You must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
In Blackwater Woods – by Mary Oliver
Mindful
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 was 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 exceptional,
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?
Mindful – by Mary Oliver
Mysteries, Yes
Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous
to be understood.
How grass can be nourishing in the
mouths of the lambs.
How rivers and stones are forever
in allegiance with gravity
while we ourselves dream of rising.
How two hands touch and the bonds
will never be broken.
How people come, from delight or the
scars of damage,
to the comfort of a poem.
Let me keep my distance, always, from those
who think they have the answers.
Let me keep company always with those who say
“Look!” and laugh in astonishment,
and bow their heads.
Mysteries, Yes! – by Mary Oliver
.
. . .
.
the best poems are probably the ones
that you write yourself
touched
everything you touch you change
everything you change changes you
herein lies the power
of living fully
there is nothing better than to be touched
when the hairs stand up on my forearms
when tears well up unexpected
when my soul calls
out of the blue
The Noble Qualities
In this world
the gentle-hearted are often overlooked
and the soft spoken don’t get heard on the tables
Does this take anything away from those noble qualities?
The beautiful blue butterfly in the jungle
is never admired by a human eye
And she is still beautiful
in the Eye of God
We may find it hard to go un-recognized
by our fellow humans
We may crave acknowledgement and gratitude
for our efforts and deeds
But in the end
it really does
not matter
In the end there is only Me and GOD
And in the end I do things for the sake of doing them
or otherwise i don’t do them at all
So simple it can be!
Whales don’t really mind
rain is moving in from the sea
sheets of lovely warm rain
driven sideways by the wind
beautifully
I thought I saw a whale in the mist
but it might have been my fantasy
Anyway, the whales, they don’t mind the rain
They are not like us
river
look, the river!
flowing, just flowing
look how it clings to nothing at all
always finding the way
look how it flows
all the way
to the
sea
look, the river!
it just longs
to merge
I guess my soul
is such a river
.
. . .
.
Praying
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.
Praying- by Mary Oliver
… I feel my heart
pumping hard. I want
to think again of dangerous and noble things.
I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings.
Starling in winter- by Mary Oliver
Wild geese
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.
Wild geese – by Mary Oliver

Homage to the poet Mary Oliver

