Say Something Real

Words are hard to get away from. Try it sometime. Try escaping words in print - texting, twittering, blogging, e-mails, books, signs, recipes - and then go one further and try to get away from the spoken word, such as t.v., cell phones, etc. Hard, huh? I love words, but sometimes my brain tires. But it tires of a specific kind of communication, the kind used to persuade, to flatter, to bully, to confuse. Oh, how I tire. When my mind starts to feel seeped in toxic verbiage, I grab my slim volumes of poetry.

A good poet uses a minimum amount of choice words to convey a succinct thought, image, emotion. And yet she may allude to layers of meaning, leaving it to the reader to delve in and explore. For me, most of the poets I love provide a space for meditation. They quiet my mind. An image is left for my mind to dwell in for a time. Usually, the image defies the mundane of my life, the laundry piles and oil changes, and encourages me to be observant. So much beauty in a single day that is lost to the routine of our lives!

Mary Oliver is one of my favorites. A Pulitzer poet from Provincetown, Massachusetts, her poetry leans towards simple images of nature; images that are familiar to me and remind me of home. But they also encourage observance. Here is an example of one of my favorite poems authored by dear Mary. Someday, I'll thank her for the gift of sharing all these lovely thoughts; it has made my mind a richer place.

Little Owl Who Lives In The Orchard

His beak could open a bottle,
and his eyes - when he lifts their soft lids -
go on reading something
just beyond your shoulder -
Blake, maybe,
or the Book of Revelation.

Never mind that he eats only
the black-smocked crickets,
and dragonflies if they happen
to be out late over the ponds, and of course
the occasional festal mouse.
Never mind that he is only a memo
from the offices of fear -

it's not size but surge that tells us
when we're in touch with something real,
and when I hear him in the orchard
fluttering
down the little aluminum
ladder of his scream -
when I see his wings open, like two black ferns,

a flurry of palpitations
as cold as sleet
rackets across the marshlands
of my heart,
like a wild spring day.

Somewhere in the universe,
in the gallery of important things,
the babyish owl, ruffled and rakish,
sits on its pedestal.
Dear, dark, dapple of plush!
A message, reads the label,
from that mysterious conglomerate:
Oblivion and Co.
The hooked head stares
from its blouse of dark, feathery lace.
It could be a valentine.

Mary Oliver

I love this part - "it's not size but surge that tells us/when we're in touch with something real." See? These words, so thoughtful, restore a mind blighted by the craziness of modern living. I want my mind to dwell in the "something real."



Dear friend, if you read poetry, who do you especially love?