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Winter Hours: Prose, Prose Poems, and Poems
From the winner of the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Award, her most personal book yet
"What good company Mary Oliver is!" the Los Angeles Times has remarked. And never more so than in this extraordinary and engaging gathering of nine essays, accompanied by a brief selection of new prose poems and poems. (One of the essays has been chosen as among the best of the year by THE BEST AMERICAN ESSAYS 1998, another by The Anchor Essay Annual.) With the grace and precision that have won her legions of admirers, Oliver talks here of turtle eggs and housebuilding, of her surprise at an unexpected whistling she hears, of the "thousand unbreakable links between each of us and everything else." She talks of her own poems and of some of her favorite poets: Poe, writing of "our inescapable destiny," Frost and his ability to convey at once that "everything is all right, and everything is not all right," the "unmistakably joyful" Hopkins, and Whitman, seeking through his poetry "the replication of a miracle." And Oliver offers us a glimpse as well of her "private and natural self—something that must in the future be taken into consideration by any who would claim to know me."
"What good company Mary Oliver is!" the Los Angeles Times has remarked. And never more so than in this extraordinary and engaging gathering of nine essays, accompanied by a brief selection of new prose poems and poems. (One of the essays has been chosen as among the best of the year by THE BEST AMERICAN ESSAYS 1998, another by The Anchor Essay Annual.) With the grace and precision that have won her legions of admirers, Oliver talks here of turtle eggs and housebuilding, of her surprise at an unexpected whistling she hears, of the "thousand unbreakable links between each of us and everything else." She talks of her own poems and of some of her favorite poets: Poe, writing of "our inescapable destiny," Frost and his ability to convey at once that "everything is all right, and everything is not all right," the "unmistakably joyful" Hopkins, and Whitman, seeking through his poetry "the replication of a miracle." And Oliver offers us a glimpse as well of her "private and natural self—something that must in the future be taken into consideration by any who would claim to know me."
128 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1999
1415 people are currently reading
3332 people want to read
About the author
Mary Oliver
104 books8,749 followersMary Jane Oliver was an American poet who won the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize. Her work is inspired by nature, rather than the human world, stemming from her lifelong passion for solitary walks in the wild.
Librarian Note: There is more than one author in the Goodreads database with this name. See this thread for more information.
Librarian Note: There is more than one author in the Goodreads database with this name. See this thread for more information.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 399 reviews
May 10, 2019
Additional Thoughts: [1/7/2015]
This review has gotten several likes lately and therefore has been brought to my attention. It's bizarre reading it now because I can look back and truly see this was the year when I was in the throes of my Christian upbringing vs. my sexuality. I was unable to see (or admit?) it then, but yeah... I was pretty gay. Now I'm super gay and delighted to be so. But in 2011 I was going through emotional hell. I'm glad my past self who had to go it alone was able to find affirmation in the world of books. Thank you, Mary Oliver (and Molly Malone Cook).
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Original Review: [11/13/2011]
Though Mary Oliver's descriptions of and musings on nature are invauluable, my favourite piece in this book was a prose poem called "The Whistler". (It was written for the love of Mary's life, Molly Malone Cook.)
All of a sudden she began to whistle. By all of a sudden I mean that for more than thirty years she had not whistled. It was thrilling. At first I wondered, who was in the house, what stranger? I was upstairs reading, and she was downstairs. As from the throat of a wild and cheerful bird, not caught but visiting, the sound warbled and slid and doubled back and larked and soared.
Finally I said, Is that you? Is that you whistling? Yes, she said. I used to whistle, a long time ago. Now I see I can still whistle. And cadence after cadence she strolled through the house, whistling.
I know her so well, I think. I thought. Elbow and ankle. Mood and desire. Anguish and frolic. Anger too. And the devotions. And for all that, do we even begin to know each other? Who is this I’ve been living with for thirty years?
This clear, dark, lovely whistler?
After reading this, in a moment of contemplation, I grew sad; realizing that there are people who, while wrongfully standing under the banner of Christian faith, loudly (and quietly) hate the guts of these beautiful souls. (This is certainly a can of worms I don't want or have the knowledge to open, but I thought I'd mention it since it's been weighing on my mind a lot lately.)
This review has gotten several likes lately and therefore has been brought to my attention. It's bizarre reading it now because I can look back and truly see this was the year when I was in the throes of my Christian upbringing vs. my sexuality. I was unable to see (or admit?) it then, but yeah... I was pretty gay. Now I'm super gay and delighted to be so. But in 2011 I was going through emotional hell. I'm glad my past self who had to go it alone was able to find affirmation in the world of books. Thank you, Mary Oliver (and Molly Malone Cook).
-----------------------------------------
Original Review: [11/13/2011]
Though Mary Oliver's descriptions of and musings on nature are invauluable, my favourite piece in this book was a prose poem called "The Whistler". (It was written for the love of Mary's life, Molly Malone Cook.)
All of a sudden she began to whistle. By all of a sudden I mean that for more than thirty years she had not whistled. It was thrilling. At first I wondered, who was in the house, what stranger? I was upstairs reading, and she was downstairs. As from the throat of a wild and cheerful bird, not caught but visiting, the sound warbled and slid and doubled back and larked and soared.
Finally I said, Is that you? Is that you whistling? Yes, she said. I used to whistle, a long time ago. Now I see I can still whistle. And cadence after cadence she strolled through the house, whistling.
I know her so well, I think. I thought. Elbow and ankle. Mood and desire. Anguish and frolic. Anger too. And the devotions. And for all that, do we even begin to know each other? Who is this I’ve been living with for thirty years?
This clear, dark, lovely whistler?
After reading this, in a moment of contemplation, I grew sad; realizing that there are people who, while wrongfully standing under the banner of Christian faith, loudly (and quietly) hate the guts of these beautiful souls. (This is certainly a can of worms I don't want or have the knowledge to open, but I thought I'd mention it since it's been weighing on my mind a lot lately.)
February 16, 2017
The only problem I have with this book of poetry and essays penned by the singular and sublime Mary Oliver is that I have checked out a library copy. As such, I cannot pencil in the margins my thoughts, underline her exquisite revelations, draw in arrows attached to my steady progression of "aha!s", "yes!es", and "this!", or dog ear nearly (true story) every page. I want to continue to go back to this book and reread passages and poems, not merely now that I am finished, but in the future. Her insights into nature - our natural world, her world (the Outer Cape), human nature, and the spiritual world ("For me the door to the woods is the door to the temple") are a salve. And I am in need of repeated applications.
As such, I shall return it so that others (and you too) can discover the cosmos contained within just as surreptitiously as did I.
As such, I shall return it so that others (and you too) can discover the cosmos contained within just as surreptitiously as did I.
To believe in the soul -- to believe in it exactly as much and as hardily as one believes in a mountain, say, or a fingernail, which is ever in view -- imagine the consequences! - Mary Oliver
January 31, 2019
I often don't understand poetry and often don't like it. Some of my feelings certainly come from being given too much bad poetry.
Despite this, some poets' language is sensual or has great mouth feel or accessible metaphors that open the world in a new way for me. They make me smile, laugh, cry, or think. Those poets make me love poetry and feel that I can get it.
Mary Oliver is one of those poets.
And yet, I didn't love Winter Hours: Prose, Prose Poems, and Poems. There were essays and poems that I did love. Oliver writes lovingly about the natural world. Spiders? Who would think I would love an essay that obsessively described spiders and their egg-laying (Swoon)? Her Sand Dabs are a series of crystalized images. And The Swan clearly and elegantly and engagingly describes how she approached writing poetry:
Years ago I set three "rules" for myself. Every poem I write, I said, must have a genuine body, it must have sincere energy, and it must have a spiritual purpose. If a poem to my mind failed any one of these categories it was rebuked and redone, or discarded. Over the forty or so years during which writing poems has been my primary activity, I have added other admonitions and consents. I want every poem to "rest" in intensity. I want it to be rich with "pictures of the world." I want it to carry threads from the perceptually felt world to the intellectual world. I want each poem to indicate a life lived with intelligence, patience, passion, and whimsy (not my life—not necessarily!—but the life of my formal self, the writer). (p. 24)
But many of Oliver's essays don't hit me in the same way as most of her poems. Her essays about Poe, Frost, Hopkins, and Whitman feel fussy to me and I. Just. Didn't. Care. I wanted to see with her eyes, to feel with her heart as I do with her praise poems and essays. I couldn't find her in these. In my favorite of her poems and essays she's just, there. Really there. This is from the essay Winter Hours:
Morning, for me, is the time of best work. My conscious thought sings like a bird in a cage, but the rest of me is singing too, like a bird in the wind. Perhaps something is still strong in us in the morning, the part that is untamable, that dreams willfully and crazily, that knows reason is no more than an island within us. (p. 98)
I am not a critic and feel badly complaining about someone so talented.
Even if I don't get everything she's written, I will miss Mary Oliver (1935-2019).
Despite this, some poets' language is sensual or has great mouth feel or accessible metaphors that open the world in a new way for me. They make me smile, laugh, cry, or think. Those poets make me love poetry and feel that I can get it.
Mary Oliver is one of those poets.
And yet, I didn't love Winter Hours: Prose, Prose Poems, and Poems. There were essays and poems that I did love. Oliver writes lovingly about the natural world. Spiders? Who would think I would love an essay that obsessively described spiders and their egg-laying (Swoon)? Her Sand Dabs are a series of crystalized images. And The Swan clearly and elegantly and engagingly describes how she approached writing poetry:
Years ago I set three "rules" for myself. Every poem I write, I said, must have a genuine body, it must have sincere energy, and it must have a spiritual purpose. If a poem to my mind failed any one of these categories it was rebuked and redone, or discarded. Over the forty or so years during which writing poems has been my primary activity, I have added other admonitions and consents. I want every poem to "rest" in intensity. I want it to be rich with "pictures of the world." I want it to carry threads from the perceptually felt world to the intellectual world. I want each poem to indicate a life lived with intelligence, patience, passion, and whimsy (not my life—not necessarily!—but the life of my formal self, the writer). (p. 24)
But many of Oliver's essays don't hit me in the same way as most of her poems. Her essays about Poe, Frost, Hopkins, and Whitman feel fussy to me and I. Just. Didn't. Care. I wanted to see with her eyes, to feel with her heart as I do with her praise poems and essays. I couldn't find her in these. In my favorite of her poems and essays she's just, there. Really there. This is from the essay Winter Hours:
Morning, for me, is the time of best work. My conscious thought sings like a bird in a cage, but the rest of me is singing too, like a bird in the wind. Perhaps something is still strong in us in the morning, the part that is untamable, that dreams willfully and crazily, that knows reason is no more than an island within us. (p. 98)
I am not a critic and feel badly complaining about someone so talented.
Even if I don't get everything she's written, I will miss Mary Oliver (1935-2019).
May 22, 2017
It seems like you can't go wrong with Mary Oliver. I enjoyed this lovely, deeply introspective collection of essays and poems. I feel that she truly lives by her teachings "to observe with passion, to think with patience, to live always care-ingly." There is much to ponder and savor in this slim collection.
October 24, 2022
The joy of reading Mary Oliver is how every word is chosen with purpose. Even in her essays, words feel like they took a week to choose, and only because she listened for hours, and no other word would do.
January 28, 2022
Mary Oliver once again providing invaluable depictions and musings surrounding the beauty that is nature.
January 22, 2019
Each and every essay, poem and prose poem is a gem to cherish in this book!
'Then the sea, at crest, a full flood, lifts itself; it flies, it enters the yard. Like long great silver draperies, with wide pleats opening and sizzling, the waves rise and shake themselves in bright flounces over the sea wall. The water is so loaded with sand that with each vanishing of the fallen wave the yard appears newly made.' This is just one little snippet of the gorgeous assemblage of words to be found in this collection of short writings by a great poet!
Highly recommended!
'Then the sea, at crest, a full flood, lifts itself; it flies, it enters the yard. Like long great silver draperies, with wide pleats opening and sizzling, the waves rise and shake themselves in bright flounces over the sea wall. The water is so loaded with sand that with each vanishing of the fallen wave the yard appears newly made.' This is just one little snippet of the gorgeous assemblage of words to be found in this collection of short writings by a great poet!
Highly recommended!
January 23, 2019
1/23/19 Currently on sale for $1.99 via Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00...
started-and-want-to-finish
May 29, 2023Spring cleaning the Currently Reading shelf. Setting this one aside for now. Oliver’s poetry will always have a spot on my bedside table – to read, and re-read – but this collection (comprised of mostly essays that provide insights into Oliver’s writing process and reflections on her favorite poets) might be better received by readers who enjoy Poe, Frost, Hopkins, and Whitman.
All in all, though, I do like the idea of reading something that acts as a sort of marginalia to a favorite poet’s writings and readings.
All in all, though, I do like the idea of reading something that acts as a sort of marginalia to a favorite poet’s writings and readings.
February 28, 2024
«Aunque no pensamos en ello a diario, tampoco lo olvidamos: la persona amada envejecerá o enfermará y, tarde o temprano, nos será arrebatada. No importa con qué encarnizamiento luchemos, con qué ternura amemos, con qué amargura discutamos, con qué insistencia reprimamos al universo; sucederá. En las vastas esferas de lo eterno, todo lo material y lo temporal languidecerá, incluida la presencia del ser amado».
Si hay algo que me encanta de Mary Oliver, después de leerla por segunda vez (ya me conquistó con 'La escritura indómita') es su capacidad de observación y la pasión que muestra por la naturaleza a través de sus palabras.
A medida que la lees, sientes el deseo de visitar los lugares de los que te está hablando o de teletransportarte mentalmente a otros similares en los que has estado y has disfrutado. Porque su amor por la vida al aire libre, por la palabra escrita, por la observación en general de los animales y las personas se contagia. Y se siente con los cinco sentidos.
Creo que no podría haber elegido mejor momento para esta lectura porque necesitaba algo rebosante de paz y ganas de vivir. Una lectura amable que recuerde la importancia de los pequeños detalles que nos regala el día a día simplemente observando.
Pero también he disfrutado mucho de los ensayos en los que habla de la escritura, lo que le ha inspirado y lo que ha aprendido de otros poetas. Mis ensayos favoritos han sido, sobre todo, los dedicados a Edgar Allan Poe y Walt Whitman. Me han entrado ganas de leer a ambos (que tengo muy pendientes) y estoy segura de que voy a volver a ellos cuando haya leído a estos escritores.
En resumen, en esta recopilación de ensayos Mary Oliver nos incita a la pausa. A reencontrarnos con nosotros mismos y a recordarnos lo importante que es conocer la naturaleza que nos rodea. A empaparnos de lo que nos ofrece y a sentir la misma pasión que ella al observarla y recorrerla, así como la que tiene por la escritura y la literatura. Especialmente, la poesía. Os la recomiendo mucho cuando necesitéis un remanso de paz.
Si hay algo que me encanta de Mary Oliver, después de leerla por segunda vez (ya me conquistó con 'La escritura indómita') es su capacidad de observación y la pasión que muestra por la naturaleza a través de sus palabras.
A medida que la lees, sientes el deseo de visitar los lugares de los que te está hablando o de teletransportarte mentalmente a otros similares en los que has estado y has disfrutado. Porque su amor por la vida al aire libre, por la palabra escrita, por la observación en general de los animales y las personas se contagia. Y se siente con los cinco sentidos.
Creo que no podría haber elegido mejor momento para esta lectura porque necesitaba algo rebosante de paz y ganas de vivir. Una lectura amable que recuerde la importancia de los pequeños detalles que nos regala el día a día simplemente observando.
Pero también he disfrutado mucho de los ensayos en los que habla de la escritura, lo que le ha inspirado y lo que ha aprendido de otros poetas. Mis ensayos favoritos han sido, sobre todo, los dedicados a Edgar Allan Poe y Walt Whitman. Me han entrado ganas de leer a ambos (que tengo muy pendientes) y estoy segura de que voy a volver a ellos cuando haya leído a estos escritores.
En resumen, en esta recopilación de ensayos Mary Oliver nos incita a la pausa. A reencontrarnos con nosotros mismos y a recordarnos lo importante que es conocer la naturaleza que nos rodea. A empaparnos de lo que nos ofrece y a sentir la misma pasión que ella al observarla y recorrerla, así como la que tiene por la escritura y la literatura. Especialmente, la poesía. Os la recomiendo mucho cuando necesitéis un remanso de paz.
February 4, 2021
anything by mary oliver is a treat upon my life. some of these essays are a reread that i read previously in upstream but i’ll never tire of the wondrous clear invigorating words that are oliver’s. ❣️
February 13, 2020
it probably wasn’t the best idea to read this as my first mary oliver book but here we are! for me it ranged from 2.5 to 5 stars so i’m
settling on 3.5!! i want to read more of her nature poetry tho
settling on 3.5!! i want to read more of her nature poetry tho
January 9, 2019
“for it is precisely how i feel, who have inherited not measurable wealth but, as we all do who care for it, that immeasurable fund of thoughts and ideas, from writers and thinkers long gone into the ground—and, inseparable from those wisdoms because demanded by them, the responsibility to live thoughtfully and intelligently. to enjoy, to question—never to assume, or trample. thus the great ones (my great ones, who may not be the same as your great ones) have taught me—to observe with passion, to think with patience, to live always careingly.”
i've read some of these pieces before, in upstream, the essays that seem to come closest to the seam between oliver the writer and oliver the self. others are entirely new to me, but feel familiar; sand dabs four, five and six are collections of fragments that remind me of things i've written, little pieces of thought with no coherent thread but that constellate, reflect meaning onto and across each other. still others reveal another side of oliver's craft, her writings on other poets, that i've never encountered, never even truly considered, and yet is as vital and dynamic as her poetry and other prose. across all of it, this glowing, perceptive, kind, subtle, wistful, contradictory voice, a voice that i would recognise anywhere and that i think i'll come back to for the rest of my life.
i find in writing my thoughts on mary oliver's work that all i want to do is re-write what she has already so tenderly, so carefully, so knowingly written. she feels like a kindred spirit, i can't feel envious that she, older, wiser & more skilful, has come to these thoughts before me, nor resentful that in her words they come to a life more vibrant and more real to me than my own words. i just feel like i'm coming home.
i've read some of these pieces before, in upstream, the essays that seem to come closest to the seam between oliver the writer and oliver the self. others are entirely new to me, but feel familiar; sand dabs four, five and six are collections of fragments that remind me of things i've written, little pieces of thought with no coherent thread but that constellate, reflect meaning onto and across each other. still others reveal another side of oliver's craft, her writings on other poets, that i've never encountered, never even truly considered, and yet is as vital and dynamic as her poetry and other prose. across all of it, this glowing, perceptive, kind, subtle, wistful, contradictory voice, a voice that i would recognise anywhere and that i think i'll come back to for the rest of my life.
i find in writing my thoughts on mary oliver's work that all i want to do is re-write what she has already so tenderly, so carefully, so knowingly written. she feels like a kindred spirit, i can't feel envious that she, older, wiser & more skilful, has come to these thoughts before me, nor resentful that in her words they come to a life more vibrant and more real to me than my own words. i just feel like i'm coming home.
Read
December 11, 2022These are the first Mary Oliver essays I've read, and I AM GASPING FOR AIR
"The wild waste spaces of the sea, and the pale dunes with one hawk hanging in the wind, they are for me the formal spaces that, in a liturgy, are taken up by prayer, song, sermon, silence, homily, scripture, the architecture of the church itself. And as with prayer, which is a dipping of oneself toward the light, there is a consequence of attentiveness to the grass itself, and the sky itself, and to the floating bird. I too leave the fret and enclosure of my own life. I too dip myself toward the immeasurable."
"You can have the other words--chance, luck, coincidence, serendipity. I'll take grace. I don't know what it is exactly, but I'll take it."
"Every word is a messenger. Some have wings; some are filled with fire; some are filled with death."
"The wild waste spaces of the sea, and the pale dunes with one hawk hanging in the wind, they are for me the formal spaces that, in a liturgy, are taken up by prayer, song, sermon, silence, homily, scripture, the architecture of the church itself. And as with prayer, which is a dipping of oneself toward the light, there is a consequence of attentiveness to the grass itself, and the sky itself, and to the floating bird. I too leave the fret and enclosure of my own life. I too dip myself toward the immeasurable."
"You can have the other words--chance, luck, coincidence, serendipity. I'll take grace. I don't know what it is exactly, but I'll take it."
"Every word is a messenger. Some have wings; some are filled with fire; some are filled with death."
March 7, 2022
Mary Oliver writes (wrote) like my brain thinks, and I am forever indebted to her for that. That being said, there are moments in reading her prose that I just want to ..... I dunno.. maybe erase a comma or two (she'd probably say the same thing about my ellipses, so there is that).
Winter Hours is a collection of prose/prose poems and poetry. I'm much more attuned to her prose, at least in this volume of her work , than her prose-poetry (I adore her poetry in general). I struggle a bit with her focus on Christianity but that's my problem, not hers.
Her essay 'Building the House' was read whilst contemplating my own house build/rebuild; I love her comparison of her builder skills with that of her builder's poetry writing skills. I doubt my contractor writes poetry and I know I don't put up framing. That being said I hope that if I did I would get some pleasure from it, and my contractor gain pleasure from his writings. Perhaps.
The essay on Poe's life experiences and how they shaped his heroines is startling, to say the least. My modern sensibilities were shocked that he took his 13yr old cousin to wife! And..omg..so. much. death. But it's Poe. Everybody has the long, dark hair and flashing eyes. And everybody dies. Somehow Oliver manages to make that both terrifying and comforting.
Equally comforting is her essay on snapping turtles. Absolutely transcendent, in so prosaic a way as to leave me gasping! I love Oliver's takes on nature - she is so in love with it while still respecting her place in it - never trying to insert herself in the natural world beyond that of an observer.
I figured I would read 'Winter Hours' while we still have some Winter, and I'm glad I did. Now I can get ready to observe the snapping turtles!
Winter Hours is a collection of prose/prose poems and poetry. I'm much more attuned to her prose, at least in this volume of her work , than her prose-poetry (I adore her poetry in general). I struggle a bit with her focus on Christianity but that's my problem, not hers.
Her essay 'Building the House' was read whilst contemplating my own house build/rebuild; I love her comparison of her builder skills with that of her builder's poetry writing skills. I doubt my contractor writes poetry and I know I don't put up framing. That being said I hope that if I did I would get some pleasure from it, and my contractor gain pleasure from his writings. Perhaps.
The essay on Poe's life experiences and how they shaped his heroines is startling, to say the least. My modern sensibilities were shocked that he took his 13yr old cousin to wife! And..omg..so. much. death. But it's Poe. Everybody has the long, dark hair and flashing eyes. And everybody dies. Somehow Oliver manages to make that both terrifying and comforting.
Equally comforting is her essay on snapping turtles. Absolutely transcendent, in so prosaic a way as to leave me gasping! I love Oliver's takes on nature - she is so in love with it while still respecting her place in it - never trying to insert herself in the natural world beyond that of an observer.
I figured I would read 'Winter Hours' while we still have some Winter, and I'm glad I did. Now I can get ready to observe the snapping turtles!
April 12, 2025
Holy fuck. This was… exactly what I needed in this moment of monumental transition (finished this at an airport lounge on my way to Peru, to where I’m moving for the rest of the year). It was beautiful, exalting, breathtaking, and humble. It was romantic and honest and playful. It was also my first Mary Oliver but it sure as hell will not be the last.
Read
March 8, 2023leer a mary oliver es una experiencia inigualable, profundamente espiritual pero también física, como mojar los pies en una corriente de agua fría, al sol, una mañana de primavera…
September 1, 2018
The Whistler
All of a sudden she began to whistle. By all of a sudden I mean that for more than thirty years she had not whistled. It was thrilling. At first I wondered, who was in the house, what stranger? I was upstairs reading, and she was downstairs. As from the throat of a wild and cheerful bird, not caught but visiting, the sound warbled and slid and doubled back and larked and soared.
Finally I said, Is that you? Is that you whistling? Yes, she said. I used to whistle, a long time ago. Now I see I can still whistle. And cadence after cadence she strolled through the house, whistling.
I know her so well, I think. I thought. Elbow and ankle. Mood and desire. Anguish and frolic. Anger too. And the devotions. And for all that, do we even begin to know each other? Who is this I've been living with for thirty years?
This clear, dark, lovely whistler?
All of a sudden she began to whistle. By all of a sudden I mean that for more than thirty years she had not whistled. It was thrilling. At first I wondered, who was in the house, what stranger? I was upstairs reading, and she was downstairs. As from the throat of a wild and cheerful bird, not caught but visiting, the sound warbled and slid and doubled back and larked and soared.
Finally I said, Is that you? Is that you whistling? Yes, she said. I used to whistle, a long time ago. Now I see I can still whistle. And cadence after cadence she strolled through the house, whistling.
I know her so well, I think. I thought. Elbow and ankle. Mood and desire. Anguish and frolic. Anger too. And the devotions. And for all that, do we even begin to know each other? Who is this I've been living with for thirty years?
This clear, dark, lovely whistler?
February 21, 2022
Actually probably 4.5 stars but it’s MO, so I gave it 5. A warning- there is about a 75% overlap in the contents of this book and Upstream, but upstream is better for the extra literary criticism. This is wonderful though, poetic, thoughtful, soulful.
December 19, 2024
Μου άρεσαν πολύ, όπως πάντα, τα ποιήματά της κι η γραφή της είναι μαγική. Οι εκθέσεις της με έβαλαν σε πολλή σκέψη, έπιασα τον εαυτό μου να διαφωνεί και να διαμαρτύρεται με κάποιες σκέψεις και πράξεις της και αυτές οι διαφωνίες έδωσαν ωραία αφορμή για ενδοσκόπηση.
Με άγγιξε πολύ βαθιά η έκθεσή της για τον Poe.
Ένα μικρό μέρος της συλλογής περιλαμβάνει μικρές προτάσεις, ποιήματα δυο γραμμών, τα οποία βρήκα από αδιάφορα ως κακά.
Συνολικά αρκετά άνισο το σύνολο, άξιζε και με το παραπάνω την ανάγνωση και κράτησα πολλές σημειώσεις, δεν θα το πρότεινα όμως σε κάποιον που δεν την έχει ξαναδιαβάσει.
Με άγγιξε πολύ βαθιά η έκθεσή της για τον Poe.
Ένα μικρό μέρος της συλλογής περιλαμβάνει μικρές προτάσεις, ποιήματα δυο γραμμών, τα οποία βρήκα από αδιάφορα ως κακά.
Συνολικά αρκετά άνισο το σύνολο, άξιζε και με το παραπάνω την ανάγνωση και κράτησα πολλές σημειώσεις, δεν θα το πρότεινα όμως σε κάποιον που δεν την έχει ξαναδιαβάσει.
January 7, 2025
3,4*
Decir que no era lo que esperaba sería faltar a la verdad. Por una parte, sí esperaba un libro-diario, es decir, un libro donde la autora volcara sus pensamientos. Pero esperaba algo diferente. Oliver divide el libro en cuatro partes, y la verdad es que están bastante diferenciadas. Es como una mezcolanza de temas que te saca un poco de la lectura.
Una primera parte de ensayos y poemas, una segunda parte donde habla de cuatro poetas (el de Poe me encantó), una tercera parte de lenguadinas (frases cortas), me gustó, y una cuarta parte que da nombre al libro, que realmente es lo que esperaba y que no pasa de las 20 páginas si mal no recuerdo.
Es un sí, pero no mucho.
"Puedo pensar durante un ratito; Después, otra vez, el mundo."
Decir que no era lo que esperaba sería faltar a la verdad. Por una parte, sí esperaba un libro-diario, es decir, un libro donde la autora volcara sus pensamientos. Pero esperaba algo diferente. Oliver divide el libro en cuatro partes, y la verdad es que están bastante diferenciadas. Es como una mezcolanza de temas que te saca un poco de la lectura.
Una primera parte de ensayos y poemas, una segunda parte donde habla de cuatro poetas (el de Poe me encantó), una tercera parte de lenguadinas (frases cortas), me gustó, y una cuarta parte que da nombre al libro, que realmente es lo que esperaba y que no pasa de las 20 páginas si mal no recuerdo.
Es un sí, pero no mucho.
"Puedo pensar durante un ratito; Después, otra vez, el mundo."
July 21, 2019
Originally published on my book blog, TheBibliophage.com, where you'll find an eclectic assortment of book reviews.
Mary Oliver is widely accepted as a master of the written word. Before her death in 2019, she published regularly and with plenty of acclaim. Winter Hours was published in 2000, in what might be considered a simpler American time.
Yet, Oliver keeps her writing simple despite the clanging bells of news events. Simple is a compliment here—she doesn’t get distracted or caught up in gimmicks. She focuses on her own life, and her relationship to the natural world around her.
In Winter Hours, she also presents essays on four poets: Poe, Frost, Hopkins, and Whitman. Her sense of literary critique was new to me. It’s unique to have a poet discussing another poet’s style and work.
I also appreciated her thoughts about the writing process. She says, “YEARS AGO I set three “rules” for myself. Every poem I write, I said, must have a genuine body, it must have sincere energy, and it must have a spiritual purpose.” And goes on a bit later to add, “I want each poem to indicate a life lived with intelligence, patience, passion, and whimsy (not my life—not necessarily!—but the life of my formal self, the writer).” (ebook, p. 24)
This perspective is meaningful to me as both a reader and a writer. The energy and purpose of the author affects me, as a reader. And when I’m reviewing, I want to be able to convey that feeling to my own readers. Without it being like childhood’s “whisper down the lane” game.
My conclusions
So much of Oliver’s work resonates with me. Maybe it’s because I’m over 50 now. But I think it’s more than that. I love the way each of her words is fully intentional. The amount of time she dedicates to the craft of her writing is obvious. And yet, she’s playful in her descriptions.
“Winter walks up and down the town swinging his censer, but no smoke or sweetness comes from it, only the sour, metallic frankness of salt and snow.” (ebook, pg. 93) What an image!
Read Mary Oliver if you’re looking for a picture of contentment. She may be privileged in the sense that many of us don’t experience contentment often. But whether you are striving or even feeling oppressed, you may find some calm and quiet in Oliver’s cadence and peaceful thoughts.
I’ll leave you with one more: “You can fool a lot of yourself but you can’t fool the soul.” (ebook, pg. 14)
Pick any of her works. But pick up Mary Oliver sooner, not later. You’ll be glad you did.
Mary Oliver is widely accepted as a master of the written word. Before her death in 2019, she published regularly and with plenty of acclaim. Winter Hours was published in 2000, in what might be considered a simpler American time.
Yet, Oliver keeps her writing simple despite the clanging bells of news events. Simple is a compliment here—she doesn’t get distracted or caught up in gimmicks. She focuses on her own life, and her relationship to the natural world around her.
In Winter Hours, she also presents essays on four poets: Poe, Frost, Hopkins, and Whitman. Her sense of literary critique was new to me. It’s unique to have a poet discussing another poet’s style and work.
I also appreciated her thoughts about the writing process. She says, “YEARS AGO I set three “rules” for myself. Every poem I write, I said, must have a genuine body, it must have sincere energy, and it must have a spiritual purpose.” And goes on a bit later to add, “I want each poem to indicate a life lived with intelligence, patience, passion, and whimsy (not my life—not necessarily!—but the life of my formal self, the writer).” (ebook, p. 24)
This perspective is meaningful to me as both a reader and a writer. The energy and purpose of the author affects me, as a reader. And when I’m reviewing, I want to be able to convey that feeling to my own readers. Without it being like childhood’s “whisper down the lane” game.
My conclusions
So much of Oliver’s work resonates with me. Maybe it’s because I’m over 50 now. But I think it’s more than that. I love the way each of her words is fully intentional. The amount of time she dedicates to the craft of her writing is obvious. And yet, she’s playful in her descriptions.
“Winter walks up and down the town swinging his censer, but no smoke or sweetness comes from it, only the sour, metallic frankness of salt and snow.” (ebook, pg. 93) What an image!
Read Mary Oliver if you’re looking for a picture of contentment. She may be privileged in the sense that many of us don’t experience contentment often. But whether you are striving or even feeling oppressed, you may find some calm and quiet in Oliver’s cadence and peaceful thoughts.
I’ll leave you with one more: “You can fool a lot of yourself but you can’t fool the soul.” (ebook, pg. 14)
Pick any of her works. But pick up Mary Oliver sooner, not later. You’ll be glad you did.
April 24, 2019
"For nature and art are in this way twins: they are both beautiful, and dreadful, and in love with change."
I've only recently discovered Mary Oliver but she has really been able to capture me with her words. This style of writing was definitely new for me, but I ended up really enjoying it.
Oliver makes you want to go out into the woods and never come back with her beautiful descriptions of nature. All of her observations sound so profound and make you see the world in a different way.
I can't wait to read more of her work.
I've only recently discovered Mary Oliver but she has really been able to capture me with her words. This style of writing was definitely new for me, but I ended up really enjoying it.
Oliver makes you want to go out into the woods and never come back with her beautiful descriptions of nature. All of her observations sound so profound and make you see the world in a different way.
I can't wait to read more of her work.
December 9, 2024
I’m often hesitant to pick up a book of poetry but this felt so down to earth. Some of my favorite quotes:
“M. and I met in the late fifties. For myself it was all adolescence again—shivers and whistles. Certainty. We have lived together for more than thirty years, so far. I would not tell much about it. Privacy, no longer cherished in the world, is all the same still a natural and sensible attribute of paradise. We are happy, and we are lucky. We are neither political nor inclined to likecompany. Repeat: we are happy, and we are lucky. We make for each other: companionship, intimacy, affection, rhapsody. Whenever I hear of something horrible, I want to cover M.’s ears. Whenever I see something beautiful, and my heart is shouting, it is M. I run to, to tell about it.”
“Now I think there is only one subject worth my attention and that is the recognition of the spiritual side of the world and, within this recognition, the condition of my own spiritual state. I am not talking about having faith necessarily, although one hopes to. What I mean by spirituality is not theology, but attitude. Such interest nourishes me beyond the finest compendium of facts. In my mind now, in any comparison of demonstrated truths and unproven but vivid intuitions, the truths lose.”
“What is one to do with such moments, such memories, but cherish them? Who knows what is beyond the known? And if you think that any day the secret of light might come, would you not keep the house of your mind ready? Would you not cleanse your study of all that is cheap, or trivial? Would you not live in continual hope, and pleasure, and excitement?”
“M. and I met in the late fifties. For myself it was all adolescence again—shivers and whistles. Certainty. We have lived together for more than thirty years, so far. I would not tell much about it. Privacy, no longer cherished in the world, is all the same still a natural and sensible attribute of paradise. We are happy, and we are lucky. We are neither political nor inclined to likecompany. Repeat: we are happy, and we are lucky. We make for each other: companionship, intimacy, affection, rhapsody. Whenever I hear of something horrible, I want to cover M.’s ears. Whenever I see something beautiful, and my heart is shouting, it is M. I run to, to tell about it.”
“Now I think there is only one subject worth my attention and that is the recognition of the spiritual side of the world and, within this recognition, the condition of my own spiritual state. I am not talking about having faith necessarily, although one hopes to. What I mean by spirituality is not theology, but attitude. Such interest nourishes me beyond the finest compendium of facts. In my mind now, in any comparison of demonstrated truths and unproven but vivid intuitions, the truths lose.”
“What is one to do with such moments, such memories, but cherish them? Who knows what is beyond the known? And if you think that any day the secret of light might come, would you not keep the house of your mind ready? Would you not cleanse your study of all that is cheap, or trivial? Would you not live in continual hope, and pleasure, and excitement?”
January 30, 2021
3.5⭐️
I didn’t read the entire thing; I skipped the Four Poets section. I started to read it, and then it reminded me too much of my degree in a way I could not be arsed with, so skipped it.
The prose is - *wanker alert* - luminous. Stunning. The couple of poems and prose poems in this little volume were gorgeous, yes, but my gods the prose. ‘Building The House’ was a thoughtful meditation on craft and poetry, and I’m still swimming in it a bit.
Titular ‘Winter Hours’ though... I mean. The very first paragraph in particular hit me like a breeze block to the chest, it was that apt: “In the winter I am writing about, there was much darkness. Darkness of nature, darkness of event, darkness of the spirit. The sprawling darkness of not knowing.” The piece is a beautiful movement of thought on spirituality, nature, and the environment, exploring Oliver’s relationship to all three. She might not have considered herself an environmentalist with a capital E, but her rendering of the effect of nature on the soul and our changing relationship is about as moving a kick-up-the-arse as documentary narrated by David Attenborough and Greta Thunberg. It’s also just a sodding beautiful exploration of the meaning of the soul, and in a style reminiscent of my student days, I highlighted pretty much all of it.
I didn’t read the entire thing; I skipped the Four Poets section. I started to read it, and then it reminded me too much of my degree in a way I could not be arsed with, so skipped it.
The prose is - *wanker alert* - luminous. Stunning. The couple of poems and prose poems in this little volume were gorgeous, yes, but my gods the prose. ‘Building The House’ was a thoughtful meditation on craft and poetry, and I’m still swimming in it a bit.
Titular ‘Winter Hours’ though... I mean. The very first paragraph in particular hit me like a breeze block to the chest, it was that apt: “In the winter I am writing about, there was much darkness. Darkness of nature, darkness of event, darkness of the spirit. The sprawling darkness of not knowing.” The piece is a beautiful movement of thought on spirituality, nature, and the environment, exploring Oliver’s relationship to all three. She might not have considered herself an environmentalist with a capital E, but her rendering of the effect of nature on the soul and our changing relationship is about as moving a kick-up-the-arse as documentary narrated by David Attenborough and Greta Thunberg. It’s also just a sodding beautiful exploration of the meaning of the soul, and in a style reminiscent of my student days, I highlighted pretty much all of it.
Read
December 16, 2022.
Book 30.
and the last one of 2022 most probably.
also a book that I've incompletely read, leaving space for further visits.
----------------
Winter hours is a collection of reflections and memories, both as poetry and prose. It's hard to tell where the observation and the imagination separate, if they do so in Mary's musings. Yet there's much to ponder and reflect. In a way, this is Mary saying, "see this is beautiful, see this matters, see even though I want to describe it and may not be able to; see, see, see ......".
-----------------
some lines I really loved:
"Try to live through one day believing nothing is significant, nothing is governed by the unknowable, the divine. See how you feel by the end of such a day."
"Nobody ever says of a painter that he has lost his way. It is said of writers. But when one is talking about a painter one says, "He is finding his way."
"I would say that there exist a thousand unbreakable links between each of us and everything else, and that our dignity and our chances are one. The farthest star and the mud at our feet are a family; and there is no decency or sense in honoring one thing, or a few things, and then closing the list. The pine tree, the leopard, the Platte River, and ourselves—we are at risk together, or we are on our way to a sustainable world together. We are each other's destiny."
Book 30.
and the last one of 2022 most probably.
also a book that I've incompletely read, leaving space for further visits.
----------------
Winter hours is a collection of reflections and memories, both as poetry and prose. It's hard to tell where the observation and the imagination separate, if they do so in Mary's musings. Yet there's much to ponder and reflect. In a way, this is Mary saying, "see this is beautiful, see this matters, see even though I want to describe it and may not be able to; see, see, see ......".
-----------------
some lines I really loved:
"Try to live through one day believing nothing is significant, nothing is governed by the unknowable, the divine. See how you feel by the end of such a day."
"Nobody ever says of a painter that he has lost his way. It is said of writers. But when one is talking about a painter one says, "He is finding his way."
"I would say that there exist a thousand unbreakable links between each of us and everything else, and that our dignity and our chances are one. The farthest star and the mud at our feet are a family; and there is no decency or sense in honoring one thing, or a few things, and then closing the list. The pine tree, the leopard, the Platte River, and ourselves—we are at risk together, or we are on our way to a sustainable world together. We are each other's destiny."
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
February 2, 2025
”What I write begins and ends with the act of noticing and cherishing, and it neither begins nor ends with the human world.”
“When I write about nature directly, or refer to it, here are some things I don’t mean, and a few I do. I don’t mean nature as ornamental, however glowing it may be. I don’t mean nature as useful to man if that possibility or utility takes from an object its own inherent value. I don’t mean landscapes in which we find rest and pleasure - although we do - so much as I mean landscapes in which we are reinforced in our sense of the world as a mystery, a mystery that entails other privileges besides our own -“
oh Mary Oliver, the woman you were…
“When I write about nature directly, or refer to it, here are some things I don’t mean, and a few I do. I don’t mean nature as ornamental, however glowing it may be. I don’t mean nature as useful to man if that possibility or utility takes from an object its own inherent value. I don’t mean landscapes in which we find rest and pleasure - although we do - so much as I mean landscapes in which we are reinforced in our sense of the world as a mystery, a mystery that entails other privileges besides our own -“
oh Mary Oliver, the woman you were…
March 26, 2019
This totally obscure Mary Oliver book was listed for $2 on Kindle and I said, Sure! Why not? because I've been looking for a copy of American Primitive at every single independent book store I go to and zero of them have a copy.
Be what you are, of the earth, but a dreamer too.
So I read this instead, and it was good. A collection of short essays, poems, prose poems--it all hangs together by the singularity of her vision and her voice. She writes about building a house with her own hands with the same reverence she uses for the hawk hanging above the trees.
The four essays on poets (Edgar Allen Poe, Robert Frost, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Walt Whitman) were everything I hoped for from We Begin in Gladness. A poet's reading of the poems, of how they became who they were--without the cloying hero worship, the academic orderliness of the other book. I felt -- ah! This is who they were, and we can appreciate their strangeness and their gift without feeling terrible about ourselves. It's not a hierarchy, but a rich landscape. And no surprise that she would write poets that way--is the wolf *better* than the lark, or just bigger?
Let me always be who I am, and then some.
Be what you are, of the earth, but a dreamer too.
So I read this instead, and it was good. A collection of short essays, poems, prose poems--it all hangs together by the singularity of her vision and her voice. She writes about building a house with her own hands with the same reverence she uses for the hawk hanging above the trees.
The four essays on poets (Edgar Allen Poe, Robert Frost, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Walt Whitman) were everything I hoped for from We Begin in Gladness. A poet's reading of the poems, of how they became who they were--without the cloying hero worship, the academic orderliness of the other book. I felt -- ah! This is who they were, and we can appreciate their strangeness and their gift without feeling terrible about ourselves. It's not a hierarchy, but a rich landscape. And no surprise that she would write poets that way--is the wolf *better* than the lark, or just bigger?
Let me always be who I am, and then some.
April 11, 2019
Mary Oliver is a new friend. I only met her after she died. It is like that with some literary friends. I never make their acquaintance until I read their obituary in "The Washington Post," or " The New York Times. "
She has been added to a list of friends who make me slow down and maybe read out loud.
"Winter Hours" is a good introduction to her. She talks about building things, being in the world, other poets, her love of her animals, how she lives.
I like her. I will spend more time with her.
She has been added to a list of friends who make me slow down and maybe read out loud.
"Winter Hours" is a good introduction to her. She talks about building things, being in the world, other poets, her love of her animals, how she lives.
I like her. I will spend more time with her.
September 30, 2020
Really enjoyable.
Oliver’s obsession with nature is right up my street. This book feels like a good introduction to Oliver, as prose revealing more of who she is and the nature of her work sits alongside an (admittedly smaller than expected) selection of her poetry.
Favourites of her work in the book include Building the House, The Whistler, and The Boat.
I actually found her short essays on Poe, Frost, Manley Hopkins, and Whitman to be a particular highlight, also. Frost especially.
Oliver’s obsession with nature is right up my street. This book feels like a good introduction to Oliver, as prose revealing more of who she is and the nature of her work sits alongside an (admittedly smaller than expected) selection of her poetry.
Favourites of her work in the book include Building the House, The Whistler, and The Boat.
I actually found her short essays on Poe, Frost, Manley Hopkins, and Whitman to be a particular highlight, also. Frost especially.
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