Archive for July 19th, 2011

I keep coming back, looking at some quotes on her poems, but it is not enough, I want to get hold of one of her books.  This is my second blog on Mary Oliver since I discovered her in another site that I regularly visit. A writer friend commented when I posted some quotes on my wall at Facebook and she gladly provided me with some excerpts from the author’s poems.  I told her I could feel every word Mary O  has written.  There are poets and there are writers but when one is lucky enough to encounter their lovely thoughts, one is transported to another world. I’m quite envious that she could clearly string words that thrill and delight one’s senses.

Welcome to the silly, comforting poem.
It is not the sunrise,
which is a red rinse,
which is flaring all over the eastern sky;
it is not the rain falling out of the purse of God;
it is not the blue helmet of the sky afterward,
or the trees, or the beetle burrowing into the earth;
it is not the mockingbird who, in his own cadence,
will go on sizzling and clapping
from the branches of the catalpa that are thick with blossoms,
that are billowing and shining,
that are shaking in the wind.

You still recall, sometimes, the old barn on your
great-grandfather’s farm, a place you visited once, and
went into, all alone, while the grownups sat and
talked in the house.
It was empty, or almost. Wisps of hay covered the floor,
and some wasps sang at the windows, and maybe there was
a strange fluttering bird high above, disturbed, hoo-ing
a little and staring down from a messy ledge with wild,
binocular eyes.

Mostly, though, it smelled of milk, and the patience of
animals; the give-offs of the body were still in the air,
a vague ammonia, not unpleasant.

Mostly, though, it was restful and secret, the roof high
up and arched, the boards unpainted and plain.
You could have stayed there forever, a small child in a corner,
on the last raft of hay, dazzled by so much space that seemed
empty, but wasn’t.

Then–you still remember–you felt the rap of hunger–it was
noon–and you turned from that twilight dream and hurried back
to the house, where the table was set, where an uncle patted you
on the shoulder for welcome, and there was your place at the table.

Nothing lasts.
There is a graveyard where everything I am talking about is,
I stood there once, on the green grass, scattering flowers.
Nothing is so delicate or so finely hinged as the wings
of the green moth
against the lantern
against its heat
against the beak of the crow
in the early morning.

Yet the moth has trim, and feistiness, and not a drop
of self-pity.
Not in this world.

How I wish I could write my thoughts like she does. Wishful thinking of course, because it will never be, not even in this lifetime. Suffice to say, I enjoy reading every word she writes. I find pleasure in every thought she imparts.  Thank you Mary Oliver!


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