HOLY WATER

HOLY WATER

SUZANNE CLEARY

In January of this year I had the good fortune to meet poet Suzanne Cleary, who teaches in the low residency Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing at Converse College.   I had known of Suzanne's work earlier, but being a Visiting Writer during this winter's residency gave me the opportunity to get to know her personally, if only for a little while.  Her warmth, her intelligence, and her obvious engagement with the students in the MFA program impressed me. And, of course, her poetry.  A couple of weeks after my visit, she sent me a signed copy of her latest book, Beauty Mark,  from BkMk Press.

Dorianne Laux, of  the Creative Writing department  at NC State, has  described Suzanne's work  as reflecting "a keen and sensitive mind, her images gleaned from the tangible world. " This is undeniably true, so trying to select only one poem to feature on this blog has been difficult.   Nevertheless, onsidering that today is Good Friday, with Easter Sunday a mere hours away, no poem has resonated as strongly for me right now as the one titled Holy Water.  "God," she declares,  through her grandmother's small vial of  holy water, has been transformed into "something close, and ordinary,/ and simple, and here."  The concluding descriptives overflow, like  water itself, spilling into the all-important "here."  As Richard Wilbur once wrote, "Love  calls us to the things of this world."  And isn't "God" nothing less than love?   On this holy weekend, I hope we can find that love in the smallest, most everyday things,  "a little pocket of heaven" in a hairbrush resting  on the dressing table, a stray sock, the smell of clean towels, the first stroke of light on the bedroom wall come Easter morning.

HOLY WATER

At Easter every year

the priest poured a small vial of it

for each family in the parish

my grandmother pouring hers

into a silvery blue font

inside her bedroom door

a little pocket of Heaven

into which she dipped her hand

each time she entered the room

touching just her fingertips

to the ordinary water

blessed by the priest

and surely blessed also

by my grandmother

as she took the water

to her forehead and to her heart

and then to each shoulder

of her plaid housedress

then pressed her fingertips

to her mouth

for a quick kiss

never stopping, never breaking her stride

as she balanced a pile of folded towels

or swept my grandfather's slippers

to their place beside the bed,

or gave me the fancy hairbrush

she kept on top of the bureau

my grandmother never wondering, it seemed,

what miracle had transpired

to make the water holy

perhaps her wonder taken entirely

by the powdery smell of the towels

or the clean scent of my hair

but that would be to doubt

the capacity of my grandmother

for wonder, for love,

for love and wonder are the same thing,

what the priest felt, I believe,

as he held his hands above the water

and felt the transformation

from the tips of his fingers

and all down his arms

as the water changed God

into something close, and ordinary,

and simple, and here.


Suzanne Cleary,  from Beauty Mark, BkMk Press, 2013

Visit Suzanne's website at suzanneclearypoet.com

SLEEPING IN THE FOREST, STUDENT PROMPT # 5

AS WE DRAW CLOSER TO THE APRIL 1 DEADLINE FOR THE GREENING UP THE MOUNTAINS POETRY CONTEST, I'D LIKE TO SHARE ONE OF MY FAVORITE POEMS BY THE POET MARY OLIVER.  SHE HAS WON BOTH THE PULITZER PRIZE AND THE NATIONAL BOOK AWARD FOR HER WORK.  SHE VISITED WCU QUITE A FEW YEARS AGO TO READ AND VISIT CLASSES.

I'VE ALWAYS LOVED TO CAMP, WATCHING THE FIRE DIE OUT, CRAWLING INTO OUR TENT, AND LISTENING TO THE FOREST SOUNDS AROUND ME (IF THE NEARBY CAMPERS ARE NOT PLAYING THEIR MUSIC TOO LOUD!)  BEFORE I FELL ASLEEP.

 ONCE A MOTHER BEAR AND HER TWO CUBS WOKE US UP, AND THAT WAS NOT A PEACEFUL EXPERIENCE.  THE TENT WAS SHAKING, THE BEARS WERE GRUNTING AND SNUFFLING. NEXT MORNING, OUR NEIGHBOR TOLD US THAT THE MOTHER HAD CLIMBED UP ON HIS MOTOR CYCLE AND LOOKED AS IF SHE WAS GETTING READY TO ROAR OFF.

TRY TO CALL UP SOME OF YOUR SENSORY EXPERIENCES WHILE SLEEPING OUTSIDE, WHETHER IN YOUR BACKYARD OR AT A CAMPGROUND.  WHAT DOES IT FEEL LIKE TO SLEEP ON THE EARTH, WHAT SORTS OF THOUGHTS DO YOU HAVE? DO THEY FLOAT LIGHT AS MOTHS, AS OLIVER WRITES, OR DO THEY SKITTER AROUND LIKE MOSQUITOES?  OR HAUNT YOU, LIKE THE HOOT OF AN OWL?  WHAT DO YOU HEAR?  WHAT DO YOU SMELL?  IS THERE A CREEK NEARBY?  CAN YOU HEAR THUNDER?  OR RAIN?

THEN WRITE YOUR OWN POEM ABOUT SLEEPING IN THE FOREST, RIGHT HERE IN OUR BLUE RIDGE MOUNTAINS.  

Sleeping in the Forest 

I thought the earth remembered me,

she took me back so tenderly,

arranging her dark skirts, her pockets

full of lichens and seeds.

I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,

nothing between me and the white fire of the stars

but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths

among the branches of the perfect trees.

All night I heard the small kingdoms

breathing around me, the insects,

and the birds who do their work in the darkness.

All night I rose and fell, as if in water,

grappling with a luminous doom. By morning

I had vanished at least a dozen times

into something better.

from Sleeping In The Forest by Mary Oliver 

© Mary Oliver