Mary Oliver: Now, As Much as Ever

In every season and circumstance, it seems, Mary Oliver's poetry speaks to me. I find new poems, or poems that didn't have so much to say to me, but now do. And this has often been true for her Red Bird collecton, one of my favorites.

In this season of loss and change, with the passing of my father and other corners now turned in my life, I found Red Bird* speaking to me anew. I found context and content that resonated with this time and place. On the off-chance they might also resonate with you, I thought I would share some of them here.


            The Orchard

         I have dreamed    
         of accomplishment.
         I have fed

         ambition.
         I have traded
         nights of sleep

         for a length of work.
         Lo, and I have discovered
         how soft bloom

         turns to green fruit
         which turns to sweet fruit.
         Lo, and I have discovered

         all winds blow cold
         at last,
         and the leaves,

         so pretty, so many,
         vanish
         in the great, black

         packet of time,
         in the great, black
         packet of ambition,

         and the ripeness    
         of the apple
         is its downfall.


               Straight Talk from Fox   

         Listen says fox, it is music to run
           over the hills to lick
         dew from the leaves to nose along
           the edges of the ponds to smell the fat
         ducks in their bright feathers but
           far out, safe in their rafts of
         sleep...Death itself
           is a music. Nobody has ever come close to
         writing it down, awake or in a dream. It cannot
           be told. It is flesh and bones
         changing shape and with good cause, mercy
           is a little child beside such an invention. It is
         music to wander the black back roads
           outside of town no one awake or wondering
         if anything miraculous is ever going to
           happen, totally dumb to the fact of every
         moment's miracle...


            Invitation

      Oh do you have time
           to linger
             for just a little while
               out of your busy

         and very important day
            for the goldfinches
              that have gathered
                in a field of thistles

        for a musical battle,
          to see who can sing
            the highest note,
              or the lowest...

        as they strive
          melodiously
            not for your sake
              and not for mine

        and not for the sake of winning
          but for sheer delight and gratitude--
            believe us, they say,
              it is a serious thing

        just to be alive    
          on this fresh morning
            in this broken world.
              I beg of you,

        do not walk by
          without pausing
            to attend to their
              rather ridiculous performance.

        It could mean something,
          It could mean everything.
            It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:
             You must change your life.


                 Sometimes

                    4.

Instructions for living a life:

Pay attention.

Be astonished.

Tell about it. 

                    5. 

Two or three times in my life I discovered love.

Each time it seemed to solve everything.

Each time it solved a great many things

  but not everything.

Yet left me as grateful as if it had indeed, and

thoroughly, solved everything. 

                  6.
God rest in my heart 
and fortify me.

                Of Love 

I have been in love more times than one,

thank the Lord. Sometimes it was lasting

whether active or not. Sometimes

it was all but ephemeral, maybe only

an afternoon, but not less real for that.

They stay in  mind, these beautiful people,

or anyway beautiful to me, of which

there are so many...And, oh, have I mentioned

that some of them were men and some were women

and some--now carry my revelation with you--

were trees. Or places. Or music flying above

the names of their makers. Or clouds, or the sun...

So I imagine such love in the world--

its fervency, its shining, its

innocence and hunger to give of itself--I imagine

this is how it began.

Who Said This?

Something whispered something

that was not even a word.

It was more like silence

that was understandable.

I was standing

at the edge of the pond.

Nothing living, what we call living,

was in sight.

And yet, the voice entered me,

my body-life,

with so much happiness.

And there was nothing there

but the water, the sky, the grass.

   Summer Morning   

Heart,

  I implore you,

    it's time to come back

      from the dark, 

it's morning,

  the hills are pink

    and the roses

      whatever they felt 

in the valley of night

  are opening now

    their soft dresses,

      their leaves 

are shining.

  Why are you laggard?

    Sure you have seen this

      a thousand times, 

which isn't half enough.

  Let the world

    have its way with you,

      luminous as it is 

with mystery

  and pain--

    graced as it is

      with the ordinary. 

           Mornings at Blackwater
     
        For years, every morning, I drank
        from Blackwater Pond...
        And always it assuaged me...

        What I want to say is
        that the past is the past,
        and the present is what your life is,
        and you are capable
        of choosing what that will be,
        darling citizen.

        So come to the pond,
        or the river of your imagination,
        or the harbor of your longing,

and put your lips to the world.

And live

your life.

 *Red Bird, Poems By Mary Oliver (2008)