Summer -- Mary Oliver

Guest poem sent in by Arunasri Nishtala

(Poem #1678) Summer Leaving the house, I went out to see The frog, for example, in her satiny skin; and her eggs like a slippery veil; and her eyes with their golden rims; and the pond with its risen lilies; and its warmed shores dotted with pink flowers; and the long, windless afternoons; and the white heron like a dropped cloud, taking one slow step then standing awhile then taking another, writing her own soft-footed poem through the still waters. -- Mary Oliver

This poem says it all. Delightfully vivid and the last lines dive deep,
where poetry is a hobby of frogs...

I guess it is our attempt in understanding and appreciating art, poetry
and nature that that can lift us human beings up to the high standards
of the other members of nature: the plant kingdom and the animal kingdom.

Arunasri

When Death Comes -- Mary Oliver

Guest poem sent in by Katherine E. Hudson

(Poem #1376) When Death Comes When death comes like the hungry bear in autumn; when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse to buy me, and snaps the purse shut; when death comes like the measle-pox: when death comes like an iceberg between the shoulder blades, I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness? And therefore I look upon everything as a brotherhood and a sisterhood, and I look upon time as no more than an idea, and I consider eternity as another possibility, and I think of each life as a flower, as common as a field daisy, and as singular, and each name a comfortable music in the mouth, tending, as all music does, toward silence, and each body a lion of courage, and something precious to the earth. When it's over, I want to say: all my life I was a bride married to amazement. I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms. When it's over, I don't want to wonder if I have made of my life something particular, and real. I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened, or full of argument. I don't want to end up simply having visited this world. -- Mary Oliver

I've been somewhat surprised so few of Mary Oliver's poems have been
included in the Minstrels' archive, as I have found her a revelation and a
delight among contemporary poets.  I suppose that's because she addresses
matters that engage my interest and does so with language that is both
ordinary and imaginative.

She has a unique ability to convey the wonder and awe the natural world and
its denizens can evoke, usually using rather simple language to do it,
though this poem doesn't really illustrate that ability.  Nonetheless, "the
bride married to amazement" and "the bridegroom, taking the world into [his]
arms," firmly link this poem to others in which Oliver more obviously
celebrates the natural world.

The catalog of images at the beginning of this poem reminds me of the
various forms of death identified by Gerard Manley Hopkins at the beginning
of "Part the Second" of The Wreck of the Deutschland:  "'Some find me a
sword; some/The flange and the rail; flame,/Fang, or flood,' goes Death on a
drum/And storms bugle his fame."  But Hopkins' list is rather flatly
concrete, while Oliver's imagery is forceful and evocative, suggesting the
suddenness with which death may come (the snapping shut of the purse), its
implacability (the hungry bear), the pain and disgust (the measle-pox), and
fear (the iceberg between the shoulders--oooh, I like that one!) that may
accompany it.   [By the way, don't anybody think I'm dissing Hopkins, who is
one of my favorite poets; and The Deutschland is a powerful poem, I think--a
pity it's probably too long for the Minstrels' archive.]

But my fondness for Oliver's poetry isn't based in analysis--she moves me,
consistently and deeply.  And my desire for that kind of experience is why I
signed up for the Minstrels' list.  Only a few poems I've seen so far have
given me the charge only good poetry can (The Icelandic Language was
one)--but that's not a problem: how many highs a week can a person stand,
anyway?  And I'm seeing poems I would otherwise never encounter.  I thank
you very much indeed for your service and thank my fellow list-members for
their contributions and insights.

Katherine Hudson

Peonies -- Mary Oliver

Guest poem sent in by Vidur

(Poem #1234) Peonies This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready to break my heart as the sun rises, as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers and they open - pools of lace, white and pink - and all day the black ants climb over them, boring their deep and mysterious holes into the curls, craving the sweet sap, taking it away to their dark, underground cities - and all day under the shifty wind, as in a dance to the great wedding, the flowers bend their bright bodies, and tip their fragrance to the air, and rise, their red stems holding all that dampness and recklessness gladly and lightly, and there it is again - beauty the brave, the exemplary, blazing open. Do you love this world? Do you cherish your humble and silky life? Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath? Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden, and softly, and exclaiming of their dearness, fill your arms with the white and pink flowers, with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling, their eagerness to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are nothing, forever? -- Mary Oliver

I'm a little behind on my minstrels reading, so I just got to the poem
by Louis Gluck that Alan sent in (Poem #1224). To borrow from his dead-on
comment, the truly wonderful nature poets "say something beyond description
while still keeping one's description exact".

I recently discovered Mary Oliver at a used book sale, and simply had to
send in one of her poems. A celebrated American poet, she won the Pulitzer
in '84. Some of the poems are exquisite.

'Peonies' is from the book 'New and Selected Poems', which earned her
the National Book Award for poetry. It is perhaps more representative
of her style and themes than 'Wild Geese' is, although the latter is
her most quoted poem (and I see was run on Minstrels some time ago).

I can't really speak for anyone else, but I do wish that I could be
'wild and perfect for a moment', even if I'm 'nothing forever' after.

best,
:v:

[Martin adds]

This is one of those rare poems that packs a little extra punch in both its
opening and its closing lines. Indeed, despite the poised beauty of "wild
and perfect for a moment, before they are nothing forever", I think my
favourite line in a lovely poem is "the green fists of the peonies are
getting ready to break my heart". Poignant, yet as Alan said and Vidur
concurred, an undeniably exact description.

Wild Geese -- Mary Oliver

Guest poem submitted by Aparna Chennapragada :

(Poem #426) 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 your 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. -- Mary Oliver

I stumbled upon this poem most unexpectedly and I love the way the poem 'feels'.
Not being into analysing poems, all I can add is I found myself re-discovering
all those little joys in the world around me, that Mary Oliver speaks of in her
poems.

Aparna.

[Bio]

Mary Oliver is the author of more than ten volumes of poetry and prose,
including "New and Selected Poems", "American Primitive"(Pulitzer Prize winner
1984), "House of Light", and "Blue Pastures". A longtime resident of
Provincetown, Massachussetts, she is now the Catharine Osgood Foster Professor
at Bennington College, Vermont. (From the cover of her book "New and Selected
Poems").

[thomas adds]

Is it just me or is there a distinct Native American feel to this poem? Oh, and
while you're answering that question, check out Chief Seattle's Reply to the men
who wanted to buy his land, poem #184, and also the Navajo Night Way
Ceremony, poem #344.