Monday, October 25, 2021

Mindful (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Oliver



Every day
    I see or hear
        something
            that more or less

kills me
    with delight,
        that leaves me
            like a needle

in the haystack
    of light,
        It is what I was born for--
            to look, to listen,

to lose myself
    inside this soft world--
        to instruct myself
            over and over

in joy,
    and acclamation.
        Nor am I talking 
            about the exceptinal,
 
the fearful, the dreadful,
    the very extravagant--
        but of the ordinary,
            the common, the very drab,
 
the daily presentations.
    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?
 
 
 
from Devotions: the Selected Poems of Mary Oliver
Penguin, 2017
 

Monday, October 18, 2021

Poppies (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Oliver



The poppies send up their
orange flares; swaying
in the wind, their congregations
are a levitation

of bright dust, of thin
and lacy leaves.
There isn't a place
in this world that doesn't

sooner or later drown
in the indigos of darkness,
but now, for a while,
the roughage

shines like a miracle
as it floats above everything
with its yellow hair.
Of course nothing stops the cold,

black, curved blade
from looking forward--
of course
loss is the great lesson.

But also I say this: that light
is an invitation
to happiness,
and that happiness,

when it's done right,
is a kind of holiness,
palpable and redemptive.
Inside the bright fields,

touched by their rough and spongy gold,.
I am washed and washed
in the river
of earthly delight--

and what are you going to do--
what can you do
about it--
deep, blue night?



from Devotions: the Selected Poems of Mary Oliver
Penguin, 2017

Monday, October 11, 2021

Goldenrod (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Oliver



On roadsides,
    in fall fields,
        in rumpy bunches,
            saffron and orange and pale gold,

in little towers,
    soft as mash,
        sneeze-bringers and seed-bearers,
            full of bees and yellow beads and perfect flowerlets

and orange butterflies.
    I don't suppose
        much notice comes of it, except for honey,
            and how it heartens the heart with its

blank blaze.
    I don't suppose anything loves it except, perhaps,
        the rocky voids
            filled by its dumb dazzle.

For myself,
    I was just passing by, when the wind flared
       and the blossoms rustled,
            and the glittering pandemonium

leaned on me.
    I was just minding my own business
        when I found myself on their straw hillsides,
            citron and butter-colored,

and was happy, and why not?
    Are not the difficult labors of our lives
        full of dark hours?
            And what has consciousness come to anyway, so far,

that is far better than these light-filled bodies?
    All day
        on their airy backbones
            they toss in the wind,

they bend as thought it was natural and godly to bend,
    they rise in a stiff sweetness,
        in the pure peace of giving
            one's gold away.



from Devotions: the Selected Poems of Mary Oliver
Penguin, 2017
        

Monday, October 4, 2021

Some Questions You Might Ask (Monday Poem,)

by Mary Oliver
 
 
Is the soul solid, like iron?
Or is it tender and breakable, like
the wings of a moth in the beak of the owl?
Who has it, and who doesn't?
I keep looking around me.
The face of the moose is as sad
as the face of Jesus.
The swan opens her white wings slowly.
In the fall, the black bear carries leaves into the darkness.
One question leads to another.
Does it have a shape? Like an iceberg?
Like the eye of a hummingbird?
Does it have one lung, like the snake and the scallop?
Why should I have it, and not the anteater
who loves her children?
Why should I have it, and not the camel?
Come to think of it, what about the maple trees?
What about the blue iris?
What about all the little stones, sitting alone in the moonlight?
What about roses, and lemons, and their shining leaves?
What about the grass?




from Devotions: the Selected Poems of Mary Oliver
Penguin, 2017