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Owls & Other Fantasies (03) by Oliver, Mary [Paperback (2006)]
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July 28, 2025
There is magic enough in this world if we just remember to look. ‘Imagination is better than a sharp instrument,’ poet Mary Oliver reminds us, ‘to pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.’ Often we just need to step outside of ourselves a moment to see the world anew and Oliver’s short collection, Owls and Other Fantasies, gives us a bird’s eye view on life for such purposes. Gorgeous and deeply affecting as only Mary Oliver’s words can be, this collection allows us to better understand ourselves—our lives and our deaths and all in between—as we gave into the trees and watch the birds.
‘Every day I walk out into the world
to be dazzled, then to be reflective.’
Having just gone bird watching the other day, I was delighted to revisit many of these poems and read her brief essays. Oliver shows how a walk through the woods can refresh our minds, hearts and bodies and she brings us along looking for owls or through the struggles of trying to nurse a gull back to health. This collection also contains one of her best known poems, beloved for a reason. Check it out:
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.
A rather comforting poem that shows the solace of the wild when the sorrows of human society grow too much. It’s redemptive, it reminds you the world always gives permission to be yourself, to be your community even when you feel alone. This is her gift of poetry, to give comfort through words and remind us that our place in the larger world is still beautiful. ‘I believe poetry…it’s very sacred,’ Oliver has said of the community poetry brings:
This community and communing with the natural world is what always brings me back to Oliver’s works. It transports us to a space where, like her, ‘I'm humbled, / I'm without words / sufficient to say.’ She also reminds us how birds are such a lovely little gift, a ‘piece of the sky,’ and how much they have to teach us if we only stop and observe.
Goldfinches
Some goldfinches were having a melodious argument at the edge of a puddle. The birds wanted to bathe, or perhaps just to dip their heads and look at themselves, and they were having trouble with who should be first, and so on. So they discussed it while I stood in the distance, listening. Perhaps in Tibet, in the old holy places, they also have such fragile bells. Or are these birds really just that, bells come to us come to this road in America- let us bow our heads and remember now how we used to do it, say a prayer. Meanwhile the birds bathe and splash and have a good time. Then they fly off, their dark wings opening from their bright, yellow bodies; their tiny feet, all washed, clasping the air.
A delightful little collection, one to turn to in hard times or just delight in the world around you. Mary Oliver was a gift to us all.
4/5
white owl flies into and out of the field
coming down
out of the freezing sky
with its depths of light,
like an angel,
or a buddha with wings,
it was beautiful
and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings-
five feet apart-and the grabbing
thrust of its feet,
and the indentation of what had been running
through the white valleys
of the snow-
and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes,
to lurk there,
like a little lighthouse,
in the blue shadows-
so i thought:
maybe death
isn't darkness, after all,
but so much light
wrapping itself around us-
as soft as feathers-
that we are instantly weary
of looking, and looking, and shut our eyes,
not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river
that is without the least dapple or shadow-
that is nothing but light-scalding, aortal light-
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.
‘Every day I walk out into the world
to be dazzled, then to be reflective.’
Having just gone bird watching the other day, I was delighted to revisit many of these poems and read her brief essays. Oliver shows how a walk through the woods can refresh our minds, hearts and bodies and she brings us along looking for owls or through the struggles of trying to nurse a gull back to health. This collection also contains one of her best known poems, beloved for a reason. Check it out:
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.
A rather comforting poem that shows the solace of the wild when the sorrows of human society grow too much. It’s redemptive, it reminds you the world always gives permission to be yourself, to be your community even when you feel alone. This is her gift of poetry, to give comfort through words and remind us that our place in the larger world is still beautiful. ‘I believe poetry…it’s very sacred,’ Oliver has said of the community poetry brings:
‘It wishes for a community. It’s a community ritual, certainly. And that’s why, when you write a poem, you write it for anybody and everybody. And you have to be ready to do that out of your single self. It’s a giving. It’s always — it’s a gift. It’s a gift to yourself but it’s a gift to anybody who has a hunger for it.’
This community and communing with the natural world is what always brings me back to Oliver’s works. It transports us to a space where, like her, ‘I'm humbled, / I'm without words / sufficient to say.’ She also reminds us how birds are such a lovely little gift, a ‘piece of the sky,’ and how much they have to teach us if we only stop and observe.
Goldfinches
Some goldfinches were having a melodious argument at the edge of a puddle. The birds wanted to bathe, or perhaps just to dip their heads and look at themselves, and they were having trouble with who should be first, and so on. So they discussed it while I stood in the distance, listening. Perhaps in Tibet, in the old holy places, they also have such fragile bells. Or are these birds really just that, bells come to us come to this road in America- let us bow our heads and remember now how we used to do it, say a prayer. Meanwhile the birds bathe and splash and have a good time. Then they fly off, their dark wings opening from their bright, yellow bodies; their tiny feet, all washed, clasping the air.
A delightful little collection, one to turn to in hard times or just delight in the world around you. Mary Oliver was a gift to us all.
4/5
white owl flies into and out of the field
coming down
out of the freezing sky
with its depths of light,
like an angel,
or a buddha with wings,
it was beautiful
and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings-
five feet apart-and the grabbing
thrust of its feet,
and the indentation of what had been running
through the white valleys
of the snow-
and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes,
to lurk there,
like a little lighthouse,
in the blue shadows-
so i thought:
maybe death
isn't darkness, after all,
but so much light
wrapping itself around us-
as soft as feathers-
that we are instantly weary
of looking, and looking, and shut our eyes,
not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river
that is without the least dapple or shadow-
that is nothing but light-scalding, aortal light-
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.
May 28, 2019
These poems are like random treasures that a faraway friend has collected over the years, assembled into a care package, and flown to you by old-fashioned postal mail. You dip into the box, and one by one unwrap them, anticipating delight. Some are whimsical, some intense, some meditative. All are infused with love. All are about birds in the wild --owls and great blue herons and loons, a flicker, a kingfisher and many others. Interspersed with the poems are exquisite, finely detailed drawings of feathers from different species. They appear from their delicacy to be pencil drawings but may be some kind of delicate etching. I found no credit given to any artist anywhere in the book. Could the drawings also be Ms. Oliver's? They appear to be by a single hand.
Owls and Other Fantasies was just the right title. Along with many years of close observation of wild birds in their habits and habitats reported with fresh turns of phrase, these poems are full of fantasies -- speculations on the birds’ interior lives and motivations, whimsical anthropomorphies into poets, philosophers, preachers -- and imaginations of death and life beyond. Owls — clearly the birds that most fascinate Ms. Oliver — appeared in at least two strong poems and an essay. In Little Owl Who Lives in the Orchard
His beak could open a bottle,
and his eyes—when he lifts their soft lids—
go on reading something
just beyond your shoulder—
Blake, maybe
or the Book of Revelation.
. . .
it’s not size but surge that tells us
when we’re in touch with something real,
and when I hear him in the orchard
fluttering
down the little aluminum
ladder of his scream—
And in White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field
like an angel
or a buddha with wings,
it was beautiful
and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings—
leaving Mary Oliver to speculate, in the bird’s aftermath:
maybe death
isn’t darkness after all,
but so much light
wrapping itself around us—
as soft as feathers—
that we are instantly weary
of looking, and looking, and shut our eyes,
not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river
that is without the least dapple of shadow—
that is nothing but light—scalding, aortal light—
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.
I find a courage of freedom here, a release of imagination — this is not how we moderns are supposed to think of death — but why not? It's a sublime vision.
On the other hand, at the center of this book is a powerful and sober essay about death that turns out to be about the great intensity of life in a dying creature.
On a December morning, two year ago, I brought a young, injured black-backed gull home from the beach. It was, in fact, Christmas morning, as well as bitter cold, which may account for my act. Injured gulls are common: nature’s maw receives them again implacably; almost never is rescue justified by a return to health and freedom.
And neither did this gull return to health and freedom — but for quite a long time, it regained strength and lived with Mary and her partner, all the while declining, to the point where, as a mercy We tried to kill him, with sleeping pills, but he only slept for a long time … then woke with his usual brightness. The bird lived on for months, withering yet playful -- And still the eyes were full of the spices of amusement.
A straightforward recounting of the experience, this essay felt to me like an anchor at the center of the book’s swirl of fantasy.
Owls and Other Fantasies was just the right title. Along with many years of close observation of wild birds in their habits and habitats reported with fresh turns of phrase, these poems are full of fantasies -- speculations on the birds’ interior lives and motivations, whimsical anthropomorphies into poets, philosophers, preachers -- and imaginations of death and life beyond. Owls — clearly the birds that most fascinate Ms. Oliver — appeared in at least two strong poems and an essay. In Little Owl Who Lives in the Orchard
His beak could open a bottle,
and his eyes—when he lifts their soft lids—
go on reading something
just beyond your shoulder—
Blake, maybe
or the Book of Revelation.
. . .
it’s not size but surge that tells us
when we’re in touch with something real,
and when I hear him in the orchard
fluttering
down the little aluminum
ladder of his scream—
And in White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field
like an angel
or a buddha with wings,
it was beautiful
and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings—
leaving Mary Oliver to speculate, in the bird’s aftermath:
maybe death
isn’t darkness after all,
but so much light
wrapping itself around us—
as soft as feathers—
that we are instantly weary
of looking, and looking, and shut our eyes,
not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river
that is without the least dapple of shadow—
that is nothing but light—scalding, aortal light—
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.
I find a courage of freedom here, a release of imagination — this is not how we moderns are supposed to think of death — but why not? It's a sublime vision.
On the other hand, at the center of this book is a powerful and sober essay about death that turns out to be about the great intensity of life in a dying creature.
On a December morning, two year ago, I brought a young, injured black-backed gull home from the beach. It was, in fact, Christmas morning, as well as bitter cold, which may account for my act. Injured gulls are common: nature’s maw receives them again implacably; almost never is rescue justified by a return to health and freedom.
And neither did this gull return to health and freedom — but for quite a long time, it regained strength and lived with Mary and her partner, all the while declining, to the point where, as a mercy We tried to kill him, with sleeping pills, but he only slept for a long time … then woke with his usual brightness. The bird lived on for months, withering yet playful -- And still the eyes were full of the spices of amusement.
A straightforward recounting of the experience, this essay felt to me like an anchor at the center of the book’s swirl of fantasy.
May 27, 2017
He was, of course, a piece of the sky. His eyes said so. This is not fact, this is the other part of knowing something, when there is no proof, but neither is there any way toward disbelief. Imagine lifting the lid from a jar and finding it filled not with darkness but with light. Bird was like that. Startling, elegant, alive.
But the day we knew must come did at last, and then the non-responsiveness of his eyes was terrible. It was late February when I came downstairs, as usual, before dawn. Then returned upstairs, to M. The sweep and play of the morning was just beginning, its tender colors reaching everywhere. “The little gull has died,” I said to M., as I lifted the shades to the morning light.
September 28, 2022
THE BIRDS ESSAY
Read
January 9, 2025(don’t star rate poetry) - a collection of poems based on birds. we all know how i feel about Oliver but we should know i also feel deeply about birds, as i feel most humans should. Mary Oliver has the touch of being able to perfectly make you feel you can relate your human life to those creatures around you and this is no different. having a special affinity to birds (thanks mom) i loved having most of those poems in one place, to really explore that space that we view of birds being a symbol for freedom, love, wisdom and bravery.
March 20, 2025
4.5/5
This was a fantastic poetry collection. I love poetry about birds and Mary’s voice was really hitting hard for me in this one. Probably my second favourite collection of hers :)
This was a fantastic poetry collection. I love poetry about birds and Mary’s voice was really hitting hard for me in this one. Probably my second favourite collection of hers :)
January 21, 2020
What I'm leaving here is merely a glimpse of Mary Oliver's peaceful poetry. Nature is a well-known friend of hers. The birds and flowers, the pebbles and stones. Her message to go outside, to let ourselves feel, to pay attention to the natural world is both insightful and inspiring. Reminds me of Emily Dickinson's poems. 🌼
"Long Afternoon at the Edge of Little Sister Pond"
As for life,
I’m humbled,
I’m without words
sufficient to say
how it has been hard as flint,
and soft as a spring pond,
both of these
and over and over,
and long pale afternoons besides,
and so many mysteries
beautiful as eggs in a nest,
still unhatched
though warm and watched over
by something I have never seen—
a tree angel, perhaps,
or a ghost of holiness.
Every day I walk out into the world
to be dazzled, then to be reflective.
It suffices, it is all comfort—
along with human love,
dog love, water love, little-serpent love,
sunburst love, or love for that smallest of birds
flying among the scarlet flowers.
There is hardly time to think about
stopping, and lying down at last
to the long afterlife, to the tenderness
yet to come, when
time will brim over the singular pond, and become forever,
and we will pretend to melt away into the leaves.
As for death,
I can’t wait to be the hummingbird,
can you?
She comments on virtues through the language of birds and flowers.
"Long Afternoon at the Edge of Little Sister Pond"
As for life,
I’m humbled,
I’m without words
sufficient to say
how it has been hard as flint,
and soft as a spring pond,
both of these
and over and over,
and long pale afternoons besides,
and so many mysteries
beautiful as eggs in a nest,
still unhatched
though warm and watched over
by something I have never seen—
a tree angel, perhaps,
or a ghost of holiness.
Every day I walk out into the world
to be dazzled, then to be reflective.
It suffices, it is all comfort—
along with human love,
dog love, water love, little-serpent love,
sunburst love, or love for that smallest of birds
flying among the scarlet flowers.
There is hardly time to think about
stopping, and lying down at last
to the long afterlife, to the tenderness
yet to come, when
time will brim over the singular pond, and become forever,
and we will pretend to melt away into the leaves.
As for death,
I can’t wait to be the hummingbird,
can you?
She comments on virtues through the language of birds and flowers.
May 22, 2020
What can I say? It's Mary Oliver, it's all birds and ponds and joy in life. Joy in spite of the spector of death, in spite of losing loved ones, in spite of a difficult past. Because all of those things are temporary and of the mind/body. But joy in life and nature is in the Spirit, and nothing can touch the spirit unless we allow it. Mary made the choice years ago not to allow it, and that has blessed all of us who read her poetry.
I feel I have sat near her at the pond, on the shore and in the woods. Reading her poems, I can hear the call and songs of the birds, feel the movement of air as wings brush by me, become part of what is eternal. We miss you Mary.
"If you have ever gone to the woods with me, I must love you very much."~~Mary Oliver, Swan: Poems and Prose Poems
I feel I have sat near her at the pond, on the shore and in the woods. Reading her poems, I can hear the call and songs of the birds, feel the movement of air as wings brush by me, become part of what is eternal. We miss you Mary.
"If you have ever gone to the woods with me, I must love you very much."~~Mary Oliver, Swan: Poems and Prose Poems
August 24, 2023
These poems took my breath away. I love how Mary Oliver was able to extract so much information about life from her daily walks, whether it was in the woods, by a pond or at the edge of the sea. In the three volumes of her poetry that I have read so far, it appears that birds of all kinds fascinated and enthralled her. She knew what each bird was called, their habits, their songs, and their temperaments. Then she was able to capture all that detail and magically wrap it into a short poem, brimming with so much life you can almost hear the song of the catbird or the flap of the wings of the owl, gliding overhead. In "White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field," the poet compares death not to darkness, but to the light a small animal might see and feel as it is being lifted out of a field by an owl and taken to the edge of a river. We are left to imagine the light would be:
"...scalding, aortal light --
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones."
In "Long Afternoon at the Edge of Little Sister Pond," she ponders death again:
"...when
time will brim over the singular pond, and become forever,
and we will pretend to melt away into the leaves.
As for death,
I can't wait to be the hummingbird,
can you?"
"...scalding, aortal light --
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones."
In "Long Afternoon at the Edge of Little Sister Pond," she ponders death again:
"...when
time will brim over the singular pond, and become forever,
and we will pretend to melt away into the leaves.
As for death,
I can't wait to be the hummingbird,
can you?"
April 12, 2013
"Every day I walk out into the world
to be dazzled, then to be reflective."
She does, and she teaches us how to do both.
Of the hawk, she writes:
"this is not something
of the red fire, this is
heaven's fistful
of death and destruction
..."
And of the crow:
"... who has seen anything cleaner,
bolder,
more gleaming, more certain of its philosophy
than the eye he turns back?"
To me she writes:
"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."
And:
"Listen, everyone has a chance.
Is it spring, is it morning?
Are there trees near you,
and does your own soul need comforting?
Quick, then--open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song
may already be drifting away."
And:
"The catbrier is without fault. The water thrushes, down among the sloppy rocks, are going crazy with happiness. Imagination is better than a sharp instrument. To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work."
I'm off then, to do some of that good work.
to be dazzled, then to be reflective."
She does, and she teaches us how to do both.
Of the hawk, she writes:
"this is not something
of the red fire, this is
heaven's fistful
of death and destruction
..."
And of the crow:
"... who has seen anything cleaner,
bolder,
more gleaming, more certain of its philosophy
than the eye he turns back?"
To me she writes:
"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."
And:
"Listen, everyone has a chance.
Is it spring, is it morning?
Are there trees near you,
and does your own soul need comforting?
Quick, then--open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song
may already be drifting away."
And:
"The catbrier is without fault. The water thrushes, down among the sloppy rocks, are going crazy with happiness. Imagination is better than a sharp instrument. To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work."
I'm off then, to do some of that good work.
February 6, 2025
when she said:
"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."
but also:
"I am thinking now
of grief, and of getting past it;
I feel my boots
trying to leave the ground,
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."
"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."
but also:
"I am thinking now
of grief, and of getting past it;
I feel my boots
trying to leave the ground,
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."
August 6, 2023
Will stay on my bedside table. So good 😊 for my soul.
October 15, 2025
I am not a very sure person, generally. But reading authors like Oliver affords me assurance in what I am increasingly realizing are the most important things to me. In her words,
"Every day I walk into the world / to be dazzled, then to be reflective. / It suffices, it is all comfort— / along with human love, / dog love, water love, little serpent love, / sunburst love, or love for the smallest of birds / flying among the scarlet flowers."
Her essay "Bird" had me weeping. I love the softness that so many of her essays and poems access in me.
"Every day I walk into the world / to be dazzled, then to be reflective. / It suffices, it is all comfort— / along with human love, / dog love, water love, little serpent love, / sunburst love, or love for the smallest of birds / flying among the scarlet flowers."
Her essay "Bird" had me weeping. I love the softness that so many of her essays and poems access in me.
January 18, 2022
Incredible. Mary Oliver brings us all back down to Earth with her work. I know I’ll be reading this year after year.
February 10, 2021
As mentioned in my review of Upstream, my interest in Mary Oliver's work was piqued by reading and analyzing the essay "Owls" in AP Lang (which also appears in this book). So much of the Poetry Reading Experience has to do with my mood — so although this didn't resonate with me as much as
A Thousand Mornings
, that could be due mostly or entirely to external factors rather than the poems and essays themselves. And I did still really enjoy this collection!
April 25, 2024
I read hundreds of books a year, and this little essay about the seagull made me cry. Only Mary Oliver can make me cry in the smallest number of words, true story. The first time I read Wild Geese I had to breathe to recover from my tears. I love her.
April 28, 2019
Such a beautiful collection, about Oliver's connection with the birds in her life. Mary always makes me want to notice more, until I am full of knowing.
August 14, 2022
I can't wait to be the hummingbird, can you?
June 12, 2025
If you love nature and poetry, Mary Oliver is the woman to read! This book focuses on her bird related poems, and even includes a few brief essays that she wrote about her personal experiences with birds. Plenty of stand-outs here, but the poem about catbirds is my favorite!
March 22, 2022
Starlings in Winter
Chunky and noisy,
but with stars in their black feathers,
they spring from the telephone wire
and instantly
they are acrobats
in the freezing wind.
And now, in the theater of air,
they swing over buildings,
dipping and rising;
they float like one stippled star
that opens,
becomes for a moment fragmented,
then closes again;
and you watch
and you try
but you simply can't imagine
how they do it
with no articulated instruction, no pause,
only the silent confirmation
that they are this notable thing,
this wheel of many parts, that can rise and spin
over and over again,
full of gorgeous life.
Ah, world, what lessons you prepare for us,
even in the leafless winter,
even in the ashy city.
I am thinking now
of grief, and of getting past it;
I feel my boots
trying to leave the ground,
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.
———-
Owls
“…the owl has an insatiable craving for the taste of brains”
“The world where the owl is endlessly hungry and endlessly in the hunt is the world in which I live too. There is only one world.”
Bird
“He was of course, a piece of the sky. His eyes said so. This is not fact, this is the other part of knowing something, when there is no proof, but neither is there anyway toward disbelief. Imagine lifting the lid from a jar and finding it filled not with darkness but with light. Bird was like that. Startling, elegant, alive.”
Chunky and noisy,
but with stars in their black feathers,
they spring from the telephone wire
and instantly
they are acrobats
in the freezing wind.
And now, in the theater of air,
they swing over buildings,
dipping and rising;
they float like one stippled star
that opens,
becomes for a moment fragmented,
then closes again;
and you watch
and you try
but you simply can't imagine
how they do it
with no articulated instruction, no pause,
only the silent confirmation
that they are this notable thing,
this wheel of many parts, that can rise and spin
over and over again,
full of gorgeous life.
Ah, world, what lessons you prepare for us,
even in the leafless winter,
even in the ashy city.
I am thinking now
of grief, and of getting past it;
I feel my boots
trying to leave the ground,
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.
———-
Owls
“…the owl has an insatiable craving for the taste of brains”
“The world where the owl is endlessly hungry and endlessly in the hunt is the world in which I live too. There is only one world.”
Bird
“He was of course, a piece of the sky. His eyes said so. This is not fact, this is the other part of knowing something, when there is no proof, but neither is there anyway toward disbelief. Imagine lifting the lid from a jar and finding it filled not with darkness but with light. Bird was like that. Startling, elegant, alive.”
April 23, 2025
I love Mary Oliver. It's been a long time since I've last read poetry, and I think my soul was seriously craving it. I assure you, I have little interest in birds - but this little collection has me wanting to run out of this little office space and scour the skies for the nearest crow I can see.
June 27, 2024
birds and mary oliver: the way to my very own heart
April 1, 2022
Owls and Other Fantasies includes a selection of Mary Oliver's poems and two of her essays, and as the title suggests they are all themed around birds. As a bird lover, I greatly appreciated this topic, but I fully believe it is worth reading even if you aren't so bird-inclined. Her work is delicate and thoughtful, as well as thought-provoking. I picked out a few of my favorite poems that demonstrate what I enjoyed about the collection.
The first poem is "Catbird". The reason I love this poem is because of the personification of the catbird. Many of the poems personify birds, however, this is my favorite of those that focus heavily on it. She contrasts the simple pleasures of the bird ( "But a few raisins give him the greatest delight." ) with the ideals of humans ( " Certainly he will never understand me, or the world / I come from. / For he will never sing for the kingdom of dollars. / For he will never grow pockets in his gray wings. ) in an interesting way. Many, if not all of the poems assign human traits to birds, which I think helps convey the personal connection she feels to them.
The second is "Wrens". I appreciate this poem for its imagery. The poem begins by describing an overgrown field or garden with many flowers where some wrens have built a nest. For me, at least, the description conjured a vivid image in my imagination, and many of the other poems had this effect as well. It helps the reader transport themselves to the different little scenarios of each poem. My favorite lines from "Wren" are, "dust from the fox tracks among the / roots and risings of / buttercups joe pye honey / suckle the queen's / lace and her / blue sailors"
The last poem I chose, and my absolute favorite from the book is "The Dipper". I love this poem for multiple reasons, one being the imagery. I could easily imagine the tranquil forest with the trickling stream that she described. I also liked how she talked about death in an almost peaceful, beautiful way when she said,
" and, just as certainly, he has been sleeping for decades
in the leaves beside the stream
his crumble of white bones, his curl of flesh
comfortable even so. "
This is not the only time she does this, the idea of beauty in death comes up many times throughout the book, but this is (probably) my favorite instance. I like the poem for it's ending, which is;
" and thus the world is full of leaves and feathers,
and comfort, and instruction. I do not remember
your name, great river,
but since that hour I have lived
simply,
in the joy of the body as full and clear
as falling water; the pleasures of the mind
like a dark bird dipping in and out, tasting and singing." I appreciated this because it shows how we can learn how to live better from nature.
There are also a couple of other lines from various poems that I wanted to mention:
"I think this is / the prettiest world - so long as you don't mind / a little dying", from Kingfisher.
"As for death, / I can't wait to be a hummingbird, / can you?" From Long Afternoon at the Edge of Little Sister Pond.
"To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work." From Yes! No!
As I said, I would absolutely recommend taking a look at this book, regardless of your level of bird enthusiasm. It opens your eyes to all the little, beautiful things in nature, and is very worth the read!
The first poem is "Catbird". The reason I love this poem is because of the personification of the catbird. Many of the poems personify birds, however, this is my favorite of those that focus heavily on it. She contrasts the simple pleasures of the bird ( "But a few raisins give him the greatest delight." ) with the ideals of humans ( " Certainly he will never understand me, or the world / I come from. / For he will never sing for the kingdom of dollars. / For he will never grow pockets in his gray wings. ) in an interesting way. Many, if not all of the poems assign human traits to birds, which I think helps convey the personal connection she feels to them.
The second is "Wrens". I appreciate this poem for its imagery. The poem begins by describing an overgrown field or garden with many flowers where some wrens have built a nest. For me, at least, the description conjured a vivid image in my imagination, and many of the other poems had this effect as well. It helps the reader transport themselves to the different little scenarios of each poem. My favorite lines from "Wren" are, "dust from the fox tracks among the / roots and risings of / buttercups joe pye honey / suckle the queen's / lace and her / blue sailors"
The last poem I chose, and my absolute favorite from the book is "The Dipper". I love this poem for multiple reasons, one being the imagery. I could easily imagine the tranquil forest with the trickling stream that she described. I also liked how she talked about death in an almost peaceful, beautiful way when she said,
" and, just as certainly, he has been sleeping for decades
in the leaves beside the stream
his crumble of white bones, his curl of flesh
comfortable even so. "
This is not the only time she does this, the idea of beauty in death comes up many times throughout the book, but this is (probably) my favorite instance. I like the poem for it's ending, which is;
" and thus the world is full of leaves and feathers,
and comfort, and instruction. I do not remember
your name, great river,
but since that hour I have lived
simply,
in the joy of the body as full and clear
as falling water; the pleasures of the mind
like a dark bird dipping in and out, tasting and singing." I appreciated this because it shows how we can learn how to live better from nature.
There are also a couple of other lines from various poems that I wanted to mention:
"I think this is / the prettiest world - so long as you don't mind / a little dying", from Kingfisher.
"As for death, / I can't wait to be a hummingbird, / can you?" From Long Afternoon at the Edge of Little Sister Pond.
"To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work." From Yes! No!
As I said, I would absolutely recommend taking a look at this book, regardless of your level of bird enthusiasm. It opens your eyes to all the little, beautiful things in nature, and is very worth the read!
February 2, 2017
Poems and two essays about birds. This poet really knows how to turn a phrase.
Never mind that he is only a memo from the offices of fear.
I know this bird. If it could,it would eat the whole world.
Never mind that he is only a memo from the offices of fear.
I know this bird. If it could,it would eat the whole world.
January 9, 2017
Ultimate fave is the poem Wild Geese!
November 6, 2021
why? all this beauty around me and i never realized...
it must be the highest secret of all and everyone wants to know, but it's just right here, this near.
it must be the highest secret of all and everyone wants to know, but it's just right here, this near.
December 26, 2021
“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.”
“i am thinking now
of grief, and of getting past it;
i feel my boots
trying to leave the ground,
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.”
“every day i walk out into the world
to be dazzled, then to be reflective.
it suffices, it is all comfort-
along with human love,
dog love, water love, little-serpent love,
sunburst love, or love for that smallest of birds
fying among the scarlet flowers.
there is hardly time to think about
stopping, and lying down at last
to the long afterlife, to the tenderness
yet to come, when
time will brim over the singular pond, and become forever,
and we will pretend to melt away into the leaves.
as for death,
i can't wait to be the hummingbird, can you?”
mary oliver’s poetry makes me feel so warm and understood.
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.”
“i am thinking now
of grief, and of getting past it;
i feel my boots
trying to leave the ground,
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.”
“every day i walk out into the world
to be dazzled, then to be reflective.
it suffices, it is all comfort-
along with human love,
dog love, water love, little-serpent love,
sunburst love, or love for that smallest of birds
fying among the scarlet flowers.
there is hardly time to think about
stopping, and lying down at last
to the long afterlife, to the tenderness
yet to come, when
time will brim over the singular pond, and become forever,
and we will pretend to melt away into the leaves.
as for death,
i can't wait to be the hummingbird, can you?”
mary oliver’s poetry makes me feel so warm and understood.
October 14, 2023
This is the third poetry collection by Mary Oliver that I have read, and I think it is my second favorite after West Wind. I love birds (I have two bird tattoos and I love bird watching at the feeder I set up outside my bedroom window!) so I am very excited that Oliver has a whole collection dedicated to them.
As always, Oliver has a knack for simple yet clever poems. Her work continues to surprise and amaze me. Some that stood out to me:
-Wild Geese; this poem was circulating the internet recently, and the attention is well-deserved. This poem will always chew me up and spit me out.
-Owls; I found the idea that both life and death can be terrifying in their excess to be very striking.
-The Kingfisher; "When the wave snaps shut over his blue head, the water remains water..." and he fishes "(as I long to do something, anything) perfectly." Birds don't read into things, they just fulfill their simple instinct, and they do so perfectly.
-The Kookaburras; a little bit heart-wrenching.
-Bird; a sad essay about the seagull Oliver saved and cared for until it died.
-Long Afternoon at the Edge of Little Sister Pond; "Every day I walk out into the world to be dazzled, then to be reflective. It all suffices, it is all comfort - along with human love, dog love, water love, little-serpent love, sunburst love, or love for that smallest of birds flying among the scarlet flowers." I love all these invented, little loves.
As always, Oliver has a knack for simple yet clever poems. Her work continues to surprise and amaze me. Some that stood out to me:
-Wild Geese; this poem was circulating the internet recently, and the attention is well-deserved. This poem will always chew me up and spit me out.
-Owls; I found the idea that both life and death can be terrifying in their excess to be very striking.
-The Kingfisher; "When the wave snaps shut over his blue head, the water remains water..." and he fishes "(as I long to do something, anything) perfectly." Birds don't read into things, they just fulfill their simple instinct, and they do so perfectly.
-The Kookaburras; a little bit heart-wrenching.
-Bird; a sad essay about the seagull Oliver saved and cared for until it died.
-Long Afternoon at the Edge of Little Sister Pond; "Every day I walk out into the world to be dazzled, then to be reflective. It all suffices, it is all comfort - along with human love, dog love, water love, little-serpent love, sunburst love, or love for that smallest of birds flying among the scarlet flowers." I love all these invented, little loves.
August 16, 2022
Much loved. I had read most of these poems in other collections, but it was nice to spend an hour with her voice, focused on the birds of the wild world and the many thoughts they conjured for her, for me.
And another excerpt:
She was asked once in an interview if there was a book she recommended to her students. She said there wasn’t, but she advised an exercise instead:
In closing, a quote from her essay, 'Owls'
Listen, everyone has a chance.
Is it spring, is it morning? Are there trees near you,
and does your own soul need comforting?
Quick, then—open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song
may already be drifting away.
from ‘Such Singing in the Wild Branches’
Mary Oliver / Owls and Other Fantasies
And another excerpt:
Meanwhile the birds bathe and splash and have a good time. Then they fly off, their dark wings opening from their bright, yellow bodies; their tiny feet, all washed, clasping the air.
‘Goldfinches’
Mary Oliver / Owls and Other Fantasies
She was asked once in an interview if there was a book she recommended to her students. She said there wasn’t, but she advised an exercise instead:
Find a poem by a poet you love, read it every morning for a month.
– Mary Oliver / 2012 Interview with Amy Sutherland for the Boston Globe
In closing, a quote from her essay, 'Owls'
And I walk on, over the shoulder of summer and down across the red-dappled fall; and, when it’s late winter again, out through the far woodlands of the Provincelands, maybe another few hundred miles, looking for the owl’s nest, yes, of course, and looking at everything else along the way.
‘Owls’
Mary Oliver / Owls and Other Fantasies
May 9, 2023
Rory gave me this sweet little collection a while back and I finally got around to it. It’s the best time of year to read this, with spring migration going on.
As always, Mary Oliver never misses. I will say that if you’re not a birdwatcher, you may not enjoy this collection as much. Of course you still can. But as she writes about the catbird, the wrens, the herons, I can see those birds as clear as day in my head and remember my own experiences with them.
To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.
Also, this collection opened up with “Wild Geese” which is my favorite poem of all time, so how could this collection not be a banger
As always, Mary Oliver never misses. I will say that if you’re not a birdwatcher, you may not enjoy this collection as much. Of course you still can. But as she writes about the catbird, the wrens, the herons, I can see those birds as clear as day in my head and remember my own experiences with them.
To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.
Also, this collection opened up with “Wild Geese” which is my favorite poem of all time, so how could this collection not be a banger
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