Mary Oliver:

    How are you starting your week?

  • Mary Monday: renewal

    Returning to my “Mary Monday” poetry series, from oh-so-long ago….

    How I wish that I’d read this poem before I spent three hours at the DMV last week, getting my stolen Driver’s License replaced:

    (from the Writer’s Almanac):

    Renewal

    by Jeffrey Harrison

    At the Department of Motor Vehicles
    to renew my driver’s license, I had to wait
    two hours on one of those wooden benches
    like pews in the church of Latter Day
    Meaninglessness, where there is no
    stained glass (no windows at all, in fact),
    no incense other than stale cigarette smoke
    emanating from the clothes of those around me,
    and no sermon, just an automated female voice
    calling numbers over a loudspeaker.
    And one by one the members of our sorry
    congregation shuffled meekly up to the pitted
    altar to have our vision tested or to seek
    redemption for whatever wrong turn we’d taken,
    or pay indulgences, or else be turned away
    as unworthy of piloting our own journey.
    But when I paused to look around, using my numbered
    ticket as a bookmark, it was as if the dim
    fluorescent light had been transformed
    to incandescence. The face of the Latino guy
    in a ripped black sweatshirt glowed with health,
    and I could tell that the sulking white girl
    accompanied by her mother was brimming
    with secret excitement to be getting her first license,
    already speeding down the highway, alone,
    with all the windows open, singing.

  • Have I not been ready…

    Have I not been ready…

    Today is a day for a poem. You know that kind of day…when morning comes while you’re standing stocking-footed in the garden and eating greek yogurt with toasted almonds and a sprinkle of nutmeg and realizing that the rosebushes in your backyard are covered with new buds (again).  And you can’t help but think that sometimes such beauty hurts just as much as it heals…

    From Mary Oliver’s “Am I Not Among the Early Risers”

    Here is an amazement–once I was twenty years old and in
    every motion of my body there was a delicious ease,
    and in every motion of the green earth there was
    a hint of paradise,
    and now I am [forty] years old, and it is the same.[..]

    I bow down.

    Have I not loved as though the beloved could vanish any moment,
    or become preoccupied, or whisper a name other than mine
    in the stretched curvatures of lust, or over the dinner table
    Have I ever taken good fortune for granted?

    Have I not, every spring, befriended the swarm that pours forth?
    Have I not summoned the honey-man to come, to hurry,
    to bring with him the white and comfortable hive?

    And, while I waited, have I not leaned close, to see everything?
    Have I not been stung as I watched their milling and gleaming,
    and stung hard?

    Have I not been ready at the iron door,
    not knowing to what country it opens–to death or to more life?

    Have I ever said that that the day was too hot or too cold
    or the night too long and as black as oil anyway,
    or the morning, washed blue and emptied entirely
    of the second-rate, less than happiness

    as I stepped down from the porch and set out along
    the green paths of the world?

  • swimming

    swimming

    This seems the perfect poem to ruminate on as I’m headed out the door for a morning swim (especially that last stanza).  There have been times in my life when swimming was the most important thing I could do–I’m thinking of the night after I learned that my father had terminal cancer.  I swam 100 laps then, despite being 8 months pregnant.  Swimming until I’d lost every ounce of strength left in me.  Because I thought I could swim away the hurt and the reality of what was happening…

    And one more thing: I’m looking for a local who’d like to do some ocean swimming with me. If you’re interested, drop me a line.

    The Swimming Lesson
    by Mary Oliver

    Feeling the icy kick, the endless waves
    Reaching around my life, I moved my arms
    And coughed, and in the end saw land.

    Somebody, I suppose,
    Remembering the medieval maxim,
    had tossed me in,
    Had wanted me to learn to swim,

    Not knowing that none of us, who ever came back
    From that long lonely fall and frenzied rising,
    Ever learned anything at all
    About swimming, but only
    How to put off, one by one,
    Dreams and pity, love and grace,–
    How to survive in any place.

  • when you hear that unmistakable pounding…

    when you hear that unmistakable pounding…

    IMG_5233

    West Wind #2

    You are young.
    So you know everything.
    You leap into the boat and begin rowing.
    But listen to me.
    Without fanfare, without embarrassment,
    without any doubt,
    I talk directly to your soul.
    Listen to me.
    Lift the oars from the water,
    let your arms rest,
    and your heart,
    and heart’s little intelligence,
    and listen to me.

    There is life without love. It is not worth a bent
    penny, or a scuffed shoe. It is not worth the body of a
    dead dog nine days unburied. When you hear, a mile
    away and still out of sight, the churn of the water
    as it begins to swirl and roil, fretting around the
    sharp rocks – when you hear that unmistakable
    pounding – when you feel the mist on your mouth
    and sense ahead the embattlement, the long falls
    plunging and steaming – then row, row for your life
    toward it.

    ~ Mary Oliver ~

  • sea-legs

    sea-legs

    reflection
    I went to the beach last week to chase the setting sun, but I was wearing my bionic leg so I couldn’t even dip in a toe to the water (for fear of shorting out my circuitry).  Such an ache I felt to leave leg and clothes in a heap on the beach and just swim…

    The Mary Oliver poem below, especially the first stanza, reminds me of the day a few years ago when I received the pathology pictures from the hospital where I had my cancer treatments–including the images of my amputated limb.  It was tougher than I thought it would be to look at those images, and afterwards I went for a long swim.  As I let the water support me I ‘felt’ my leg there with me, for the first time in a long while.  It was a powerful moment to reconnect with something that I’d lost and mourned for so many years, my body truly re-membering itself as I moved through the water…

    And this poem also reminds me of how I struggle against gravity, where every step can be a huge effort…and how I long for the ocean–knowing that at sea is where I feel more free and comfortable (and alive) than I ever do on land.

    The Sea
    by Mary Oliver

    Stroke by
    stroke my
    body remembers that life and cries for
    the lost parts of itself–

    fins, gills
    opening like flowers into
    the flesh–my legs
    want to lock and become
    one muscle, I swear I know
    just what the blue-gray scales
    shingling
    the rest of me would
    feel like!
    paradise! Sprawled
    in that motherlap,
    in that dreamhouse
    of salt and exercise,
    what a spillage
    of nostalgia pleads
    from the very bones! how
    they long to give up the long trek
    inland, the brittle
    beauty of understanding,
    and dive,
    and simply
    become again a flaming body
    of blind feeling
    sleeking along
    in the luminous roughage of the sea’s body,
    vanished
    like victory inside that
    insucking genesis, that
    roaring flamboyance, that
    perfect
    beginning and
    conclusion of our own.

  • Mary Monday: poetry in motion


    crane taking off from Spider Island at high tide, originally uploaded by pilgrimgirl.

    Spotted this crane heron while paddling on Saturday and was lucky enough to capture him just taking off (most likely my fault–my boat is nearly 20 ft long and the strong current was carrying me a wee bit close when I snapped this).

  • Mary Monday: Now or never!


    geraniums, originally uploaded by pilgrimgirl.

    Some salient thoughts from Thoreau:

    Take time by the forelock. Now or never!
    You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment. Fools stand on their island opportunities and look toward another land. There is no other land; there is no other life but this, or the like of this. Where the good husbandman is, there is the good soil. Take any other course, and life will be a succession of regrets. Let us see vessels sailing prosperously before the wind, and not simply stranded barks. There is no world for the penitent and regretful.

  • Mary Monday: Whom they souse

    [Shhhh…don’t tell anyone that I’m actually posting this one on Tuesday]
    Cape Cod
    My high school days were full of yearnings. Many of these were the typical yearnings of a teen: I wanted to achieve greatness and find my way in this big world. But some of these yearning were different, they were due to feeling trapped inside a body that yearned to move freely. Many of my dreams were about swimming…because water was the only place where I my body wasn’t hampered by gravity and a world made for bipedals.

    I joined my high school swim team so I had a good excuse to be in the water for two hours per day. I also got certified as a lifeguard so I could work as a canoe instructor at summer camps. I swam in our backyard pool often, loving to float on my back and feel the sun on my body.

    So when I fell in love with Whitman’s poetry I particularly loved his “Twenty-eight young men” poem. Of course I knew that it was highly sexually-charged (which also resonated with me on some levels*), but more than that, I knew the feelings of the woman at the window who was watching everyone else frolic and play as she stood by and watched. I knew what it was to spend my time imagining that I was joining in the fun, but was instead merely watching from behind the blinds.

    This poem came to mind earlier this week as I was paddling alone in the Back Bay. I started reciting it in my mind (having committed it to memory long ago). I smiled at the fact that I’m no longer standing by and longing to leap in the water. Having an amphibious prosthetic limb has made me able to move in and out of the water with ease.

    Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore,
    Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly;
    Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.
    She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank,
    She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window.
    Which of the young men does she like the best?
    Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.
    Where are you off to, lady? for I see you,
    You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.
    Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth bather,
    The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.
    The beards of the young men glisten’d with wet, it ran from their long hair,
    Little streams pass’d all over their bodies.
    An unseen hand also pass’d over their bodies,
    It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs.
    The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the sun,
    they do not ask who seizes fast to them,
    They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending arch,
    They do not think whom they souse with spray.

    –Walt Whitman, Song of Myself, sec 11 in Leaves of Grass bk ii (1855)


    *While I was looking for an electronic version of this poem, I happened upon this site, which pairs the poem with Eakins’ painting “The Swimming Hole.” John just happened to look over my shoulder at that very moment and got a good giggle out of my surreptitious viewing of nekkid men.

    Previous Mary Monday postings