What the River Clarion Says

It seems that Mary Oliver's heart goes before her, that she merely follows along--going where it leads her, sharing what it tells her. That appears the nature of her most inspired poetry. This poem in particular reminds me of verse ascribed to the Sufi poet, Hafiz: "At some point, your relationship with God will become like this: ...There won't be any more "leaving." God will climb into your pocket, and you will simply take yourself along." In that same way, Mary Oliver appears to just take herself along, while sharing so clearly, so touchingly what she hears, sees and feels at the river Clarion.

At the River Clarion*

I don't know who God is exactly.

But I'll tell you this.

I was sitting in the river named Clarion, on a

    water-splashed stone

and all afternoon I listened to the voices

    of the river talking...

Said the river: I am part of holiness.

And I too, said the stone. And I too whispered

    the moss beneath the water...

2.

If God exists He isn't just butter and good luck.

He's also the tick that killed my wonderful dog Luke.

Said the river: imagine everything you can imagine, then

    keep on going...

If God exists he isn't just churches and mathematics.
He's the forest, He's the desert.
He's the ice caps that are dying.
He's the ghetto and the Museum of Fine Arts.

He's van Gogh and Allen Ginsberg and Robert
Motherwell.
He's the many desperate hands, cleaning and preparing
     their weapons.
He's every one of us, potentially.
The leaf of grass, the genius, the politician,
     the poet.
And if this is true, isn't it something very important?

Yes, it could be that I am a tiny piece of God, and

    each of you too--or at least

        of His intention and His hope.

Which is a delight beyond measure.

I don't know how you get to suspect such an idea.

    I only know that the river kept singing.

It wasn't a persuasion, it was all the river's own

    constant joy...

3.

Of course for each of us, there is the daily life.

Let us live it, gesture by gesture.

When we cut the ripe melon, should we not give it thanks?

And should we not thank the knife also?

We do not live in a simple world.

4.

There was someone I loved who grew old and ill.

One by one I watched the fires go out.

There was nothing I could do

except to remember
that we receive
then we give back.

5.

My dog Luke lies in a grave in the forest,

    she is given back.

But the river Clarion still flows

    from wherever it comes from

        to where it has been told to go.

I pray for the desperate earth.

I pray for the desperate world.

I do the little each person can do, it isn't much.

Sometimes the river murmurs, sometimes it raves...

7.

And still, pressed deep into my mind, the river

    keeps coming, touching me, passing by on its

        long journey, it's pale, infallible voice

            singing.

[Italics and bold added.)

*from Evidence, by Mary Oliver (2009)