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

 

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

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

        

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

Carrying the Snake to the Garden (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Oliver

In the cellar

was the smallest snake

I have ever seen.

It coiled itself

in a corner

and watched me

with eyes

like two little stars

set into coal,

and a tail

that quivered.

One step

of my foot

and it fled

like a running shoelace,

but a scoop of the wrist

and I had it

in my hand.

I was sorry

for the fear,

so I hurried

upstairs and out the kitchen door

to the warm grass

and the sunlight

and the garden.

It turned and turned

in my hand

but when I put it down

it didn't move.

I thought

it was going to flow

up my leg

and into my pocket.

I thought, for a moment,

as it lifted its face,

it was going to sing.

And then it was gone.

 by Mary Oliver

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.

from Devotions: the Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

Penguin, 2017

Wild Geese (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

    love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting---

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

 

 

 

from Devotions: the Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

Penguin, 2017 

Backyard (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Oliver

I had no time to haul out all

the dead stuff so it hung, limp

or dry, wherever the wind swung it

over or down or across. All summer

it stayed that way, untrimmed, and

thickened. The paths grew

damp and uncomfortable and mossy until

nobody could get through but a mouse or a 

shadow. Blackberries, ferns, leaves, litter

totally without direction management

supervision. The birds loved it.

from Devotions: the Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

Penguin, 2017