heavy

That time
I thought I could not
go any closer to grief
without dying

I went closer,
and I did not die.
Surely God
had His hand in this,

as well as friends.
Still, I was bent,
and my laughter,
as the poet said,

was nowhere to be found.
Then said my friend Daniel
(brave even among lions),
"It's not the weight you carry

but how you carry it-
books, bricks, grief-
it's all in the way
you embrace it, balance it, carry it

when you cannot, and would not,
put it down."
So I went practicing.
Have you noticed?

Have you heard
the laughter
that comes, now and again,
out of my startled mouth?

How I linger
to admire, admire, admire
the things of this world
that are kind, and maybe

also troubled-
roses in the wind,
the sea geese on the steep waves,
a love
to which there is no reply?




~ Mary Oliver



.

roses, late summer

What happens
to the leaves after
they turn red and golden and fall
away? What happens

to the singing birds
when they can't sing
any longer? What happens
to their quick wings?

Do you think there is any
personal heaven
for any of us?
Do you think anyone,

the other side of that darkness,
will call to us, meaning us?
Beyond the trees
the foxes keep teaching their children

to live in the valley.
so they never seem to vanish, they are always there
in the blossom of the light
that stands up every morning

in the dark sky.
And over one more set of hills,
along the sea,
the last roses have opened their factories of sweetness

and are giving it back to the world.
If I had another life
I would want to spend it all on some
unstinting happiness.

I would be a fox, or a tree
full of waving branches.
I wouldn't mind being a rose
in a field full of roses.

Fear has not yet occurred to them, nor ambition.
Reason they have not yet thought of.
Neither do they ask how long they must be roses, and then what.
Or any other foolish question.

~ Mary Oliver

 

thirst

.

.

Another morning and I wake with thirst

for the goodness I do not have. 

I walk out to the pond and all the way 

God has given us such beautiful lessons. 

Oh Lord, I was never a quick scholar but sulked

and hunched over my books past the hour and the bell; 

grant me, in your mercy, a little more time. 

Love for the earth and love for you 

are having such a long conversation in my heart. 

Who knows what will finally happen 

or where I will be sent, yet already 

I have given a great many things away, 

expecting to be told to pack nothing, 

except the prayers which, 

with this thirst,

I am slowly learning.

~ Mary Oliver

messenger

My work is loving the world.

Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird —

equal seekers of sweetness.

Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.

Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?

Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me

keep my mind on what matters,

which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be 

astonished.

The phoebe, the delphinium.

The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.

Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart

and these body-clothes,

a mouth with which to give shouts of joy

to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,

telling them all, over and over, how it is

that we live forever.






~ Mary Oliver
from Thirst

the journey

One day you finally knew 

what you had to do, and began, 

though the voices around you 

kept shouting 

their bad advice—

though the whole house 

began to tremble 

and you felt the old tug 

at your ankles. 

"Mend my life!" 

each voice cried. 

But you didn't stop. 

You knew what you had to do, 

though the wind pried 

with its stiff fingers 

at the very foundations, 

though their melancholy 

was terrible. 

It was already late 

enough, and a wild night, 

and the road full of fallen 

branches and stones. 

But little by little, 

as you left their voices behind, 

the stars began to burn 

through the sheets of clouds, 

and there was a new voice 

which you slowly 

recognized as your own, 

that kept you company 

as you strode deeper and deeper 

into the world 

determined to do 

the only thing you could do—

determined to save

the only life you could save.

~  Mary Oliver

art by Paul Klee

what is there beyond knowing

What is there beyond knowing that keeps
calling to me? I can't
turn in any direction
but it's there. I don't mean
the leaves' grip and shine or even the thrush's
silk song, but the far-off
fires, for example,
of the stars, heaven's slowly turning
theater of light, or the wind
playful with its breath;
or time that's always rushing forward,
or standing still
in the same -- what shall I say --
moment.
What I know
I could put into a pack
as if it were bread and cheese, and carry it
on one shoulder,
important and honorable, but so small!
While everything else continues, unexplained
and unexplainable. How wonderful it is
to follow a thought quietly
to its logical end.
I have done this a few times.
But mostly I just stand in the dark field,
in the middle of the world, breathing
in and out. Life so far doesn't have any other name
but breath and light, wind and rain.
If there's a temple, I haven't found it yet.
I simply go on drifting, in the heaven of the grass
and the weeds.




~ Mary Oliver
from Swan - Poems and Prose Poems
with thanks to love is a place

someday

Even the oldest of trees continues its wonderful labor.

Hummingbird lives in one of them.

He's there for the white blossoms, and the secrecy.

The blossoms could be snow, with a dash of pink.

At first the fruit is small and green and hard.

Everything has dreams, hope, ambition.

If I could I would always live in such shining obedience

where nothing but the wind trims the boughs.

I am sorry for every mistake I have made in my life.

I'm sorry I wasn't wiser sooner.

I'm sorry I ever spoke of myself as lonely.

Oh, love, lay your hands upon me again.

Some of the fruit ripens and is picked and is delicious.

Some of it falls and the ants are delighted.

Some of it hides under the snow and the famished deer are saved.

~ Mary Oliver

with thanks to rebel girl at the mark on the wall

photo by kathleen connally

the wren from Carolina

.

Just now the wren from Carolina buzzed

through the neighbor's hedge

a line of grace notes I couldn't even write down

much less sing.

Now he lifts his chestnut colored throat

and delivers such a cantering praise -

for what?

For the early morning, the taste of the spider,

for his small cup of life

that he drinks from every day, knowing it will refill.

All things are inventions of holiness.

Some more rascally than others.

I'm on that list too,

though I don't know exactly where.

But every morning, there's my own cup of gladness,

and there's that wren in the hedge, above me, with his

blazing song.

~ Mary Oliver

from Why I Wake Early

where does the dance begin, where does it end?

.

.

Don't call the world adorable, or useful, that's not it.

It's frisky, and a theater for more than fair winds.

The eyelash of lightning is neither good nor evil.

The struck tree burns like a pillar of gold.

But the blue rain sinks, straight to the white feet of the trees

whose mouths open.

Doesn't the wind, turning in circles, invent the dance?

Haven't the flowers moved, slowly, across Asia, then Europe, until at last, now, the shine

in your own yard?

Don't call this world an explanation, or even an education.

When the Sufi poet whirled, was he looking

outward, to the mountains so solidly there

in a white-capped ring, or was he looking

to the center of everything: the seed, the egg, the idea

that was also there,

beautiful as a thumb

curved and touching the finger, tenderly,

little love-ring,

as he whirled,

oh jug of breath,

in the garden of dust?

.

~ Mary Oliver

from Why I wake Early

clam

.

Each one is a small life, but sometimes long, if its

place in the universe is not found out. Like us, they

have a heart and a stomach; they know hunger, and

probably a little satisfaction too. Do not mock them

for their gentleness, they have a muscle that loves

being alive. They pull away from the light. They pull

down. They hold themselves together. They refuse to

open.

But sometimes they lose their place and are tumbled

shoreward in a storm. Then they pant, they fill

with sand, they have no choice but must open the

smallest crack. Then the fire of the world touches

them. Perhaps, on such days, they too begin the

terrible effort of thinking, of wondering who, and 

what, and why. If they can bury themselves again in 

the sand they will. If not, they are sure to perish,

though not quickly. They also have resources beyond 

the flesh; they also try very hard not to die.

~ Mary Oliver

from What Do We Know

with thanks to whiskeyriver

gethsemane

.

The grass never sleeps.

Or the roses.

Nor does the lily have a secret eye that shuts until morning.

Jesus said, wait with me.  But the disciples slept.

The cricket has such splendid fringe on its feet.

and it sings, have you noticed, with its whole body,

and heaven knows if it ever sleeps.

Jesus said, wait with me.  And maybe the stars did, maybe 

the wind wound itself into a silver tree, and didn't move,

maybe

the lake far away, where once he walked as on a 

blue pavement,

lay still and waited, wild awake.

Oh the dear bodies, slumped and eye-shut, that could not

keep that vigil, how they must have wept,

so utterly human, knowing this too

must be a part of the story.

.

~ Mary Oliver

from Thirst

art by Kristine Wyler

lingering in happiness

.

.

After rain after many days without rain,

it stays cool, private and cleansed, under the trees,

and the dampness there, married now to gravity,

falls branch to branch, leaf to leaf, down to the ground

.

where it will disappear - but not, of course, vanish

except to our eyes.  The roots of the oaks will have their share,

and the white threads of the grasses, and the cushion of moss;

a few drops, round as pearls, will enter the mole's tunnel;

.

and soon so many small stones, buried for a thousand years,

will feel themselves being touched.

.

~ Mary Oliver

from Why I wake early

.

The Journey

.

.

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice--

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

"Mend my life!"

each voice cried.

But you didn't stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations,

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do--

determined to save

the only life you could save.

.

~ Mary Oliver

.

how heron comes

It is a negligence of the mind

not to notice how at dusk

heron comes to the pond and

stands there in his death robes, perfect

servant of the system, hungry, his eyes

full of attention, his

wings pure light.

~ Mary Oliver

photo by Kathleen Connally

out of the freezing sky

.

Coming down out of the freezing sky

with its depths of light,

like an angel, or a Buddha with wings,

it was beautiful, and accurate,

striking the snow and whatever was there

with a force that left the imprint 

of the tips of its wings — five feet apart —

and the grabbing thrust of its feet,

and the indentation of what had been running

through the white valleys of the snow —

and then it rose, gracefully,

and flew back to the frozen marshes

to lurk there, like a little lighthouse,

in the blue shadows —

so I thought: 

maybe death isn't darkness, after all,

but so much light wrapping itself around us — 

as soft as feathers —

that we are instantly weary of looking, and looking,

and shut our eyes, not without amazement,

and let ourselves be carried,

as through the translucence of mica,

to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow,

that is nothing but light — scalding, aortal light —

in which we are washed and washed

out of our bones. 

~ Mary Oliver 

from Owls and Other Fantasies: Poems and Essays

What Is There Beyond Knowing?

.

.

What is there beyond knowing that keeps

calling to me? I can't

.

turn in any direction

but it's there. I don't mean

.

the leaves' grip and shine or even the thrush's

silk song, but the far-off

.

fires, for example,

of the stars, heaven's slowly turning

.

theater of light, or the wind

playful with its breath;

.

or time that's always rushing forward,

or standing still

.

in the same -- what shall I say --

moment.

.

What I know

I could put into a pack

.

as if it were bread and cheese, and carry it

on one shoulder,

.

important and honorable, but so small!

While everything else continues, unexplained

.

and unexplainable. How wonderful it is

to follow a thought quietly

.

to its logical end.

I have done this a few times.

.

But mostly I just stand in the dark field,

in the middle of the world, breathing

.

in and out. Life so far doesn't have any other name

but breath and light, wind and rain.

.

If there's a temple, I haven't found it yet.

I simply go on drifting, in the heaven of the grass

and the weeds.

.

~ Mary Oliver

(New and Selected Poems Volume Two)

.

The Book of Time (excerpt)

.

.

I rose this morning early as usual, and went to my desk.

But it's spring,

and the thrush is in the woods,

somewhere in the twirled branches, and he is singing.

And so, now, I am standing by the open door.

And now I am stepping down into the grass.

I am touching a few leaves.

I am noticing the way the yellow butterflies

move together, in a twinkling cloud, over the field.

And I am thinking: maybe just looking and listening

is the real work.

Maybe the world, without us,

is the real poem.

.

~ Mary Oliver

(from: The Leaf and the Cloud)

.

When Death Comes

.

.

When death comes

like the hungry bear in autumn

when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

.

to buy me, and snaps his purse shut;

when death comes

like the measle-pox;

.

when death comes

like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

.

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering;

what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

.

And therefore I look upon everything

as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,

and I look upon time as no more than an idea,

and I consider eternity as another possibility,

.

and I think of each life as a flower, as common 

as a field daisy, and as singular,

.

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth

tending as all music does, toward silence,

.

and each body a lion of courage, and something

precious to the earth.

.

When it's over, I want to say: all my life

I was a bride married to amazement.

I was a bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

.

When it's over, I don't want to wonder

if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened

or full of argument.

.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

.

~ Mary Oliver

(New and Selected Poems, Volume I)

.

Can You Imagine

.

.

For example, what the trees do

not only in lightening storms

or the watery dark of a summer's night

or under the white nets of winter

but now, and now, and now - whenever

we're not looking. Surely you can't imagine

they don't dance, from the root up, wishing

to travel a little, not cramped so much as wanting

a better view, or more sun, or just as avidly

more shade - surely you can't imagine they just

stand there loving every

minute of it, the birds or the emptiness, the dark rings

of the years slowly and without a sound

thickening, and nothing different unless the wind,

and then only in its own mood, comes

to visit, surely you can't imagine

patience, and happiness, like that.

.

~ Mary Oliver 

.

.

When Death Comes

.

.

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purseto buy me,
and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox
when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everythingas a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.
When it's over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it's over, I don't want to wonderi
f I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.
.
~ Mary Oliver

.