Assuaged – to pacify, calm, satisfy, or quench
“And always it assuaged me
from the dry bowl of the very far past.”
Mary Oliver, “Mornings at Blackwater“
Tag: Mary Oliver (Page 1 of 3)
For years, every morning, I drank
from Blackwater Pond.
It was flavored with oak leaves and also, no doubt,
the feet of ducks.
And always it assuaged me
from the dry bowl of the very far past.
What I want to say is
that the past is the past,
and the present is what your life is,
and you are capable
of choosing what that will be
darling citizen.
So come to the pond,
or the river of your imagination,
or the harbor of your longing,
and put your lips to the world.
And live
your life.
("Mornings at Blackwater", Mary Oliver, printed in Devotions, 2017)
After the wind-bruised sea
furrowed itself back
into the folds of blue, I found
in the black wrack
a shell called the Neptune -
tawny and white
spherical,
with a tail
and a tower
and a dark door,
and all of it
no larger
than my fist.
It looked, you might say,
very expensive.
I thought of its travels
in the Atlantic's
wind-pounded bowl
and wondered
that it was still intact.
Ah yes, there was
that door
that held only the eventual, inevitable
emptiness.
...
There's that - there's always that.
Still, what a house
to leave behind!
I held it
like the wisest of books
and imagined
its travels toward my hand.
And now, your hand.
("The Gift", Mary Oliver, printed in Devotions, 2017)
If I walk out into the world in irritation or
self-centeredness, the birds scatter.
I would like people to remember of me, how
inexhaustible was her mindfulness.
The hurricane may find us or it will not, that
will always be the way.
With Shelley, I feel the visceral experience
of imagination.
Can you imagine anyone having a "casual" faith?
"This is what I know from years of being me," said
a friend.
You will always love me.
About God, how could he give up his secrets and
still be God?
If you think you see a face in the clouds, why not
send a greeting? It can't do any harm.
("A Little Ado About This And That", Mary Oliver, printed in Blue Horses, 2014)
I'm living in a warm place now, where
you can purchase fresh blueberries all
year long. Labor free. From various
countries in South America. They're
as sweet as any, and compared with the
berries I used to pick in the fields
outside of Provincetown, they're
enormous. But berries are berries. They
don't speak any language I can't
understand. Neither do I find ticks or
small spiders crawling among them. So,
generally speaking, I'm very satisfied.
There are limits, however. What they
don't have is the field. The field they
belonged to and through the years I
began to feel I belonged to. Well,
there's life, and then there's later.
Maybe it's myself that I miss. The
field, and the sparrow singing at the
edge of the woods. And the doe that one
morning came upon me unaware, all
tense and gorgeous. She stamped her hoof
as you would to any intruder. Then gave
me a long look, as if to say, Okay, you
stay in your patch, I'll stay in mine.
Which is what we did. Try packing that
up, South America.
("Blueberries", Mary Oliver, printed in Blue Horses, 2014)
Why the wasp was on my bed I didn't
know. Why I was in bed I did know. Why
there wasn't room for both of us I
didn't know. I watched it idly. Idleness
can be a form of dying, I did know that.
The wasp didn't communicate how it felt.
It did look confused on the white sheet,
as though it had landed somewhere in the
Arctic. And it did flick its wings when
I raised my legs, causing an upheaval.
I didn't want to be lying there. I didn't
want to be going in that direction. And
so I say it was a gift when it rose into
the air and, as wasps do, expressed itself
in a sudden and well-aimed motion.
Almost delicious was its deep, inflexible
sting.
("The Wasp", Mary Oliver, printed in Blue Horses, 2014)
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)
Disclaimer: This is not an art blog. This is not a blog for or against any wars. This is not a politics blog.
If you haven’t read my post on Mary Oliver’s poem Franz Marc’s Blue Horses, please read that first. I was moved by Oliver’s words to the point that I had to see the blue horses of which she spoke. I found this website, FranzMarc.org, with Marc’s history and a gallery of his paintings. I began to look through his works – his horses and forest animals. But the work that moved me the most tonight is called Fighting Forms. In my opinion, it is not particularly beautiful. In fact, it’s not even the picture itself that has made such an impact on me tonight. It’s the emotions I felt looking at it. Here are Franz Marc’s Tower of Blue Horses (left)and Fighting Forms (right).
Franz Marc died March 4, 1916. He was 36. He was killed on a World War I battlefield. Franz spent his life painting the things he loved best: animals. But at the close of his life, especially after the war began, his paintings began to take less and less form. His animals were obscured by bold lines and colors, ’til there were no definable animals left in the works.
Can you see the despair in his last painting, Fighting Forms? Can you feel it? War robbed Franz Marc of love, art, and, eventually, life. When I look at Fighting Forms, I see chaos, fire, violence, hatred, and sorrow. I feel so sad for Franz Marc who would never return from the war. He would never paint animals again. He would never feel peace again. It makes me cry. It’s been a long time since a work of art moved me this deeply. No wonder Mary Oliver said, “I would rather die than try to explain to the blue horses what war is.” She also said:
“Maybe the desire to make something beautiful is the piece of God that is inside each of us.”
“Franz Marc’s Blue Horses”, Mary Oliver, in Blue Horses, 2016
Franz Marc’s is a sad story, but don’t let it end with Fighting Forms. Let it inspire you to keep making your art. Whether you write, draw, sing, play an instrument, keep doing it. Don’t let even war stop you. Marc painted in the middle of World War I. It changed the way he saw things, and the way he painted, but he still painted. Perhaps you will have the opportunity to come out of your war (literal or figurative) into peace. You will be able to use your experiences to make your art better. Today, you may only be able to paint forms, but tomorrow, you’ll be able paint horses again. I’m rooting for you.