Lately, I’ve been drawn to re-reading Mary Oliver’s poems. Maybe drawn is too subtle. Pulled with a force that is both unknown and a touch frightening is more accurate.
My old copy of her New and Selected Poems (Beacon Press, 1992) opens on its own to several poems. The spine is cracked at “Morning Poem,” which opens first. Whether, as she says, it is your nature to be happy, or whether your spirit carries within it the thorn that is heavier than lead, we are given comfort—each pond with its blazing lilies is a prayer heard and answered every morning, whether or not you have ever dared to be happy, whether or not you have ever dared to pray.
Next, my copy opens to “Wild Geese.” Reading that first line, just being told, You do not have to be good… always releases a weight. This isn’t comfort, it’s acceptance. 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.
But next to it, on the facing page, is “Robert Schumann.” This poem has haunted me since I first read it. Though I’m not sure she meant it to be so, its sadness still does. The image of him—after knowing his last years were in the asylum…trudging the long road down through madness toward death—the image of him now young, having just met a girl named Clara is what’s brought me that sadness. I’ve always thought of the loss. But Oliver’s poem, I’m now beginning to think, is showing us that memory can be a saving grace. Like Oliver does, we can think of him: nineteen, say, and it is spring in Germany and he has just met a girl named Clara. He turns the corner, he scrapes the dirt from his soles, he runs up the dark staircase, humming. Yes, we see prophesy in the dark staircase, but we also are given hope. He is humming. He is filled with light. No matter the end, his music saves us.
At least that’s what I have come to conclude at this reading, on this day. I still need to get deeper into the poem.
See what Mary Oliver does to me?
{ 6 comments }
I think it’s wonderful that you can get so much from poetry. I never could but I’m trying by reading more of it.
Catherine, that’s the way to do it—read to find what speaks to you. I tend to gravitate toward poets who write about nature, or rather, use nature as a metaphor.
I’ve never heard of Mary Oliver. Thanks for the excerpts; I’ll see what the library has to offer.
Anne, she’s the poet (along with Jane Kenyon and Jane Hirshfield) I keep circling back to. I’ve loved her work since I first found out about/read her back in the 80s. She’s one of those poets that I think people adore, or not. I don’t think there’s a middle ground. Nature is her metaphor and if one isn’t a nature person, than she might not be the poet for them. I think she writes with grace and has a simplicity that’s deceivingly filled with depth. I think readers who just look at the obvious and not at the layers beneath it, miss it. I hope you enjoy her work. Let me know what you think.
I don’t read many poems, though occasionally I’ll get a book of children’s poems from the library and read them with my 11-year-old. Probably should do that more often. I love the way a poem generates emotion with so few words. For me, writing a poem would be the hardest form of writing, using words so precisely, so cleverly to generate the emotion and depth with such vivid images. I have to admire poets.
Andrea, thanks for stopping by! I think writing poetry is the hardest form of writing, too, with haiku being the hardest. Picture books fall into that difficult-to-write category as well. Reading poems with your 11-year old is great. Have you read kids’ poetry? Kids are terrific poets—I think they get to their feelings better than adults do.
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