What Do We Know

by Mary Oliver

Forty poems by Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Mary Oliver

"Mary Oliver's poetry is fine and deep; it reads like a blessing," wrote Stanley Kunitz. For the many admirers of Mary Oliver's dazzling poetry and luminous vision, as well as for those who may be coming to her work for the first time, What Do We Know will be a revelation. These forty poems-of observing, of searching, of pausing, of astonishment, of giving thanks embrace in every sense the natural world, its unrepeatable moments and its ceaseless cycles. Mary Oliver evokes unforgettable images from one hundred white-sided dolphins on a summer day to bees that have memorized every stalk and leaf in a field even as she reminds us, after Emerson, that "the invisible and imponderable is the sole fact."

Genres: Poetry, Nature, Nonfiction, LGBT, Queer, Adult

88 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 2002

About the author

Mary 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.

Reviews

[Ariel · Rating 4 out of 5]

Not quite four a.m., when the rapture of being alive
strikes me from sleep, and I rise
from the comfortable bed and go
to another room, where my books are lined up
in their neat and colorful rows. How

magical they are! I choose one
and open it. Soon
I have wandered in over the waves of the words
to the temple of thought.

And then I hear
outside, over the actual waves, the small,
perfect voice of the loon. He is also awake,
and with his heavy head uplifted he calls out
to the fading moon, to the pink flush
swelling in the east that, soon,
will become the long, reasonable day.

Inside the house
it is still dark, except for the pool of lamplight
in which I am sitting.

I do not close the book.

Neither, for a long while, do I read on.
----

NEED I SAY MORE? Me thinks not. I struggle to give any poetry collection 5 stars because I think that would mean loving at least 95% of the poems hence the 4. I urge you to go an read some Oliver because she's amazing!

[Lucy Dacus · Rating 5 out of 5]

“I love this world, but not for its answers.”

She can do no wrong and that’s that.

[Kimber · Rating 5 out of 5]

Each time I picked up this book, I was sent to bliss.. I didn't really see separate poems & say, I like this poem and not that one. All of the poems are equal expressions of the divine working through her. Each poem is an endpoint to bliss. She is a mystic and she keeps- patiently, with each poem- showing us the way.

[Meitha · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is my fave Mary Oliver's poem:

Now Are the Rough Things Smooth

Now are the rough things smooth, and the smooth things stand in flickering slats, facing the slow tarnish of sun-fall. Summer is over, or nearly. And therefore the green is not green anymore but yellow, beige, russet, rust; all the darknesses are beginning to settle in. And therefore why pray to permanence, why not pray to impermanence, to change, to -- whatever comes next. Willingness is next to godliness. Once I watched a swallow playing with a feather, high in the blue air. The swallow wanted to fly and frolic; the feather just wanted to float. Many times the swallow dropped the feather, which drifted away, then went diving and careening after it. There are so many things to do in this world, and so many things to be done. Right now I'm glad to be agile and insistent. But, later! Then, I'll be happy to give up the quick burst, oh darling and important world, and just float away.

[Katie · Rating 5 out of 5]

What Do We Know is a poetry collection written by Mary Oliver and published in 2002.

This is my introduction to Mary Oliver after hearing so many great things about her poetry. The praise is deserved because I fell absolutely in love with her writing.

She predominantly focuses on nature in her poetry, which I love. I feel like she saw nature and the little things in life in a way I can personally really relate to. She is a kindred spirit. Yet, she also reminded me to take in my surroundings in an even deeper way. I think Mary Oliver captured the beauty in the world and through that inspiration has added more beauty. The world is better off because of her.

I loved this whole collection, but of course I had my favorites. The second poem One Hundred White Sided Dolphins on a Summer’s Day made me know instantly I was going to love her writing. There were other poems about sea creatures I really liked such as Lion’s Mane about a jellyfish and a prose poem called The Clam. There was a poem about a skunk called Moonlight that was beautiful. I see a lot of skunks around my house and have a real soft spot for them, so of course that one stood out. Their Wings, was a sad poem about a bat that touched me. Blue Iris was a great poem about writing. Walking to Oak Head Pond, and Thinking of the Ponds I will visit in the Next Days and Weeks was another one I liked about hopefulness and how we always are so sure there is a tomorrow, even though we can’t ever be sure. The Loon is one that set such a perfect scene that I felt like I could step right into. The Snowy Night was one that I read quite a number of times I loved it so much, about appreciating nature without needing to know everything.

I can’t tell you how highly I recommend Mary Oliver. Especially if you love nature and poetry. I for one can’t wait to delve deeper into her work.

[Nicole · Rating 3 out of 5]

Really between a 3 & a 4.
Only Mary Oliver can make me see the beauty and life of a snake or jelly fish or of a heron eating a fish. And she always knows how to bring into light the beauty of nature that already exist.

[Jamie · Rating 4 out of 5]

I don’t claim to get poetry all of the ways all of the time, but I do know when it’s beautiful.

When I went back to the sea
it wasn’t waiting.
Neither had it gone away.
(The Return)

I love this world
but not for its answers.
(Snowy Night)

[asyi · Rating 5 out of 5]

such a thought daughter thotting in nature. she illuminates the world as the artwork that it is so humbly and eloquently.

“was i wrong, did the angel in the dark offer tenderness, and did i miss it?”

“i love the world, but not for its answers.”

“aren’t there moments that are better than knowing something, and sweeter?”

[britt helene · Rating 5 out of 5]

“i am tired of explanantions. unless they are spoken by the best mouths” (19).

“i love this world, but not for its answers” (66).

[gash · Rating 5 out of 5]

no one gets it like miss olive no one

[sid graham · Rating 5 out of 5]

Warm & weightless. Mary is giving Mother.

———

I don't know—either unbearable tons or the pale, bearable hand of salvation on my neck, lifting me from the boat's plain plank seat into the world's unspeakable kindness.

I do not want to be frisky, and theatrical. I do not want to go torward in the parade of names. I do not want to be diligent or necessary or in any way heavy. From my mouth to God's ear, I swear it; I want only to be a song.

Sometimes I really believe it, that I am going to save my life a little.

….until the length of its body lay along
the length of my body, and so we touched, and maybe our breathing together was some kind of heavenly conversation in God's delicate and magnifying language, the one we don't dare speak out loud, not yet.

Here, there, everywhere on the earth thousands are rising and shouting with you—even those who are utterly silent, absorbed—their mouths filled with such sweetness.

And therefore why pray to permanence, why not pray to impermanence, to change, to—whatever comes next. Willingness is next to godliness.

Therefore, dark past,
I'm about to do it.
I'm about to forgive you
for everything.

Now that I'm free to be myself, who am I?

and, so far, I am just that lucky, my legs splashing over the edge of darkness, my heart on fire. I don't know where such certainty comes from—the brave flesh or the theater of the mind—

It was the loneliness again. After all what is Nature, it isn't kindness, it isn't unkindness.

Not quite four a.m., when the rapture of being alive strikes me from sleep.

But, anyway, aren't there moments
that are better than knowing something, and sweeter?

I love this world, but not for its answers.

[Keith Taylor · Rating 5 out of 5]

After loving Mary Oliver back around the time of "American Primitive," the 70s, I turned away from her? Why? What bad reasons did I have? Did I think her poems too often sounded alike? Did I learn to mistrust her revelations? Was it just a fashionable dislike fostered by being in the hothouse of an academic environment? I'd like to think I was inoculated against those superficial criticisms, but maybe I wasn't.

I AM BACK NOW! Oliver's idea of the grace we can experience in the natural world, has become my idea (and here I thought I discovered it on my own). The joy she often describes has become my joy. Her concerns for the things she loves have become my concerns. Her language is still the language of James Wright (the dedicatee of "American Primitive") and that is still my language. She sees the same northern, snow-filled world I see (even though I might look at fresh water as she looks at salt). I am filled with gratitude for the gratitude she displays.

In a poem called "Beauty," which is about owls (!), she writes:

some wild loyalty has me
to the root of the heart

Yes, I feel that! Mary Oliver's reputation doesn't need me to bolster it, but from now on I will!

[christy · Rating 5 out of 5]

and I just stood there, listening and holding out

my hands to the soft glitter
falling through the air. I love this world,
but not for its answers,
And I wish good luck to the owl,

whatever its name--
and I wish great welcome to the snow,
whatever its severe and comfortless
and beautiful meaning.
-Snowy Night
---
This is my first full Mary Oliver read, and it did not disappoint. Contemplative, resonant. I loved the way ordinary moments came to life, captured in images that still had movement. Mary Oliver's voice feels like breathing, almost.

[Sarah Foulc · Rating 5 out of 5]

Hail Mary Oliver 🙌🏼

[Rainbowyikes · Rating 5 out of 5]

Her poetry is sometimes the only enduring peace I feel

[Belle]

I’m not usually a fan of poetry. But I think I could be a fan of Mary Oliver. 💛 🍃

[Tayler Hill · Rating 5 out of 5]

Now that I am free to be myself, who am I? - Blue Iris

Will somebody or something please start to sing? - The Roses

[Scott Heaton · Rating 5 out of 5]

“I love this world,
but not for its answers.”

[Ruby · Rating 5 out of 5]

Truth and beauty imbued in every single one of her words she writes

[hannah akers · Rating 4 out of 5]

i forgot to review this when i actually finished it shit… slapped im sure

[Mathilde · Rating 5 out of 5]

this one is for my fellow winter lovers ❄️☃️

"When I went back to the sea
itwasn't waiting.
Neither had it gone away."
- the return

"But still I stand under the trees, happy and desolate, wanting for myself such a satisfying coat, and brilliant work."
- the hummingbird

"I am tired of explanations. Unless they are spoken by the best mouths. Black bear coming up from sleep, growling her happiness (...)
Listen! Let the high branches go on with their opera, it’s the song of the fields I wait for, when the sky turns orange and the wind arrives, waving his thousand arms. Or, autumn! I hurry out to the middle of the field and stand where the tough goldenrod, seeded and tasseled, is vigorously tossing —until something thankful rises from my own body."
- wind

"All afternoon I have been walking over the dunes, hurrying from one thick raft of the wrinkled, salt roses to another, leaning down close to their dark or pale petals, red as blood or white as snow. And now [am beginning to breathe slowly and evenly— the way a hunted animal breathes, finally, when it has galloped, and galloped—when it is wrung dry, but, at last, is far away, so the panic begins to drain from the chest, from the wonderful legs, and the exhausted mind."
- the roses

"Then, not for the first or the last time, I take the deep breath ofhappiness, and Ithink
how unlikely itis
that death is a hole in the ground, how improbable
that ascension isnot possible,
though everything seems so inert, so nailed
back into itself—"
- heron rises from the dark, summer pond

"Don’ tellus
how to love, don’t tell us
how to grieve, or what
to grieve for, or how loss
shouldn't sit down like a gray
bundle of dust in the deepest
pockets of our energy, don’t laugh at our belief that money isn’t
everything, don’t tell us
how to behave in
anger, in longing, in loss, in home- sickness, don’t tell us,
dear friends."
- on losing a house

"Last night the rain spoke to me slowly, saying,
what joy
to come falling
out of the brisk cloud, to be happy again
in a new way
on the earth! That’s what it said as it dropped,
smelling of iron,
and vanished
like a dream of the ocean
into the branches
and the grass below.
Then it was over. The sky cleared. I was standing
under a tree.
The tree was a tree with happy leaves,
and I was myself,
and there were stars in the sky
that were also themselves
at the moment, at which moment
my right hand was holding my left hand
which was holding the tree
which was filled with stars
and the soft rain-
imagine! imagine!
the long and wondrous journeys
still to be ours"
- last night the rain spoke to me

"There are so many things to do in this world, and so many things to be done. Right now I’m glad to be agile and insistent. But, later! Then, I'll be happy to give up the quick burst, oh darling and important world, and just float away."
- now are the rough things smooth

"Therefore, dark past, I’m about to do it.
I’m about to forgive you
for everything."
- a settlement

"In summer the bats flylike dots and dashes over the evening pond
on the darkness
of their wings."
- their wings

" Now that I’m free to be myself, who am I? Can't fly,can’t run, and see how slowly Iwalk. Well, Ithink, Ican read books.
“What's that you're doing?”
the green-headed flyshouts as itbuzzes past.
I close the book.
Well, I can write down words, like these, softly.
“What's that you're doing?” whispers the wind, pausing in a heap just outside the window.
Give me a little time, I say back to its staring, silver face. Itdoesn’t happen allofasudden, you know.
“Doesn't it?” says the wind, and breaks open, releasing distillation of blue iris.
And my heart panics not to be, as I long to be, the empty, waiting, pure, speechless receptacle."
- blue iris

"What isso utterly invisible as tomorrow?
Not love,
not the wind,
not the inside of a stone.
Not anything.
And yet, how often I’m fooled— I’m wading along
in the sunlight—
and I’m sure I can see the fields and the ponds shining days ahead—
I can see the light spilling
like a shower of meteors
into next week’s trees, andIplantobetheresoon— and, so far, Iam
just that lucky,
my legssplashing
over the edge of darkness, my heart on fire."
- Walking to Oak-Head Pond, and Thinking ofthe Ponds I Will Visit in the Next Days and Weeks

"After all
what isNature, itisn’t kindness, itisn’tunkindness. And Iturned
and opened the door, and still the snow poured down smelling of iron and the pale, vast eternal, and there itwas, whether Iwas ready or not:
the silence; the blank, white, glittering sublime."
- early snow

"But here’s the kingdom we call remembrance with its thousand iron doors
through which I pass so easily,
switching on the old lights as Igo—
while the dead wind rises and the old rapture rewinds, the stiff waters once more begin to kick and flow."
- winter at herring cove

"in another world— anyway, at a house I no longer go to, whose people
are all dead now, whose graves, even, I don’t visit.
And the little birds
looked exactly the same! Trim and bold,
and empty of any memory that could break the spell"
- tree sparrows

" Last night, an owl in the blue dark tossed
an indeterminate number
of carefully shaped sounds into the world, in which,
a quarter of a mile away, I happened to be standing.
I couldn’t tell which one it was—
the barred or the great-horned ship of the air—
itwas that distant. But, anyway, arent there moments
that are better than knowing something,
and sweeter? Snow was falling,
so much like stars filling the dark trees that one could easily imagine
its reason for being was nothing more
than prettiness. Isuppose ifthis were someone else’s story they would have insisted on knowing
whatever is knowable, l would have hurried
(...)
I love this world, but not for its answers."
- snowy night

[Annmarie Garcia Sheahan · Rating 4 out of 5]

I always turn to Mary Oliver when I feel deadened by the routine of responsibility and the inadequacy of materialism. This collection was a breath of needed fresh air, especially in the current and seemingly never-ending cycle of online meetings, zoom classes, constant influx of grading, etc. that is my life at the moment.

"Sometimes I really believe it, that I am going to
save my life

a little."

"The gate I want to open now is the one that leads into
the flower-bed of my mind..."

"Don't tell us
how to love, don't tell us
how to grieve, or what
to grieve for, or how loss
shouldn't sit down like a gray
bundle of dust in the deepest
pockets of our energy..."

"But here's the kingdom we call remembrance
with its thousand iron doors
through which I pass so easily,

switching on the old lights as I go--"

"I love this world,
but not for its answers."

[Kristina · Rating 5 out of 5]

I have several favorites from this book- The Hummingbird (It's morning, and again I am that lucky person who is in it.); Blue Iris (And my heart panics not to be, as I long to be, the empty, waiting, pure, speechless receptacle.); and Snowy Night (I just stood there, listening and holding out my hands to the soft glitter falling through the air. I love this world, but not for its answers.).

[Hannah Jayne · Rating 4 out of 5]

visionary. [2018]

“and I just stood there, listening and holding out

my hands to the soft glitter
falling through the air. I love this world,
but not for its answers.
And I wish good luck to the owl,

whatever it’s name—
and I wish great welcome to the snow,
whatever its severe and comfortless
and beautiful meaning.” [2019]

[Mark · Rating 5 out of 5]

Lovely, as usual.

[Lisa · Rating 2 out of 5]

This poetry book was one of the most difficult books for me to sit down and read. I'm hoping to pick up another poetry book by Mary Oliver to compare, because I know I've read individual poems that I adore by Oliver. The themes of gratitude and of nature felt disingenuous to me. I didn't feel as if they held the same meaning as other poets/writers I've read that write about nature and gratitude (a few examples being Jane Kenyon, and Max Garland). This book contained poems and prose-poems; I felt like the prose-poems held a more-believable nature to them, and maybe that's the problem I've found while reading this book for my own personal taste, at least. The prose-poems felt organic, whereas the regular poems in this book often felt overdrawn.

However, I still did find poems that I enjoyed like "Summer Poem", "The Return", and "Mink". This book wasn't for me, but I'm glad I read it, and still plan on reading more Mary Oliver in the future.

[Stella Wenny · Rating 3 out of 5]

...

I couldn't tell
which one it was—
the barred or the great-horned
ship of the air—

it was that distant. But, anyway,
aren't there moments
that are better than knowing something,
and sweeter? Snow was falling,

so much like stars
filling the dark trees
that one could easily imagine
its reason for being was nothing more

than prettiness. I suppose
if this were someone else's story
they would have insisted on knowing
whatever is knowable—would have hurried

over the fields
to name it—the owl, I mean.
But it's mine, this poem of the night,
and I just stood there, listening and holding out

my hands to the soft glitter
falling through the air. I love this world,
but not for its answers.
And I wish good luck to the owl,

whatever its name—
and I wish great welcome to the snow,
whatever its severe and comfortless
and beautiful meaning.

[denisa · Rating 5 out of 5]

Read my first Mary Oliver collection in one go. I appreciate her poems for taking the reader on trips, albeit short ones. They linger however, because her admiration for nature, animals, writing and the lightness of being are contagious.

"He has cousins who have teeth that spring up and down and are full of the sap of death, but what of that, so have we all." - Black snake

"I love this world, but not for its answers." Snowy night

My favorite poems from this collection: Summer poem, The word, Black snake, Beauty, The humming bird, Stones, Lion's mane, On the flats, On losing a house, Crows, Last night the rain spoke to me, Now are the rough things smooth, A settlement, Matins, Blue Iris, Early snow, Snow night, Mink

[Hanneleele · Rating 5 out of 5]

Tõin eile keskraamatukogu võõrkeele osakonnast kõik mitte-klassikalised luuleraamatud, mida ma lugeda tahtsin (Byroni kogutud teosed jms jäid veel ootama, Faberi raamat leinast samuti), mida oli korraga rohkem kui ma ootasin ja ikkagi vähe - kui vähe on ingliskeelset luulet meie raamatukogudes! Tallinnas üks riiulivahe, Tartus oli natuke rohkem.

Igatahes armastan Mary Oliveri luulet juba mõnda aega, aga seni olen ta loomingut lugenud vaid ühest luule-äpist, see on esimene Päris Raamat. Läks korda.

Kuidas rääkida luulest?

[Lara · Rating 2 out of 5]

Marginally better than Blue Horse because she had less poems (only) about nature but still not my cup of tea for the most part. I can't stand reading about owls and sparrows and goldenrods and ponds and snow over and over again. I appreciate that she's in awe of the world around her but I can't connect to these themes.

"But here's a kingdom we call remembrance
with its thousand iron doors
through which I pass so easily

switching on the old lights as I go -
while the dead wind rises and the old rapture rewinds,
the stiff waters once more begin to kick and flow."