(Image provided by DWB)
During the last fifteen
years of my life, when my mind
was mostly in Michigan even though
I wasn’t, I saved
way more small animals from my yard in Cuba
or Idaho than I killed any large ones somewhere
out in a field, whether sea fields or waving grain ones.
And nobody knows it.
I even took a hurt mouse to bed one time for a small spell.
A hurt mouse I found Faulkner the Cat about to kill.
When my wife was out all night making too many bad choices
again.
Took him to bed with me and fed the injured little fellow,
warm milk out of a bottle
drip by drop.
My own bottle there at hand on the nightstand by the Bible,
King Lear, rapier, dagger, tomahawk, paper airplanes,
pencils.
And the mouse got better.
And I, the great Hemingway, never reported any of this to the papers.
But the next day I was up for breakfast and wrestling
with grouchy circus lions down at the pier
to impress them, and got my arm
torn for my troubles
again.
At one point, the mouse sat on my chest
and he looked me right in the eye
almost as if to whisper, “Thank you.”
And he may have whispered
thank you.
I had a Juan Gris painting of a black Latin guitar player
above my bed back then.
In 1946, after she was gone for good,
when I predicted
rock and roll to Paco down here by where
the boat used to be and he,
he agreed with me.
Saragun Springs 
Dale
I saved reading this until now (on a morning after a short sleep caused by Super Bowl revelers lighting fireworks. I hope the Second Coming is as well received as a Seahawks’ win).
You used his voice perfectly. Not an imitation, anyone with a little talent can do that, but his indefinable voice. I also like the idea of not calling a press conference for every little kindness. This showed a vulnerable Hemingway, one I think his touts (then and now) have done more to conceal than the man did himself. Most fans are imbeciles (note how I tied that in with the revelers? Alert the media!)
First rate, and to all, Dale will be the show this week, because he is worth it and we do pretty much whatever feels right around here.
Leila
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Hi Irene Leila
Yes, if only the world would cheer as loudly for peace on earth or taking care of the planet. “Free yourselves from mental slavery, none but ourselves can free our minds.” – Bob Marley
One thing that chills my bones about this poem is how he’s speaking from beyond the grave.
Wallace Stevens said: “The highest pursuit is the pursuit of happiness on earth.”
In other words, don’t sit around waiting for heaven!
AND Stevens did NOT mean money, “power,” possessions, property, greed, etc. No joining of any official organization is required, either.
Helping, connecting, being, flowing – these are the things that can make for heaven on earth (or at least happiness overall).
Much has been written about how famous Hemingway was but I don’t think his own best moments had a damn thing to do with any of his celebrity. He himself said so many times!
The Drifter
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Hi Dale
I liked how Hemingway’s mind was on Michigan, and how that line invoked all of those stories.
We leave our homes and go forth but our homes don’t leave us.
These little kindnesses were touching and showed a man that wasn’t just about big game hunting. Almost like he was making amends, or there were two sides at work within him. Like most of us.
It reminds me of what we try to do for animals in our own backyard. People can do a lot of good for the small creatures that inhabit yards, gardens, and window ledges. So much food is thrown away that they could eat. They say, don’t feed the animals, but when all of their living space has been taken. I don’t think it applies. Humans have to help them.
“out in a field, whether sea fields or waving grain ones.” Great line and poem!
Christopher
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Hi CJA
If Hemingway were alive today, I don’t believe he would be a hunter, and I know damn sure that he wouldn’t do things like kill lions in Africa any more. In GREEN HILLS OF AFRICA he’s already moving toward an environmental consciousness that is way beyond what most people of his day and age were able to understand. In later life, he stopped hunting as much (and then almost completely). On his last safari in Africa, the facts tell us that he spent more time as an informal physician taking care of people than he did hunting. Much more. His father was a physician and Hemingway himself was an ambulance driver in WW1 (not a soldier).
It’s awesome that you do the same thing for the animals all around you, and NOT a surprise, either! You’re a perfect reader for understanding this poem because you already know what it’s about.
D
“Authors are actors, books are theaters.” – Wallace Stevens
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Hi DWB
Your poem hit me in the heart, because I used to hunt, too. I can’t criticize Hemingway–and like you said those were different and unthinking times in regards to animals. My father started to criticize hunters and it opened up my eyes.
Hemingway sounds like he was questioning what these awful blood “sports” are about. I’m glad he came around and even led the way doctoring people instead of hunting big game.
Now I see all of it as a terrible act of murderous bullying against defenseless animals, except in the rare cases of surviving off the land.
I don’t buy into the logic of these hunters claiming they provide for their families. It’s sport to them, but they are oddly aligned with environmentalists, saving the land, for their own purpose, but better than developers.
I’ve seen deer hunting preservers here in Indiana with ten foot tall fences around wooded areas to keep deer locked inside, so rich fuckers can shoot them. Makes me nuts!
CJA
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Wonderful, Dale. You absolutely got inside Hemmingway’s head in an unusual yet believable portrayal. Fine work.
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Thank you, David!
It was fun trying to invent him as a fictional character in a scenario which becomes “a lie that tells the truth…”
Dale
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