Spent the day reading through the many books of Mary Oliver poetry I have, looking for choice poems to read at my workshop tomorrow. Seems like the appropriate way to honor the passing of this fine poet. Found myself surprised by how long I've been a fan and then remembered writing a poem in 2006 that included her. Here it is:
LUNCH WITH MARY OLIVER
Two hours of cycling through the
fog,
Winding through the hills of Marin
Just at the Larkspur border,
The sun emerged.
Perfect for my sidewalk lunch at
the Left Bank café.
I quickly ordered my meal
and browsed through a new book of
poems
by Mary Oliver.
How happy I was, edging to the
state of gratitude that Ms. Oliver
sings so constantly and eloquently.
And it was just at that moment of
euphoria, just as I was nodding in
agreement with her praise of the
world,
that
my ear caught the voice
of the woman at the table next to
mine
dining with her
two friends.
She was telling them about her
Pilates workout
And her friend who
sailed to Costa Rica
And
the new insulation in her house.
And on she went,
and
on,
and
on,
like an out-of-tune oboe
circular
breathing through a themeless melody.
My iced tea arrived and she had yet
to take even an 8th note rest in her Symphony of
Small Talk.
Then came my hearty whole wheat
bread appetizer
and her friends had still not
gotten a word in edgewise,
sideways
or
through the back
door.
The waiter brought my Jacques Pépin
roasted eggplant sandwich and the
Vapid Wagnerian Opera about Nothing
droned on with nary a change in chord.
My French Fries served vertically
in a coned napkin were powerless to stop her
And by the iced tea refill,
still not a hint of a cadence.
How I wanted to shout, “NOBODY
CARES ABOUT
YOUR FUCKIN’ INSULATION!!!”
like a thunderous
timpani
announcing
the final chords
of a concert that never should have
been.
But instead, I just finished the
last leaf of arugula on my plate
and stared at the empty chair
opposite me,
wondering
what it would be like
if Mary Oliver was sitting there
having lunch with me.
what kind of conversation we would
have.
And how she would react to this
radio tuned to the wrong frequency.
I pictured her eating thoughtfully
and then looking up with a wide grin and announcing,
“Just listen to the rustle of those
eucalyptus leaves in the wind.”
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