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Posts Tagged ‘New And Selected Poems by Mary Oliver’


I can’t believe this. My favorite author and poet is gone. All these years, I have admired her thoughts and her words.

I’ve been blogging about her since I can remember. I am so lucky to have four of her books,    A Thousand Mornings, New And Selected Poems  Vol. 1, Upstream and one of her latest books, Devotions.  

When I feel so alone, I peruse her poems and I am uplifted. She could write about anything under the sun and when she writes about nature, you feel like you are there communing with her.  When she writes about feelings,  you feel like crying.

Thanks to Getty Images for this lovely photo which I culled from the net.

One of my favorite quotes from her which I have memorized over the years are these words:

Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

Goodbye, sweet friend.

 

 

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Amazing! There is always something new every time I read Mary Oliver’s poems and you get to imagine the scene while appreciating every word. You get  to open your eyes to the way she sees the world – and you smile because somehow she has accurately described what you feel. I can’t wait to read her new book, A Thousand Mornings which a friend  bought for me.

Value time, value each moment,  love nature! Expressed in simple words but touches the core of your being. So much to learn, so much to appreciate just reading her poems.

Song of the Builders
On a summer morning
I sat down
on a hillside
to think about God –
 
a worthy pastime.
Near me, I saw
a single cricket;
it was moving the grains of the hillside
 
this way and that way.
How great was its energy,
how humble its effort.
Let us hope

it will always be like this,
each of us going on
in our inexplicable ways

building the universe.

Where Does the Dance Begin, Where Does It End?

Don’t call this world adorable, or useful, that’s not it.
It’s frisky, and a theater for more than fair winds.
The eyelash of lightning is neither good nor evil.
The struck tree burns like a pillar of gold.
 
But the blue rain sinks, straight to the white
feet of the trees
whose mouths open.
Doesn’t the wind, turning in circles, invent the dance?
Haven’t the flowers moved, slowly, across Asia, then Europe,
until at last, now, they shine
in your own yard?
 
Don’t call this world an explanation, or even an education.
 
When the Sufi poet whirled, was he looking
outward, to the mountains so solidly there
in a white-capped ring, or was he looking
 
to the center of everything: the seed, the egg, the idea
that was also there,
beautiful as a thumb
curved and touching the finger, tenderly,
little love-ring,
 
as he whirled,
oh jug of breath,
in the garden of dust?
 

 

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