Today's Poem by Mary Oliver

 Of The Empire

We will be known as a culture that feared death

and adored power, that tried to vanquish insecurity

for the few and cared little for the penury of the

many. We will be known as a culture that taught

and rewarded the amassing of things, that spoke

little if at all about the quality of life for

people (other people), for dogs, for rivers. All

the world, in our eyes, they will say, was a

commodity. And they will say that this structure

was held together politically, which it was, and

they will say also that our politics was no more

than an apparatus to accommodate the feelings of

the heart, and that the heart, in those days,

was small, and hard, and full of meanness.

© 2008 by Mary Oliver

From her 2008 collection, Red Bird

Published by Beacon Press 2008

Today's Poem - Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

 If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy,

don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty
of lives and whole towns destroyed or about
to be. We are not wise, and not very often
kind. And much can never be redeemed.
Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this
is its way of fighting back, that sometimes
something happens better than all the riches
or power in the world. It could be anything,
but very likely you notice it in the instant
when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the
case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid
of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.

Today's poem by Mary Oliver

 “What we must do,

I suppose,

is to hope the world

keeps its balance;

what we are to do, however,

with our hearts

waiting and watching—truly

I do not know.”

       — Mary Oliver

Mary Oliver - Poet/Prophet

 Of The Empire

We will be known as a culture that feared death

and adored power, that tried to vanquish insecurity

for the few and cared little for the penury of the

many. We will be known as a culture that taught

and rewarded the amassing of things, that spoke

little if at all about the quality of life for

people (other people), for dogs, for rivers. All

the world, in our eyes, they will say, was a

commodity. And they will say that this structure

was held together politically, which it was, and

they will say also that our politics was no more

than an apparatus to accommodate the feelings of

the heart, and that the heart, in those days,

was small, and hard, and full of meanness.

© 2008 by Mary Oliver

From her 2008 collection, Red Bird

Published by Beacon Press 2008

A Bad Day by Mary Oliver

 

Ricky, why are you barking and trying
to rip up the couch? Can’t you settle
down? It’s been a long day.

“It sure has. First you forgot to take
me out. Then you went to the market
and heaven knows where else. And my
dinner was late. And our walk was
short. And now you’re supposed to
be on the floor playing with me but,
no, you’re doing something else. So I
thought I’d give this couch a little
distress.”

Well, don’t. Be a good boy.

“Honestly, what do you expect? Like
you I’m not perfect, I’m only human.”

                - Mary Oliver, in “Dog Songs”

Little Dog's Rhapsody in the Night by Mary Oliver

 

He puts his cheek against mine
and makes small, expressive sounds.
And when I’m awake, or awake enough

he turns upside down, his four paws
in the air
and his eyes dark and fervent.

“Tell me you love me,” he says.

“Tell me again.”

Could there be a sweeter arrangement? Over and over
he gets to ask.
I get to tell.

                 - Mary Oliver, in “Dog Songs”

Gratitude by Mary Oliver

 

Art by Kelly Rae Roberts

What did you notice?

The dew-snail;
the low-flying sparrow;
the bat, on the wind, in the dark;
big-chested geese, in the V of sleekest performance;
the soft toad, patient in the hot sand;
the sweet-hungry ants;
the uproar of mice in the empty house;
the tin music of the cricket’s body;
the blouse of the goldenrod.

What did you hear?

The thrush greeting the morning;
the little bluebirds in their hot box;
the salty talk of the wren,
then the deep cup of the hour of silence.

When did you admire?

The oaks, letting down their dark and hairy fruit;
the carrot, rising in its elongated waist;
the onion, sheet after sheet, curved inward to the pale green wand;
at the end of summer the brassy dust, the almost liquid beauty of the flowers;
then the ferns, scrawned black by the frost.

What astonished you?

The swallows making their dip and turn over the water.

What would you like to see again?

My dog: her energy and exuberance, her willingness,
her language beyond all nimbleness of tongue,
her recklessness, her loyalty, her sweetness,
her strong legs, her curled black lip, her snap.

What was most tender?

Queen Anne’s lace, with its parsnip root;
the everlasting in its bonnets of wool;
the kinks and turns of the tupelo’s body;
the tall, blank banks of sand;
the clam, clamped down.

What was most wonderful?

The sea, and its wide shoulders;
the sea and its triangles;
the sea lying back on its long athlete’s spine.

What did you think was happening?

The green breast of the hummingbird;
the eye of the pond;
the wet face of the lily;
the bright, puckered knee of the broken oak;
the red tulip of the fox’s mouth;
the up-swing, the down-pour, the frayed sleeve of the first snow—

so the gods shake us from our sleep.

 “I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers flow in the right direction, will the earth turn as it was taught, and if not, how shall I correct it?

Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven, can I do better?

Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows can do it and I am, well, hopeless.

Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it, am I going to get rheumatism, lockjaw, dementia?

Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.

And gave it up. And took my old body and went out into the morning, and sang.”

~Mary Oliver, “I Worried,” 2010

 

Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous

 to be understood.

How grass can be nourishing in the

mouths of the lambs.

How rivers and stones are forever

in allegiance with gravity

while we ourselves dream of rising.

How two hands touch and the bonds will

never be broken.

How people come, from delight or the

scars of damage,

to the comfort of a poem.

Let me keep my distance, always, from those

who think they have the answers.

Let me keep company always with those who say

“Look!” and laugh in astonishment,

and bow their heads.

              ~Mary Oliver, Evidence

                      A Poetry Handbook

Evidence by Mary Oliver

 

Evidence

I.

Where do I live? If I had no address, as many people
do not, I could nevertheless say that I lived in the
same town as the lilies of the field, and the still
waters.

Spring, and all through the neighborhood now there are
strong men tending flowers.

Beauty without purpose is beauty without virtue. But
all beautiful things, inherently, have this function -
to excite the viewers toward sublime thought. Glory
to the world, that good teacher.

Among the swans there is none called the least, or
the greatest.

I believe in kindness. Also in mischief. Also in
singing, especially when singing is not necessarily
prescribed.

As for the body, it is solid and strong and curious
and full of detail; it wants to polish itself; it
wants to love another body; it is the only vessel in
the world that can hold, in a mix of power and
sweetness: words, song, gesture, passion, ideas,
ingenuity, devotion, merriment, vanity, and virtue.

Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable.

2.

There are many ways to perish, or to flourish.

How old pain, for example, can stall us at the threshold of function….

Still friends, consider stone, that is without the fret of gravity, and water that is without anxiety. 

And the pine trees that never forget their recipe for renewal. 

And the female wood duck who is looking this way and that way for her children. And the snapping turtle who is looking this way and that way also. This is the world. 

And consider, always, every day, the determination of the grass to grow despite the unending obstacles. 

3. 

I ask you again: if you have not been enchanted by this adventure--your life--what would do for you? 

And, where are you, with your ears bagged down as if with packets of sand? Listen. We all have much more listening to do. Tear the sand away. And listen. The river is singing. …

For myself, I have walked in these woods for

More than forty years, and I am the only

thing, it seems, that is about to be used up.

Or, to be less extravagant, will, in the

Foreseeable future, be used up.

First, though, I want to step out into some

fresh morning and look around and hear myself

crying out:  "The house of money is falling! The house of money is falling! The weeds are rising! The weeds are rising!"

- - Mary Oliver

The Poet Dreams of the Mountain by Mary Oliver

 

Sometimes I grow weary of the days, with all their fits and starts.
I want to climb some old gray mountains, slowly, taking
The rest of my lifetime to do it, resting often, sleeping
Under the pines or, above them, on the unclothed rocks.
I want to see how many stars are still in the sky
That we have smothered for years now, a century at least.
I want to look back at everything, forgiving it all,
And peaceful, knowing the last thing there is to know.
All that urgency! Not what the earth is about!
How silent the trees, their poetry being of themselves only.
I want to take slow steps, and think appropriate thoughts.
In ten thousand years, maybe, a piece of the mountain will fall.”


― Mary Oliver, Swan: Poems and Prose Poems

A Day of Pondering Blessings - Reposted with Hope for our Future

I posted this here in 2014.

As I, again, on this Thanksgiving Eve, ponder my blessings, this seems to be almost right.

Except.

Along with my blessings comes sadness.

And, honestly, some guilt.

Families who won't have loved ones sharing their Thanksgiving dinner with them this year, or in future years, are on the rise.  

  

Families are having loved ones stolen from them by hate.

Shootings in this country are on the rise.

Anyone not connecting the violence with the hate spewing out of the mouths of the White nationalists wearing MAGA hats is seriously delusional.  Or worse.

So yes, join me in counting blessings, but I hope you'll also join me in doing all we can to change gun laws, and get rid of those elected officials who support them.  

Get rid of elected officials who foment this hate with their own bigotry and dangerous words.

We made a decent start with our recent elections.

We can continue on this path and return this country to a place of inclusion, tolerance, and acceptance.  Let's do it.

Get Rid of the Hate

While I feel as though there are many things in the world, in our country, that need fixing, I hope I never forget to give thanks for the blessings in my life.


They are many.

I sat over this laptop drinking coffee and began listing them, and felt as though rather than expressing gratitude, it might come across as something else.  Holding those blessings in my heart was the important thing to me today, I realized.  Not sharing them with others as I have in the past.  Not this year.


And this moved me to back away from the laptop for awhile and just ponder.


Isn't it amazing the twisty roads your mind can find when left to its own devices?


It wandered widely and had me reading pieces by some of my favorite writers, looking at paintings by some favorite artists.  I read some essays by Anne Lamott, some poetry by Mary Oliver, and some randomly scattered quotes.


I ended here  -


"As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them." - John F. Kennedy



This seemed to be what my heart was seeking.

This.


This, I need to work on.

 

Snowy Night by Mary Oliver

Last night, an owl
in the blue dark
tossed an indeterminate number

of carefully shaped sounds into
the world, in which,
a quarter of a mile away, I happened
to be standing.

I couldn’t tell
which one it was –
the barred or the great-horned
ship of the air –

it was that distant. But, anyway,
aren’t there moments
that are better than knowing something,
and sweeter? Snow was falling,

so much like stars
filling the dark trees
that one could easily imagine
its reason for being was nothing more

than prettiness. I suppose
if this were someone else’s story
they would have insisted on knowing
whatever is knowable – would have hurried

over the fields
to name it – the owl, I mean.
But it’s mine, this poem of the night,
and I just stood there, listening and holding out

my hands to the soft glitter
falling through the air. I love this world,
but not for its answers.
And I wish good luck to the owl,

whatever its name –
and I wish great welcome to the snow,
whatever its severe and comfortless
and beautiful meaning.

The Dog Has Run Off Again by Mary Oliver

and I should start shouting his name
and clapping my hands,
but it has been raining all night
and the narrow creek has risen
is a tawny turbulence is rushing along
over the mossy stones
is surging forward
with a sweet loopy music
and therefore I don’t want to entangle it
with my own voice
calling summoning
my little dog to hurry back
look the sunlight and the shadows are chasing each other
listen how the wind swirls and leaps and dives up and down
who am I to summon his hard and happy body
his four white feet that love to wheel and pedal
through the dark leaves
to come back to walk by my side, obedient.

- - - by Mary Oliver

Where Am I?

On a mountain in Meat Camp, North Carolina.

Sitting on the back deck enjoying all the green

and the quiet

and my pup

and my husband

And  I am grateful for my life

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”

  - - - Mary Oliver

Winter Solstice. Bring back the light.

White-Eyes

BY MARY OLIVER

In winter

    all the singing is in

         the tops of the trees

             where the wind-bird

with its white eyes

    shoves and pushes

         among the branches.

             Like any of us

he wants to go to sleep,

    but he's restless—

         he has an idea,

             and slowly it unfolds

from under his beating wings

    as long as he stays awake.

         But his big, round music, after all,

             is too breathy to last.

So, it's over.

    In the pine-crown

         he makes his nest,

             he's done all he can.

I don't know the name of this bird,

    I only imagine his glittering beak

         tucked in a white wing

             while the clouds—

which he has summoned

    from the north—

         which he has taught

             to be mild, and silent—

thicken, and begin to fall

    into the world below

         like stars, or the feathers

               of some unimaginable bird

that loves us,

    that is asleep now, and silent—

         that has turned itself

             into snow.

Mary Oliver

September 10, 1935 - 

January 17, 2019

My heart is broken.

I claim no personal connection with Mary Oliver.

I was never lucky enough to meet her, or even glimpse her from afar.

But.

I can, like many others, attest to a deep connection to her work.

I can, like many others, rejoice in the fact of her words.

I can browse through Facebook posts and catch snippets and phrases from her work.

Snippets that resonate.  And urge me to find the full piece from which it came.  

And then allow me to rejoice, wallow and indulge myself in her words yet again.

I can walk around our house and reach up to a shelf to pull out a book of her work -- poems, essays, prose poems -- and smile that it's there.  

She has helped ease me through some tough times.

She has soothed me into sleep.

She's been there simply for the joy of reading words written in such a way as to cause me to catch my breath and read again - oftentimes aloud.

Mary Oliver could not help but know she was admired, loved, and revered by many.

I wish she had known that I was one of them.

Knowing the possibility of ever catching that brief glimpse has now passed makes me enormously sad.

I know I'll never be able to tell her how much I truly loved her work.

But I celebrate her life by gathering her books, placing them on my nightstand, and knowing she will be here.  

Here on my nightstand, and here in my heart.

The Poet Dreams of the Mountain by Mary Oliver

Sometimes I grow weary of the days, with all their fits and starts.
I want to climb some old gray mountains, slowly, taking
The rest of my lifetime to do it, resting often, sleeping
Under the pines or, above them, on the unclothed rocks.
I want to see how many stars are still in the sky
That we have smothered for years now, a century at least.
I want to look back at everything, forgiving it all,
And peaceful, knowing the last thing there is to know.
All that urgency! Not what the earth is about!
How silent the trees, their poetry being of themselves only.
I want to take slow steps, and think appropriate thoughts.
In ten thousand years, maybe, a piece of the mountain will fall.”


― Mary Oliver, Swan: Poems and Prose Poems

Blooming!

Peeking outside to see the sun and all this is bloom. We've been spared the flooding that has affected so many in our area, and we're thankful.

Peonies make me happy. 

Some are blooming and we still have loads of buds.  

They're short-lived, so we'll enjoy them while we can. 

And then, we'll look forward to seeing them again next year.

Peonies by Mary Oliver

This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready
to break my heart
as the sun rises,
as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers

and they open ---
pools of lace,
white and pink ---
and all day the black ants climb over them,

boring their deep and mysterious holes
into the curls,
craving the sweet sap,
taking it away

to their dark, underground cities ---
and all day
under the shifty wind,
as in a dance to the great wedding,

the flowers bend their bright bodies,
and tip their fragrance to the air,
and rise,
their red stems holding

all that dampness and recklessness
gladly and lightly,
and there it is again ---
beauty the brave, the exemplary,

blazing open.
Do you love this world?
Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?

Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,
and softly,
and exclaiming of their dearness,
fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,

with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,
their eagerness
to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are
nothing, forever?