Will Satcher
Mrs. Bosch
English 10 Honors
April 13, 2007
The Flowing Poet
Many modern poets use multiple literary devices in their work. Some of the most commonly used devices are similes and metaphors, which can be used to represent a feeling or express an image. Writers of poetry use these to express feelings, display childhood events, etc. One such writer is S. Donovan Mullaney, a poet who introduces himself into a wide variety of activities and writing styles. He bears a rough past, disgraced earlier in life because of his apparent homosexuality, and seems to believe that man is only free in death and understands the belief that if a man does not make his mark, he will never be remembered, yet shows a contradictory stance that everyone leaves behind memories. Overall, he is a poet of wide varieties and uses many symbols to represent eccentric feelings and beliefs in powerful senses of literature.
Born in Plymouth, Massachusetts, Mullaney was meant to be a poet even as a child, because “finding words to illustrate every situation or emotion has been his calling from an early age—from his first haiku written at age six.” (MJS Publishing) He grew up under the suppression of family, mostly his father, mentioning that he did not want a “scarecrow son,” which seems to mean a homosexual offspring. Blood and Leaves, written by Mullaney in spirit of a gay pride march, displays the result of his oppressed upbringing-
I.
Towers collapse and there's not enough
blood to cover everyone.
He approaches the blood-letters
with arms bared, his closet clean.
He's ready to spill,
but he can't bleed
for them.
II.
Love comes free, even for those
who break our scarecrow and hang him
on a morning fence--look, a savior!
Another restless mother comes up from sleep
to reach for her children's safety.
Parents are glad he's not their son.
No one loves a scarecrow
the way crows do, sacrifice
that gives them voice again.
Law-holders shiver when they turn the leaves
to see this version of love underneath them,
spreading, sure of air
come May.
IV.
We wake naked today;
our closets are full of clothes
we never thought we'd wear,
and we're ready for the leaves.
The blood in our bare arms knows
love's without version. (Mullaney)
By stating that nobody wants a scarecrow child, he means that none want a homosexual son. It would seem that the crows are those who make fun of him for being who he is, believing and making him believe that he has no brain (in relation to the scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz). Only some are brave enough to show who they truly are and he is one of these few, his closet clean, waking naked.
Since his days as a poet began, he has published three titles, his most prominent of them being Follow the Wolf Moon, a collection of his poetry emphasizing his thoughts on all things. In some of his poems Mullaney demonstrates a belief that man is only free in death. “Ballad of a Haunted Oak” projects this theme vividly. However, it may be in a more political sense; the doctor, judge, and minister representing different branches of government, yet with the mention of a minister it may in fact be on religious thoughts.
Ballad of a Haunted Oak
So bare, so bare, is the old oak tree;
so bare, is the old oak tree.
It's dried and dead; it’s burned with dread.
where a guiltless man swung free.
And when I go through the shade it throws,
a shudder runs over me.
They charged him with the old, old crime.
They set him fast in their jail.
How the dogs howl all night long,
and how the night wind wails.
The judge wore a mask of black;
the doctor wore one of white.
The minister brought his oldest son
to witness justice that night.
They ride, they ride, over a moonlit road;
they're haulin’ a shameful load.
Their rope is long; their minds are wrong,
and the lies they tell are bold.
Laughter low in lying throats,
and their hearts are moonlight cold.
They left only the tree to hear his last sigh,
to shake with his gurgling moan,
to tremble as they rode on by
and left him a-swingin’ alone.
So bare, so bare is the old oak tree;
so bare is the old oak tree.
It's dried and dead; it’s burned with dread
where a guiltless man swung free.
And when I go through the shade it throws,
a shudder runs over me.
The rope runs against the moonlit trunk;
it creaks under the strain.
In the final throe of an innocent's woe
the tree feels its own last pain.
Dead man, free man, I promise you now
that after a little space,
time will come when these men shall dread
the mem'ry of your face.
So bare, so bare is the old oak tree;
so bare is the old oak tree.
It's dried and dead; it’s burned with dread
where a guiltless man swung free
from the bough of a haunted tree.
And when I go through the shade it throws,
a shudder runs over me. (Mullaney)
Mullaney isn’t exactly sure completely what his poems are about, however, nor are many others. He has perplexed even himself. Perhaps the old oak is freedom and the minister religion, the doctor business, and the judge government. Perhaps the guiltless man is an artist or a poet. Or perchance he is suppressed man wishing to break free. Emotions flow through and when the right feeling hits, like any poet, the words just flow onto the paper. Truly, Mullaney is a “lot of things, I guess, but mostly I'm confused. I prefer to let my writing speak for me.” (S. Mullaney, Blog) Indeed, a confused soul, but all the better for a true poet.
Writers such as TS Eliot, Joyce Peseroff, Lloyd Schwartz, Elizabeth Bishop, Charles de Lint, and Frank Herbert have influenced Mullaney. He is also a graphic artist and musician. Some of his poetry and music is written about his feelings toward his family. One of the more famous pieces by Mullaney shows that he comprehends the belief that if a man does not make his mark on this world, he will never be remembered, yet that he does not fully believe this as truth. In “Chief Sunday’s Squaw, it seems as though chief Sunday is his grandmother or some other relation. She helps keep the family alive even after death; she gives them something to think about, though she never actually did anything to mark the world, contradicting the initially perceived meaning of the poem. This concludes that there is a second possible meaning to the poem: that everyone leaves a mark, a memory on this Earth, some are simply larger than others.
"Get up, get up," said my mother, “Chief Sunday's
Squaw is dead. Dig a hole in the yard.”
Tuesday morning we buried the llama.
I couldn’t close Sunday’s eyes all the way,
but three tugs softened her death stare.
A final shearing so mother could make a scarf
for my stepfather: “She’ll keep him warm when
chemotherapy makes him cold.”
Standing on the grave, I thought: the ground
doesn’t exist—just small particles suspended
in a galaxy of space, behaving as if they relate.
A scientist put an electron in a magnetic box
and split it into two protons, which he separated.
Apart, each kept circling, acting as though they were still
attached, still one thing.
Like my grandmother and her twin
sister, who would travel 2000 miles and arrive
wearing the same outfit in different colors.
I’ve stood on their graves too—
six feet below protons I once revolved around,
from “cuchy-coo” to “This time I won’t
pull through.” They’re gone; I’m already going.
Eighteen-thousand-dollar porcelain teeth
are all that will be left of me.
Sunday gave my stepfather a scarf, my mother a purpose
in the morning, me words that will last as long as paper,
or as long as bytes on my hard-drive remember
to stick together.
Emily Dickinson burned in private,
eighteen-hundred poems strong. Who knew?
Except death and those who stopped for her
after him. And now the rest of us.
Perhaps what she wrote
was a kind of karmic record—
God’s or Dharma’s uncrashable, impervious
read-only memory.
We’ll plant an oak tree over Sunday. When it falls,
the vibration will have to pass an eardrum
to become a sound. Otherwise, it just falls. (Mullaney)
One can plainly see how this poem is contradictory, regarding the mother’s thoughts versus the last three lines of the poem. However, the theme may indeed be that all should leave a mark for others, even just one person. One should be known and influence at least a few lives in the course of life. Yes, possibly we all leave our own individual mark on this Earth, and that is what Mullaney is trying to teach us.
A man of the arts, Mullaney is a favorite in the MJS Publishing Group. His work is not well known, though he is a rising poet. The lessons that Mullaney’s poetry teaches are valuable ones; to cherish the time one has, to find happiness, and to be yourself, no matter what others say or think. If all mankind could stop and read a little poetry, perhaps they would find the true greatness in just cherishing life.
Work Cited
Follow the Wolf Moos by S. Donovan Mullaney. 2006 MJS Publishing Group, LLC. 950 6th Street, Del Norte, CO 81132. April 13, 2007.
S. Donovan Mullaney (Author) on Authorsden.com. April 13, 2007.
Soul Meets Blog. January 2006. April 13, 2007.