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Mary Oliver has been writing poetry for nearly five decades, and in that time she has become America's foremost poetic voice on our experience of the physical world. This collection presents forty-two new poems-an entire volume in itself-along with works chosen by Oliver from six of the books she has published since New and Selected Poems, Volume One.
Saying that Mary Oliver writes "nature poetry" is like saying Louis Armstrong played the trumpet. Her verse is rich and deep, what Coleridge called philosophical poetry. And yes, she does look and listen deeply to the natural world, striving to be aware and yet become one with it. Oliver writes with passion in both the physical and spiritual senses. This collection is a way to spend some time in the company of a deep soul. ( )
I recently found Mary Oliver’s collection New and Selected Poems: Volume Two. The connection I have to her poems is ethereal and pleasing in every sense of the word. If I have a model to follow, it would most certainly be Mary Oliver. I have talked about her in several reviews, so this one will only include selections from volume two.
“Work, Sometimes.” “I was sad all day, and why not. There I was, books piled on both sides of the table, paper stacked up, words falling off my tongue. // The robins had a long time singing, and now it was beginning to rain. // What are we sure of? Happiness isn’t a town on a map, or an early arrival, or a job well done, but good work ongoing. Which is not likely to be the trifling around with a poem. // Then it began raining hard, and the flowers in the yard were full of lively fragrance. // You have had days like this, no doubt. And wasn’t it wonderful, finally, to leave the room? Ah, what a moment! // As for myself, I swung the door open. And there was the wordless, singing world. And I ran for my life.” (6).
“Of What Surrounds Me.” Whatever it is I am saying, I always / need a leaf or a flower, if not an / entire field. As for the sky, I am so wildly / in love with each day’s inventions, cool blue / or cat gray or full / of the ships of clouds, I simply can’t / say whatever it is I am saying without / a least one skyful. That leaves water, a / creek or a well, river or ocean, it has to be / there. For the heart to be there. For the pen / to be poised. For the idea to come.” (32).
“The Faces of Deer.” When for too long I don’t go deep enough into the woods to see them, they begin to enter my dreams. Yes, there they are, in the pinewoods of my inner life. I want to live a life full of modesty and praise. Each hoof of each animal makes the sign of a heart as it touches then lifts away from the ground. Unless you believe that heaven is very near, how will you find it? Their eyes are pools in which one would be content, on any summer afternoon, to swim away through the door of the world. Then, love and its blessing. Then: heaven.” (33).
“The Owl Who Comes.” “The owl who comes / through the dark / to sit / in the black boughs of the apple tree // and stare down / the hook of his beak, / dead silent, / and his eyes, // like two moons / in the distance, / soft and shining / under their heavy lashes-- // like the most beautiful lie-- / is thinking / of nothing / as he watches // and waits to see / what might appear, / briskly, out of the seamless, // deep winter-- / out of the teeming / world below-- / and if I wish the owl luck, / and I do, / what am I wishing for that other / soft life, / climbing through the snow? // What we must do, / I suppose,/is to hope the world keeps its balance; // what we are to do, however, / with our hearts / waiting and watching—truly / I do not know.” (52-53).
Like so many of her poems, I felt a deep connection. Sometime back, I was out for a pre-dawn walk, when two birds flashed before my eyes—only a foot or two away—and I scared the owl, which flew up into a tree, not more than 10 feet away. I stood there in a staring contest as we sized each other up. Then she took off and flew away.
Mary Oliver’s collection, New and Selected Poems: Volume Two, will take you places to see things in a new light. 5 stars.
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For Molly Malone Cook
Incipit
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In the north country now it is spring and there is a certain celebration.
Citazioni
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Everything
I want to make poems that say right out, plainly, what I mean, that don't go looking for the laces of elaboration, puffed sleeves. I want to keep close and use often words like heavy, heart, joy, soon, and to cherish the question mark and her bold sister
the dash. I want to write with quiet hands. I want to write while crossing the fields that are fresh with daisies and everlasting and the ordinary grass. I want to make poems while thinking of the bread of heaven and the cup of astonishment; let them be
songs in which nothing is neglected, not a hope, not a promise. I want to make poems that look into the earth and the heavens and see the unseeable. I want them to honor both the heart of faith, and the light of the world; the gladness that says, without any words, everything.
of the stars, heaven's slowly turning theater of light
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!
Life so far doesn't have any other name but breath and light, wind and rain.
I have flown from the window of myself to become white heron, gray whale, fox, hedgehog, camel.
And the wind pumps its bellows. And at evening especially, the piled firewood shifts a little, longing to be on its way.
In Praise of Craziness, of a Certain Kind
On cold evenings my grandmother, with ownership of half her mind— the other half having flown back to Bohemia—
spread newspapers over the porch floor so, she said, the garden ants could crawl beneath, as under a blanket, and keep warm,
and what shall I wish for, for myself, but, being so struck by the lightning of years, to be like her with what is left, that loving.
Patience comes to the bones before it takes root in the heart
as another good idea. I say this as I stand in the woods and study the patterns of the moon shadows, or stroll down into the waters
that now, late summer, have also caught the fever, and hardly move from one eternity to another.
How Would You Live Then?
What if a hundred rose-breasted grosbeaks flew in circles around your head? What if the mockingbird came into the house with you and became your advisor? What if the bees filled your walls with honey and all you needed to do was ask them and they would fill your bowl? What if the brook slid downhill just past your bedroom window so you could listen to its slow prayers as you fell asleep? What if the stars began to shout their names, or to run this way and that way above the clouds? What if you painted a picture of a tree, and the leaves began to rustle, and a bird cheerfully sang from its painted branches? What if you suddenly saw that the silver of water was brighter than the silver of money? What if you finally saw that the sunflowers, turning toward the sun all day and every day—who knows how, but they do it—were more precious, more meaningful than gold?
Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last! What a task to ask
of anything, or anyone,
yet it is ours, and not by the century or the year, but by the hours.
Many Miles
The feet of the heron, under those bamboo stems, hold the blue body, the great beak
above the shallows of the pond. Who could guess their patience?
Sometimes the toes shake, like worms. What fish could resist?
Or think of the cricket, his green hooks climbing the blade of grass— or think of the camel feet
like ear muffs, striding over the sand— or think of your own slapping along the highway,
a long life, many miles. To each of us comes the body gift.
Oh, good scholar, I say to myself, how can you help
but grow wise with such teachings as these— the untrimmable light
of the world, the ocean's shine, the prayers that are made out of grass?
The sky is blue, or the rain falls with its spill of pearl. Around their wreath of darkness the leaves of the world unfurl.
Oh, yesterday, that one, we all cry out. Oh, that one! How rich and possible everything was! How ripe, ready, lavish, and filled with excitement—how hopeful we were on those summer days, under the clean, white raging clouds. Oh, yesterday!
And here comes grasshopper, all toes and knees and eyes, over the little mountains of dust.
The Storm
Now through the white orchard my little dog romps, breaking the new snow with wild feet. Running here running there, excited, hardly able to stop, he leaps, he spins until the white snow is written upon in large, exuberant letters, a long sentence, expressing the pleasures of the body in this world.
Oh, I could not have said it better myself.
the narrow creek has risen is a tawny turbulence is rushing along over the mossy stones is surging forward with a sweet loopy music
When the thumb of fear lifts, we are so alive.
How necessary it is to have opinions!
Grass
Those who disappointed, betrayed, scarified! Those who would still put their hands upon me! Those who belong to the past!
How many of us have weighted the years with groaning and weeping? How many years have I done it how many nights spent panting hating grieving, oh, merciless, pitiless remembrances!
I walk over the green hillsides, I lie down on the harsh, sun-flavored blades and bundles of grass; the grass cares nothing about me, it doesn't want anything from me, it rises to its own purpose, and sweetly, following the single holy dictum; to be itself, to let the sky be the sky, to let a young girl be a young girl freely—to let a middle-aged woman be, comfortably, a middle-aged woman.
Those bloody sharps and flats—those endless calamities of the personal past. Bah! I disown them from the rest of my life, in which I mean to rest.
And then the stars stepped forth and held up their appointed fires— those hot, hard watchmen of the night.
Toad
I was walking by. He was sitting there.
It was full morning, so the heat was heavy on his sand-colored head and his webbed feet. I squatted beside him, at the edge of the path. He didn't move.
I began to talk. I talked about summer, and about time. The pleasures of eating, the terrors of the night. About this cup we call a life. About happiness. And how good it feels, the heat of the sun between the shoulder blades.
He looked neither up nor down, which didn't necessarily mean he was either afraid or asleep. I felt his energy, stored under his tongue perhaps, and behind his bulging eyes.
I talked about how the world seems to me, five feet tall, the blue sky all around my head. I said, I wondered how it seemed to him, down there, intimate with the dust.
He might have been Buddha—did not move, blink, or frown, not a tear fell from those gold-rimmed eyes as the refined anguish of language passed over him.
But he is irresistible! Whatever he wants of mine—my room, my ideas, my glass of milk, my socks and shirts, my place in line, my portion, my world—he may have it.
Ultime parole
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And I am just standing, quietly, in the darkness, under the tree.
Mary Oliver has been writing poetry for nearly five decades, and in that time she has become America's foremost poetic voice on our experience of the physical world. This collection presents forty-two new poems-an entire volume in itself-along with works chosen by Oliver from six of the books she has published since New and Selected Poems, Volume One.
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