Mary Oliver's "Thirst": A New Appreciation

When Mary Oliver's Red Bird collection of poetry was first published, I declared it one of her very best, and took the occasion to distinguish it from her prior collection, Thirst. It's not that I didn't appreciate Thirst's unique, but serious inspirations, or the unqualified fullness of her emotions expressed. That's what it was all about. And what could be more emotionally evocative than the devastating loss of her long-time partner, and finding her way to a Christian faith? Though a Christian of a type myself, and deeply attentive to where that takes me, I thought this work reflected more of her raw emotions, but less of her talent and art. While it marked a watershed point in her life, I didn't think it her best work. But I was wrong.

Now, I too am in a place of loss and change, and continue to turn corners in my own faith journey and prayer life. Now I have found poems in Thirst* that speak to me in ways I could not hear before. And they surely reflect well her talent and art as they offer touching and moving verse, and emotions that reveal her in broader, deeper, more human terms, with qualities and authority that compel me to spend more time with them. Now, in this time and place, they speak to me with power.


            When the Roses Speak,

               I Pay Attention 

            "As long as we are able to

            be extravagant we will be

            hugely and damply

            extravagant. Then we will drop

            foil by foil to the ground. This

            is our unalterable task, and we do it

            joyfully."

            And they went on. "Listen,

            the heart-shackles are not, as you think,

            death, illness, pain,

            unrequited hope, not loneliness, but

            lassitude, rue, vainglory, fear, anxiety,

            selfishness."

            Their fragrance all the while rising

            from their blind bodies, making me

            spin with joy.


                After Her Death

            I am trying to find the lesson

            for tomorrow. Matthew something.

            Which lectionary? I have not

            forgotten the Way, but, a little,

            the way to the Way. The trees keep whispering

            peace, peace, and the birds

            in the shallows are full of the

            bodies of small fish and are

            content. They open their wings

            so easily, and fly. So. It is still

            possible.

                        I open the book

            which the strange, difficult, beautiful church

            has given me. To Matthew. Anywhere.


              Percy (Four)

            I went to church.

            I walked on the beach

            and played with Percy.

            I answered the phone

            and paid the bills.

            I did the laundry.

            I spoke her name

            a hundred times.

            I knelt in the dark

            and said some holy words.

            I went downstairs,

            I watered the flowers,

            I fed Percy.


                  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 all 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?


               A Pretty Song

            From the complications of loving you

            I think there is no end or return.

            No answer, no coming out of it.

            Which is the only way to love, isn't it?

            This isn't a playground, this is

            earth, our heaven, for awhile.

            Therefore I have given precedence

            to all my sudden, sullen, dark moods

            that hold you in the center of my world.

            And I say to my body: grow thinner still.

            And I say to my fingers, type me a pretty song.

            And I say to my heart: rave on.


              Doesn't Every Poet Write

          a Poem About Unrequited Love

            The flowers

                I wanted to bring you,

                    wild and wet

                        from the pale dunes

            and still smelling

                of the summer night,

                    and still holding a moment or two

                        of the night cricket's

            humble prayer,

                would have been

                    so handsome

                        in your hands--

            so happy--I dare to say it--

                in your hands--

                    yet your smile

                        would have been nowhere

            and maybe you would have tossed them

                onto the ground,

                    or maybe, for tenderness,

                        you would have taken them

            into your house

                and given them water

                    put them in a dark corner

                        out of reach.

             In matters of love

                of this kind

                    there are things we long to do

                         but must not do.

            I would not want to see

                your smile diminished.

                    And the flowers, anyway,

                        are happy just where they are,

            on the pale dunes,

                above the cricket's humble nest,

                    under the blue sky

                        that loves us all.


            Six Recognitions of the Lord

            1.

            I know a lot of fancy words.

            I tear them from my heart and my tongue.

            Then I pray.

            2.

            Lord God, mercy is in your hands, pour

            me a little. And tenderness, too. My

            need is great. Beauty walks so freely

            and with such gentleness. Impatience puts

            a halter on my face and I run away over

            the green fields wanting your voice, your

            tenderness, but having to do with only

            the sweet grasses of the fields against

            my body. When I first found you I was

            filled with light, now the darkness grows

            and it is filled with crooked things, bitter

            and weak, each one bearing my name.

            3.

            I lounge on the grass, that's all. So

            simple. Then I lie back until I am

            inside the cloud that is just above me

            but very high, and shaped like a fish.

            Or, perhaps not. Then I enter the place

            of not-thinking, not-remembering, not-

            wanting. When the blue jay cries out his

            riddle, in his carping voice, I return.

            But I go back, the threshold is always

            near. Over and back, over and back. Then

            I rise. Maybe I rub my face as though I

            have been asleep. But I have not been

            asleep. I have been, as I say, inside

            the cloud, or, perhaps, the lily floating

            on the water. Then I go back to town,

            To my own house, my own life, which has

            now become brighter and simpler, some-

            where I have never been before.

            [...]

            5.

            Oh, feed me this day, Holy Spirit, with

            the fragrance of the fields and the

            freshness of the oceans which you have

            made, and help me to hear and to hold

            in all dearness those exacting and wonderful

            words of our Lord Christ Jesus, saying:

            Follow me.

            [...]


               Praying

             It doesn't have to be

            the blue iris, it could be

            weeds in a vacant lot, or a few

            small stones; just

            pay attention, then patch

            a few words together and don't try

            to make them elaborate, this isn't

            a contest but the doorway

            into thanks, and a silence in which

            another voice may speak.


           On Thy Wondrous Works I Will Meditate
            [...]

                                        7.

            I know a man of such

                mildness and kindness it is trying to

            change my life. He does not

                preach, teach, but simply is. It is

            astonishing, for he is Christ's ambassador

                truly, by rule and act. But more

            he is kind with the sort of kindness that shines

                out but is resolute, not fooled. He has

            eaten the dark hours and could also, I think,

                soldier for God, riding out

            under the storm clouds, against the world's pride and unkindness

                with both unassailable sweetness, and consoling word.

            [...]


                      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, expect-
            ing to be told to pack nothing, except the
            prayers which, with this thirst, I am
            slowly learning.

*Thirst, Poems by Mary Oliver (2006)