Wheezing and Ticking

AUTUMN POEM  by Mary Oliver

In the last jovial, clear-sky days of autumn
the mockingbird
in his monk-gray coat
and his arrowy wings
flies

from the hedge to the top of the pine
and begins to sing — but it's neither loose, nor lilting, nor lovely —
it's more like whistles and truck brakes and dry hinges.

All birds are birds of heaven
but this one, especially, adores the earth so well
he would imitate, for half the day and on into the evening,

its ticks and wheezings,
and so I have to wait a long time
for the soft, true voice
of his own glossy life

to come through,
and of course I do.
I don't know what it is that makes him, finally, look
inward

to the sweet spring of himself, that mirror of heaven,
but when it happens —
when he lifts his head
and the feathers of his throat tremble,

and he begins, like Saint Francis,
little flutterings and leapings from the pine's forelock,
resettling his strong feet each time among the branches,
I am recalled,

from so many wrong paths I can't count them,
simply to stand, and listen.
All my life I have lived in a kind of haste and darkness
of desire, ambition, accomplishment.

Now the bird is singing, but not anymore of this world.
And something inside myself is fluttering and leaping, is trying

to type it down, in lumped-up language,
in outcry, in patience, in music, in a snow-white book.

Statue of Diana in the garden at Hillwood

I've always loved this particular fall poem by Mary Oliver.  I think it may even be the first of her poems I ever read.  It is certainly the one to which I most often return most often, and each time it greets me like a wise, old friend who  always has just the right words of advice or encouragement. 

The past several days I've been struggling with my writing-- feeling very much like it's all wheezing and dry hinges.   I've been looking for things to grease the wheels of my imagination.  A Friday wander around Hillwood helped a bit, as did being outside raking leaves in the sunshine for several hours over the weekend.  This afternoon I have a massage scheduled, which always helps loosen words and ideas knotted in my brain as well as my muscles.

But what I realize I need to do after reading Mary Oliver's poem this morning is to look inward, re-settle myself and then trust the true voice of my own glossy life to come through on the page . . .