my favoritist poet in the whole wide world is Mary Oliver. she won the pulitzer prize for poetry, and for me, reading her is like finally being given oxygen. especially because no one else has ever been able to say so precisely all that i think and know and feel about nature...not only the nature of this green earth, but also the nature of the heart, and how they are so intertwined.
so here are some excerpts. pick up a book of hers and give it to a friend.
this is the poem i opened the book to. and it's EXACTLY how i feel right now.
The Oak Tree at the Entrance to Blackwater Pond
Every day
on my way to the pond
I pass the lightning-felled,
chesty,
hundred-fingered, black oak
which, summers ago,
swam forward when the storm
laid one lean yellow wand against it, smoking it open
to its rosy heart.
It dropped down
in a veil of rain,
in a cloud of sap and fire,
and became what it has been ever since--
a black boat
floating
in the tossing leaves of summer,
like the coffin of Osiris
descending
upon the cloudy Nile,
But, listen, I'm tired of that brazen promise:
death and resurrection.
I'm tired of hearing how the nitrogens will return
to the earth again,
through the hinterland of patience--
how the mushrooms and the yeasts
will arrive in the wind--
how they'll anchor the pearls of their bodies and begin
to gnaw through the darkness, like wolves at bones--
what I loved, I mean was that tree--
tree of the moment--tree of my own sad, mortal heart--
and I don't want to sing anymore of the way
Osiris came home at last, on a clean
and powerful ship, over
the dangerous sea, as a tall
and beautiful stranger.
and she just so unapologetically gets it.
>Understand from the first this certainty. Butterflies don't write books, neither do lilies or violets. Which doesn't mean they don't know, in their own way, what they are. that they don't know they are alive--that they don't feel, that action upon which all consciousness sits, lightly or heavily. Humility is the prize of the leaf-world. Vainglory is the bane of us, the humans.
so here are some excerpts. pick up a book of hers and give it to a friend.
this is the poem i opened the book to. and it's EXACTLY how i feel right now.
The Oak Tree at the Entrance to Blackwater Pond
Every day
on my way to the pond
I pass the lightning-felled,
chesty,
hundred-fingered, black oak
which, summers ago,
swam forward when the storm
laid one lean yellow wand against it, smoking it open
to its rosy heart.
It dropped down
in a veil of rain,
in a cloud of sap and fire,
and became what it has been ever since--
a black boat
floating
in the tossing leaves of summer,
like the coffin of Osiris
descending
upon the cloudy Nile,
But, listen, I'm tired of that brazen promise:
death and resurrection.
I'm tired of hearing how the nitrogens will return
to the earth again,
through the hinterland of patience--
how the mushrooms and the yeasts
will arrive in the wind--
how they'll anchor the pearls of their bodies and begin
to gnaw through the darkness, like wolves at bones--
what I loved, I mean was that tree--
tree of the moment--tree of my own sad, mortal heart--
and I don't want to sing anymore of the way
Osiris came home at last, on a clean
and powerful ship, over
the dangerous sea, as a tall
and beautiful stranger.
and she just so unapologetically gets it.
>Understand from the first this certainty. Butterflies don't write books, neither do lilies or violets. Which doesn't mean they don't know, in their own way, what they are. that they don't know they are alive--that they don't feel, that action upon which all consciousness sits, lightly or heavily. Humility is the prize of the leaf-world. Vainglory is the bane of us, the humans.
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This is March from M.O. It's my favorite of hers.
"There isn't anything in this world but mad love. Not in this world. No tame love, calm love, mild love, no so-so love. And, of course, no reasonable love. Also there are a hundred paths through the world that are easier than loving. But, who wants easier? We dream of love, we moon about, thinking of Romeo and Juliet, or Tristan, or the lost queen rushing away over the Irish sea, all doom and splendor. Today, on the beach, an old man was sitting in the sun. I called out to him, and he turned. His face was like an empty pot. I remember his tall, pale wife; she died long ago. I remember his daughter-in-law. When she died, hard, and too young, he wept in the streets. He picked up pieces of wood, and stones, and anything else that was there, and threw them at the sea. Oh, how he loved his wife. Oh, how he loved his young Barbara. I stood in front of him, not expecting any answer yet not wanting to pass without some greeting. But his face had gone back to whatever he was dreaming. Something touched me, lightly, like a knife-blade. I felt I was bleeding, though just a little, a hint. Inside I flared hot, then cold. I thought of you. Whom I love, madly."
peace, joy and love