Joutsen : runoja ja proosarunoja

by Mary Oliver, Pertti Nieminen (Translator), Tuulia Toivanen (Translator)

Rakastetun Pulitzer-palkitun runoilijan viimeisin runokokoelma Pertti Niemisen ja Tuulia Toivasen kääntämänä.

Näitkö sinäkin, miten se ajelehti mustalla virralla läpi yön? Näitkö sen aamulla nousevan hopeanhohtoiseen ilmaan, sylintäyden valkeita kukkia, silkkiä ja pellavaa täydessä epäjärjestyksessä siipien suojassa: lumikinos, liljakimppu joka haukkaa ilmaa mustalla nokallaan? [...]

Mary Oliverin uusimman runokokoelman, Joutsenen, kuvasto kumpuaa luonnosta. Teoksen runot ovat milloin voimakkaan lyyrisiä kuvia, milloin arkisesti jutustelevia havaintoja. Keskeisiä teemoja ovat ihmisen asema osana luontoa ja luonnonjärjestystä mutta myös ihmisen suhde itseensä, omaan ruumiiseensa ja sen tarpeisiin, iästä riippumatta. Joutsen haastaa lukijansa pohtimaan omaa ihmisyyttään ja inhimillisyyttään.

Mary Oliver (s. 1935 Ohio) on pitkän linjan yhdysvaltalainen runoilija ja esseisti, joka on viisikymmenvuotisen uransa aikana julkaissut yli 30 teosta. Amerikassa Oliver on rakastettu lyyrikko, jonka tekstien yksinkertainen mutta syvällinen sanoma on puhutellut monenlaisia lukijoita. Oliverin runouden monipuolisuutta osoittaa se, että hänen tuotantoaan on luettu laajalti mm. ekokritiikin, filosofian, feminismin ja queer-tutkimuksen näkökulmasta.

Genres: Poetry, Nature, Nonfiction, Adult, Animals, American, LGBT

88 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 2010

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

[s.penkevich [hiatus-will return-miss you all] · Rating 4 out of 5]

‘What can I say that I have not said before?’ Mary Oliver opens Swan, her twentieth volume of work, with this question. I wonder, too, what can I say I have not already about Oliver. ‘I’ll say it again,’ she continues, ‘the leaf has a song in it.’ And, yet again, such reminders of the joys and peace of the natural world fill my heart and I, too, can’t help but write more on how Oliver’s poetry is a shortcut towards a quiet meadow within our own hearts. A place where the sun warms our face with no worries of sunburn or skin cancer. Where a breeze rustles the leaves but does not blow the hats off our heads or our picnic blanket about. Where we hear the plants, the animals, and even the bugs sing their songs yet do not worry about their bites or allergies. To enter a book of Mary Oliver is to walk a pristine path of poetry through the most delightful of forests. ‘If you have ever gone to the woods with me, I must love you very much’ she says, and as we go on this poetic journey with her, how can one not fall in love with her words all over again.

‘Inside the river there is an unfinishable story
And you are somewhere in it
And it will never end until all ends.’

Oliver reminds us the beauty in the quiet moments, the small moments, the tiny blisses such as watching a pink rose open its petals. ‘Possibly / it is the smallest, / the least important event / at this moment // in the whole world. / Yet I stand there, / utterly happy.’ Such is the gift of her words. A small joy amidst a harsh world, a tiny opening of language like a flower after the thunderstorms of our days and labor. It’s poetry that makes you want to slow down, live life more fully, live better, to be alert and alive in the passing of our days. Much like what the titular poem tells us:

Swan

Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river?
Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air –
An armful of white blossoms,
A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned
into the bondage of its wings; a snowbank, a bank of lilies,
Biting the air with its black beak?
Did you hear it, fluting and whistling
A shrill dark music – like the rain pelting the trees – like a waterfall
Knifing down the black ledges?
And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds –
A white cross Streaming across the sky, its feet
Like black leaves, its wings Like the stretching light of the river?
And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?
And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?
And have you changed your life?

Oliver is also a reminder that our earthly woes are small against the immensity of the natural world. And this is freeing. In the depths of despair, Oliver takes your hand and asks if you’ve ever thought deeply enough about trees. ‘How silent the trees, their poetry being of themselves only.’ Have you ever truly considered the leaves and listened to them. And you realize no, and if you can’t hear them you must wonder ‘is it just that I don't yet know the language?’ And you feel great suddenly, your woes vanquished in the wind blowing a choir of leaves.
Or you think life not worth carrying on and she asks if you stopped to listen to the heartbeat of stones. And no, you realize you haven’t but, as she writes in In Your Hands’ hearing the heartbeat of stones may be ‘so hidden it may take years / before, finally, you hear them’ and suddenly you want to live for those many years. Oliver eases worry with each word.

I Worried

I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall
I correct it?
Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
can I do better?
Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
can do it and I am, well,
hopeless.
Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
lockjaw, dementia?
Finally, I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang.

Not that worrying is necessarily bad and we reach dark times but she asks us to find the beauty in it. To thrive anyways.

‘Was I lost? No question.
Did I know where I was? Not at all.
Had I ever been happier in my life? Never.’

Oliver is a lovely reminder to shine on anyways because ‘In this world, it is no small thing to sparkle.’ Her poems are practically instructions for joy.such as in More Evidence when she writes:

‘Let laughter come to you now and again, that sturdy friend.

The impulse to leap off the cliff, when the body falsely imagines it might fly, may be restrained by reason, also by modesty. Of the two possibilities, take your choice, and live.

Refuse all cooperation with the heart's death.

Sing, if you can sing, and if not still be musical inside yourself.’

But, also sing with nature and listen to it. In April she considers speaking at length about the happiness of the body, the delights of the mind but realizes she wouldn’t want her words to drown out the songs of frogs singing. It’s quite lovely.

Don't Hesitate

If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don't hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed.
Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that's often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don't be afraid of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.

As always, there is such a love for animals and this collection includes several poems for her dog Percy who passed in 2009. Such as recalling a tender moment where he ‘tucked down his curly head / and, sweet as a flower, slept.’ Oliver always finds the silver lining. Oliver reminds us to not be burdened by worry, but to live. To sing. To shine. Thank you, Mary Oliver.

In The Darkness

At night the stars
throw down
their postcards of light.

Who are they
that love me
so much?

Strangers
in the darkness—
Imagine!

they have seen me
and they burn
as I too

have burned, but in
the mortal way, to which
I am totally loyal.

Still, I am grateful
and faithful
to this other romance

though we will not ever know
each others’ names,
we will not ever

touch.

[Julie G · Rating 4 out of 5]

My daughters and I spent our last full day in the Outer Banks yesterday. We drove up to Corolla and found a small, privately owned bookstore and there I found this precious little collection by Mary Oliver.

I have taken a personal challenge this year, to read a new poetry collection each week, in addition to my usual goal of 52 books a year, so with 104 titles staring me in the face, I must keep at this.

So, with SWAN in the car, heading back south again, my middle child asked, “Can we go back to Jockey’s Ridge, once last time, before we leave tomorrow?” I said, “Yes, but only if I can read this new collection of Ms. Oliver’s while we’re up there.”

Ms. Oliver, wherever you are in spirit, I wanted to let you know that we sat up there in the sand dunes, facing the gorgeous Roanoke Sound, my girls lying on their giant coats (it finally warmed up enough to take them off), listening to your verse. You are one of the few poets that they will tolerate all the way up till the end.

(As I paused, midway, an unusual thing happened. My youngest child, who is 15, said to me, “Mom, what’s the connection between Mary Oliver, Jane Goodall and Maggie Smith?” I looked at her and said, “I’m not aware of one. They were all famous women who lived a long time, but Ms. Oliver died several years before the other two.” She said, “They’re connected, in my mind.” So, I got out my phone and was very surprised to see that all 3 of these women were born within the span of the same year. I looked at her again and was like, “Why did you ask that? What made you think of that?” She just shrugged her shoulder and said, “I don’t know. They’re connected somehow.” Malcolm Gladwell, where are you?)

After we finished reading, we gathered our things and went back to our rental and then back out to the wild beach and the dolphins and then we sat on the soft sand and watched the almost full moon rise.

What do you say, Percy? I am thinking
of sitting out on the sand to watch
the moon rise. Full tonight.
So we go

and the moon rises, so beautiful it
makes me shudder, makes me think about
time and space, makes me take
measure of myself: one iota
pondering heaven. Thus we sit,

I thinking how grateful I am for the moon’s
perfect beauty and also, oh! how rich
it is to love the world. Percy, meanwhile,
leans against me and gazes up into
my face. As though I were
his perfect moon.

[Malia · Rating 3 out of 5]

Though I liked these poems, they didn't really move me. It is always so difficult to explain with poetry, music or art in general, why something is able to touch us or not, even if others find magic, joy or solace in it. There seems to be a portal not all of us can find, that reveals the best of a poem. Maybe that's how it should be. In this case, I ran my fingers along the wall, but couldn't find a way in.
That being said, Oliver has a gentle way with language, and each work has some element of loveliness, but maybe that wasn't what I wanted right now? I would like to read something else by her, though, if you have recommendations!

Find my book reviews and more at http://www.princessandpen.com

[Kate · Rating 5 out of 5]

I bought Mary Oliver's recent copy of poetry titled Swan and read it over my solitary dinner. It is a slim volume full of lyrical treasures. I guess I will leave you with the titular poem. In it she whisks you away to the natural world and then hits you in the gut with a burning question at the end. God I love her.

The Swan


Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river?
Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air -
An armful of white blossoms,
A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned
into the bondage of its wings; a snowbank, a bank of lilies,
Biting the air with its black beak?
Did you hear it, fluting and whistling
A shrill dark music - like the rain pelting the trees - like a waterfall
Knifing down the black ledges?
And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds -
A white cross Streaming across the sky, its feet
Like black leaves, its wings Like the stretching light of the river?
And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?
And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?
And have you changed your life?

[David J · Rating 3 out of 5]

"A name / is not a leash."

Not my favorite from Oliver but still pretty damn good.

[Cheryl · Rating 5 out of 5]

I reread this at 11,000 feet, after a wildflower hike, watching the weather come in, feeling and smelling and breathing the rain, and dancing in it. I listen, Mary O, I really do. Some of the same poems spoke to me, some new ones had a voice I was ready for this time.

What Can I Say
What can I say that I have not said
before? So I’ll say it again.
The leaf has a song in it.
Stone is the face of patience. Inside
the river there is an unfinishable
story and you are somewhere
in it and it will never end until all ends.
Take your busy heart to the art museum
and the chamber of commerce but
take it also to the forest.
The song you heard singing in the leaf
when you were a child is singing still.
I am of years lived, so far,
seventy-four, and the leaf is singing still.


There are questions you must ask at least once in your life, or all your life. On the Beach: HOW MANY KINDS OF LOVE ARE THERE AFTER ALL? DON’T WE ALL HAVE OUR OWN WAYS OF PRAYING, AND WHAT ARE YOURS? From How I Go to the Woods. I GO TO THE WORLD ALONE OFTEN.

I could eat of this world endlessly: sometimes the perfection of a vegetable, its absolute sensuality in the color, crunch, and taste making me realize I am eating of the “blessed earth” and how extraordinary it is from Beans yellow and Green. Tom Dancer’s Gift: Eating a pinecone, from the scat of a bear, swallowing life as bitter or rough it can be. I WANT SOMEONE TO GIVE ME SUCH A GIFT, although could enjoy something not from a bear’s poop.

Her dog poems aren’t as fancy as maybe a Pulitzer/national book award winning poem, but find me a dog lover that does not cry at them. From Swan,
AND DID YOU FEEL IT, IN YOUR HEART, HOW IT PERTAINED TO EVERYTHING?
AND HAVE YOU TOO FINALLY FIGURED OUT WHAT BEAUTY IS FOR?
AND HAVE YOU CHANGED YOUR LIFE?

The poet advises, don’t allow a “negligence of the mind,” see everything. (How Heron comes) In all her poems, she will not tolerate us closing our eyes, or sleepwalking. Notice everything, find joy and beauty in everything. Change your life. She says, allow pure joy to fill you, and not worry at it apparent flamboyance and excess. (Don’t Hesitate). I cried after reading some of the poems, and caught my breath, and laughed out loud at some of her beautiful and appropriate imagery that invites us to open, look, and see inside and out. So beautiful.

After these poems, I walked around as I always do, this time at dusk, and all I could see were stars and sky and tree silhouettes where soon there will be leaves. Bears, ocean, dogs, dunes, pines, swans, and birds. That is the magic of poetry.


On the Beach

On the beach, at dawn:
Four small stones clearly
Hugging each other.

How many kinds of love
Might there be in the world,
And how many formations might they make

And who am I ever
To imagine I could know
Such a marvelous business?

When the sun broke
It poured willingly its light
Over the stones

That did not move, not at all,
Just as, to its always generous term,
It shed its light on me,

My own body that loves,
Equally, to hug another body.


How I go to the woods

Ordinarily, I go to the woods alone, with not a single
friend, for they are all smilers and talkers and therefore
unsuitable.

I don’t really want to be witnessed talking to the catbirds
or hugging the old black oak tree. I have my way of
praying, as you no doubt have yours.

Besides, when I am alone I can become invisible. I can sit
on the top of a dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds,
until the foxes run by unconcerned. I can hear the almost
unhearable sound of the roses singing.

If you have ever gone to the woods with me, I must love
you very much.





Tom Dancer’s gift of a whitebark pine cone

You never know
What opportunity
Is going to travel to you,
Or through you.

Once a friend gave me
A small pine cone-
One of a few
He found in the scat

Of a grizzly
In Utah maybe,
Or Wyoming.
I took it home

And did what I supposed
He was sure I would do-
I ate it,
Thinking

How it had traveled
Through that rough
And holy body.
It was crisp and sweet.

It was almost a prayer
Without words.
My gratitude, Tom Dancer,
For this gift of the world
I adore so much
And want to belong to.
And thank you too, great bear.

Percy wakes me (fourteen)

Percy wakes me and I am not ready.
He has slept all night under the covers.
Now he’s eager for action: a walk, then breakfast.
So I hasten up. He is sitting on the kitchen counter
Where he is not supposed to be.
How wonderful you are, I say. How clever, if you
Needed me,
To wake me.
He thought he would a lecture and deeply
His eyes begin to shine.
He tumbles onto the couch for more compliments.
He squirms and squeals: he has done something
That he needed
And now he hears that it is okay.
I scratch his ears. I turn him over
And touch him everywhere. He is
Wild with the okayness of it. Then we walk, then
He has breakfast, and he is happy.
This is a poem about Percy.
This is a poem about more than Percy.
Think about it.

Swan

Did you too see it, drifting, all night on the black river?
Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air,
an armful of white blossoms,
a perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned
into the bondage of its wings: a snowbank, a bank of lilies,
biting the air with its black beak?
Did you hear it, fluting, and whistling
a shrill dark music, like the rain pelting the trees,
Like a waterfall
knifing down the black ledges?
And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds-
s white cross streaming across the sky, its feet
like black leaves, its wings like the stretching light
of the river?
And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?
And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?
And have you changed your life?

The poet dreams of the classroom

I dreamed
I stood up in class
And I said aloud:

Teacher,
Why is algebra important?

Sit down, he said.

Then I dreamed
I stood up
And I said:

Teacher, I’m weary of the turkeys
That we have to draw every fall.
May I draw a fox instead?

Sit down, he said.

Then I dreamed
I stood up once more and said:

Teacher,
My heart is falling asleep
And it wants to wake up.
It needs to be outside.

Sit down, he said.

The sweetness of dogs (fifteen)

What do you say, Percy? I am thinking
of sitting out on the sand to watch
the moon rise. Full tonight.
So we go

and the moon rises, so beautiful it
makes me shudder, makes me think about
time and space, makes me take
measure of myself: one iota
pondering heaven. Thus we sit,

I thinking how grateful I am for the moon’s
perfect beauty and also, oh! How rich
it is to love the world. Percy, meanwhile,
leans against me and gazes up into
my face. As though I were
his perfect moon.

The poet dreams of the mountain

Sometimes I grow weary of the days, with all their fits and starts.
I want to climb some old gray mountains, slowly, taking
The rest of my lifetime to do it, resting often, sleeping
Under the pines or, above them, on the unclothed rocks.
I want to see how many stars are still in the sky
That we have smothered for years now, a century at least.
I want to look back at everything, forgiving it all,
And peaceful, knowing the last thing there is to know.
All that urgency! Not what the earth is about!
How silent the trees, their poetry being of themselves only.
I want to take slow steps, and think appropriate thoughts.
In ten thousand years, maybe, a piece of the mountain will fall.
How heron comes

It is a negligence of the mind
not to notice how at dusk
heron comes to the pond and
stands there in his death robes, perfect
servant of the system, hungry, his eyes
full of attention, his wings
pure light.

When

When it’s over, it’s over, and we don’t know
any of us, what happens then.
So I try not to miss anything.
I think, in my whole life, I have never missed
The full moon
or the slipper of its coming back.
Or, a kiss.
Well, yes, especially a kiss.

In your hands

The dog, the donkey, surely they know
They are alive.
Who would argue otherwise?

But now, after years of consideration,
I am getting beyond that.
What about the sunflowers? What about
The tulips, and the pines?

Listen, all you have to do is start and
There’ll be no stopping.
What about mountains? What about water
Slipping over rocks?

And speaking of stones, what about
The little ones you can
Hold in your hands, their heartbeats
So secret, so hidden it may take years

Before, finally, you hear them?





Don’t hesitate

If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy,
don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty
of lives and whole towns destroyed or about
to be. We are not wise, and not very often
kind. And much can never be redeemed.
Still life has some possibility left. Perhaps this
is its way of fighting back, that sometimes
something happened better than all the riches
or power in the world. It could be anything,
but very likely you notice it in the instant
when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the
case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid
of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.

More evidence

…lord, there are so many fires, so many words, in
my heart. It’s going to take something I can’t
even imagine, to put them all out.

Sing, if you can sing, and it not still be
musical inside yourself.

[alex · Rating 5 out of 5]

i discovered “don’t hesitate” a few years ago and it has not left my mind since, so i figured it was about time i pick up this collection.

i’m going through a particularly hectic and stressful time (i graduate with my associate’s degree this spring, started a fellowship, and am generally anxious) so mary oliver’s cozy, quiet poetry is exactly what i needed.

there’s a snow storm currently, so unfortunately i couldn’t read this outside, which i believe you should do with oliver’s poetry.

tl;dr: absolutely magical as always. mary oliver was/is an international treasure.

[Fatma · Rating 3 out of 5]

obama jumpscare

[Edita · Rating 3 out of 5]

and the heart, if it is still alive,

feels something—
a yearning
for which we have no name

but which we may remember,
years later,
in the darkness,

upon some other empty road.

[dina · Rating 4 out of 5]

Lord, there are so many fires, so many words, in / my heart. It’s going to take something I can’t / even imagine, to put them all out.

lovely.

[cora ໒꒱ིྀ༝⁺ · Rating 3 out of 5]

~3.5

i think i'm too much of a pessimist for this but mary oliver's writing is gorgeous.

“Once there was a garden
and we were sent forth from it, possibly forever.
Possibly not, possibly there is no forever.
“What’s on your mind?” we say to each other.
As though it’s some kind of weight.”

“The life of the body is, I suppose, along with
everything else, a lesson.”

“When it’s over, it’s over, and we don’t know
any of us, what happens then.
So I try not to miss anything.
I think, in my whole life, I have never missedthe full moon
or the slipper of its coming back.
Or, a kiss.
Well, yes, especially a kiss.”

[cameron · Rating 5 out of 5]

Lord, there are so many fires, so many words, in my heart. It’s going to take something I can’t even imagine, to put them all out

[Henna | j a t k a l u k e m i s t a · Rating 3 out of 5]

3,5

[Paula Hagar · Rating 4 out of 5]

Good ole Mary Oliver. The world lost a treasure when she died earlier this year. This book is classic Mary, full of lovely lyrical poems that, as do all of hers, touch me to my core. If you love Mary Oliver, you will love this book. Here is my favorite poem from this book:

Wind in the Pines

Is it true that the wind
streaming especially in fall
through the pines
is saying nothing, nothing at all,

or is it just that I don't yet know the language?

[mantareads · Rating 4 out of 5]

"Joy is not made to be a crumb" - for that revelation alone, this book is already beautiful. The image of Heron in his death robes, with his wings of light, compounded the complex, resounding simplicity of this work.

[Becky · Rating 5 out of 5]

I felt elated finishing this book tonight. What a joy of my life to read Mary Oliver.

[Doe]

i am beginning to fall in love with Mary Oliver's voice. she writes like music, like the words are finding hollow spaces to echo in, behind your breast bone. this is a collection that is about life, and nature, and leaving the window open for joy and learning and the wonder of the world we are in, even seventy and four years gone by. mostly, this is a collection about beauty. love. and in some strange way, god. you should read it.

[Inés · Rating 4 out of 5]

me encantaba la lectura de mary oliver en 2012, así q me compré un libro suyo para probar.
estos son mis poemas favoritos:
- how i go to the woods
- just around the house, early in the morning
- swan
- beans green and yellow
- the sweetness of dogs(fifteen)
- april
- the poet dreams of the mountain
- trees
- i own a house
- don't hesitate
- in the darkness

[Amanda · Rating 4 out of 5]

Absolutely love Mary Oliver poems and especially enjoyed this collection that can be taken in as a whole within one sitting. Red Bird remains my favourite Oliver publication, but Swan offers ample magic.

[Autumn Knierim · Rating 4 out of 5]

An absolutely delightful collection to read in the middle of the forest.

[Jim · Rating 4 out of 5]

Two weeks ago, I was staying at a friend's home. While the couple of the house put their kids to bed, I read from Mary Oliver's "New and Selected Poems: Volume One."

This volume was written when Mary Oliver was 74, and her wisdom, life experience and focused appreciation of the natural world show throughout. The poet exhibits humor as well. Mostly, I hear Mary Oliver's voice.

I was finishing up the book while on a train, and a woman sitting across asked me what I was reading. I asked her and her female friend to read the first poem in the book entitled "What Can I Say?"

There are many poems worth sharing.

[Tony · Rating 4 out of 5]

I read a library copy. Stuck to the outside was a tiny sticker that read +2.25. Someone ahead of me seems to have bought glasses to read this book.

[xander ツ · Rating 4 out of 5]

the fox. that is all

[Youlia · Rating 5 out of 5]

I love you mary oliver

[Sarah Stepanek · Rating 5 out of 5]

possibly my favorite Oliver collection ever

1) “joy is not made to be a crumb”
2) she refers to pine trees as “spicy and ambitious” 😂

[Sarah Foulc · Rating 5 out of 5]

I loved this so so so so much.

[Vaikhari · Rating 4 out of 5]

"A name is not a leash."

I'm not really a poetry kind of girl, but I somehow seem enjoy Oliver's work.

Two of my favorite poem/prose in this collection were :

• More evidence (2)

"Where are you when you’re not thinking?
Frightening, isn’t it?
Where are you when you’re not feeling anything?
Oh, worse!
Except for faith and imagination, nature is that

hard fortress you can’t get out of.
Some persons are captive to love, others would

make the beloved a captive. Which one are you?
I think I have not lived a single hour of my life

by calculation.
There are in this world a lot of devils with wondrous

smiles. Also, many unruly angels.
The life of the body is, I suppose, along with

everything else, a lesson. I mean, if lessons are

what you look for.
Faith: this is the engine of my head, my breast

bone, my toes."

AND

• Don’t Hesitate

If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy,

don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty

of lives and whole towns destroyed or about

to be. We are not wise, and not very often

kind. And much can never be redeemed.

Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this

is its way of fighting back, that sometimes

something happens better than all the riches

or power in the world. It could be anything,

but very likely you notice it in the instant

when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the

case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid

of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.

[van · Rating 4 out of 5]

“for example”

Okay, the broken gull let me lift it from the sand.
Let me fumble it into a box, with the lid open.
Okay, I put the box into my car
and started up the highway
to the place where sometimes, sometimes not,
such things can be mended.

The gull at first was quiet.
How everything turns out one way or another, I won't call it good or bad, just one way or another.

Then the gull lurched from the box and onto the back of the front seat and punched me.
Okay, a little blood slid down.

But we all know, don't we, how sometimes things have to feel anger, so as not to be defeated?
I love this world, even in its hard places.

A bird too must love this world, even in its hard places.
So, even if the effort may come to nothing, you have to do something.

It was, generally speaking,
a perfectly beautiful summer morning.
The gull beat the air with its good wing.
I kept my eyes on the road.

——

this has really been resonating with me lately

[Adriana · Rating 4 out of 5]

Bueno Mary Oliver: son poemas muuuy sencillos y naif, a veces no sabés si estás viendo pocahontas, y de repente tira uno con mucha verdad, como el que da título al libro. Las estrellitas son por esos, creo que con que haya 3 o 4 poemas muy buenos en un libro alcanza.

[sheila · Rating 4 out of 5]

classic mary oliver! a collection of poems and prose that are nostalgic and reminiscent of the romantics. mary oliver is one of my favorite poets and recommend anything she writes :)) i don’t think this is her strongest collection but it holds its own