Month: April 2023 (Page 1 of 2)

               1.

"Hello, wren" is the first thing I say.
"Where did you come from appearing so
sudden and cheerful in the privet?  Which,
by the way, has decided to decorate itself
in so many white blossoms."

               2.

Paulus is coming to visit!  Paulus the
dancer, the potter.  Who is just beginning 
his eightieth decade, who walks without
shoes in the woods because his feet, he
says, ask to be in touch with the earth.
Paulus who when he says my poems sometimes
changes them a little, according to the
occasion or his own feelings.  Okay, I say.

               3.

Stay young, always, in the theater of your
mind.

               4.

Bless the notebook that I always carry in 
my pocket.
And the pen.
Bless the words with which I try to say 
what I see, think, or feel.
With gratitude for the grace of the earth.
The expected and the exception, both.
For all the hours I have been given to
be in this world.

               5.

The multiplicity of forms!  The hummingbird,
the fox, the raven, the sparrow hawk, the
otter, the dragonfly, the water lily!  And
on and on.  It must be a great disappointment 
to God if we are not dazzled at least ten
times a day.

               6.

Slowly the morning climbs toward the day.
As for the poem, not this poem but any
poem, do you feel its sting?  Do you feel
its hope, its entrance to a community?  Do
you feel its hand in your hand?

               7.

But perhaps you're still sleeping.  I
could wake you with a touch or a kiss.
But so could I shake the petals from 
the wild rose which blossoms so silently
and perfectly, and I do not.

("Good Morning", Mary Oliver, in Blue Horses, 2014)

by the randomness
of the way
the rocks tumbled
ages ago

the water pours
it pours
it pours
ever along the slant

of downgrade
dashing its silver thumbs
against the rocks
or pausing to carve

a sudden curled space
where the flashing fish
splash or drowse
while the kingfisher overhead

rattles and stares
and so it continues for miles
this bolt of light,
its only industry

to descend
and to be beautiful
while it does so;
as for purpose

there is none,
it is simply
one of those gorgeous things
that was made

to do what it does perfectly
and to last,
as almost nothing does,
almost forever.

("Stebbin's Gulch", Mary Oliver, in Blue Horses, 2014)

The television has two instruments that control it.
I get confused.
The washer asks me, do you want regular or delicate?
Honestly, I just want clean.
Everything is like that.
I won't even mention cell phones.

I can turn on the light of the lamp beside my chair
where a book is waiting, but that's about it.

Oh yes, and I can strike a match and make a fire.


("What I Can Do", Mary Oliver, in Blue Horses, 2014)

I step into the painting of the four blue horses.
I am not even surprised that I can do this.

One of the horses walks toward me. 
His blue nose noses me lightly.  I put my arm 
over his blue mane, not holding on, just
commingling.
He allows me my pleasure.
Franz Marc died a young man, shrapnel in his brain.
I would rather die than try to explain to the blue horses
what war is.
They would either faint in horror, or simply
find it impossible to believe.
I do not know how to thank you, Franz Marc.
Maybe our world will grow kinder eventually.
Maybe the desire to make something beautiful
is the piece of God that is inside each of us.
Now all four horses have come closer,
are bending their faces toward me
as if they have secrets to tell.
I don't expect them to speak, and they don't.
If being so beautiful isn't enough, what
could they possible say?

("Franz Marc's Blue Horses", Mary Oliver, in Blue Horses 2014)

---

This is Franz Marc’s Tower of Blue Horses. It is the picture on the cover of Mary Oliver’s book, Blue Horses, so I believe it is the work that she wrote the poem about. I retrieved the image from FranzMarc.org. I don’t know much about Franz Marc, but I think it would have made him happy to know Mary Oliver appreciated his work and wrote about it so that her readers could know about him too. How special, that she would pay such a great tribute to this artist who died so young in World War I.