Tag: Poems (Page 1 of 9)

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
and 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.

("Don't Hesitate" by Mary Oliver, printed in Devotions 2017)

Do stones feel?
Do they love their life?
Or does their patience drown out everything else?

When I walk on the beach I gather a few
white ones, dark ones, the multiple colors.
Don't worry, I say, I'l bring you back, and I do.

Is the tree as it rises delighted with its many branches, 
each one like a poem?

Are the clouds glad to unburden their bundles of rain?

Most of the world says no, no, it's not possible.

I refuse to think to such a conclusion.
Too terrible it would be, to be wrong.

("Do Stones Feel?" by Mary Oliver, printed in Devotions 2017)

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.

("I Worried" by Mary Oliver, printed in Devotions 2017)

Today
one small snake lay, looped and
solitary
in the high grass, it

swirled to look, didn't
like what it saw
and was gone
in two pulses

forward and with no sound at all, only
two taps, in disarray, from
that other shy one,
my heart.

("The Instant" by Mary Oliver, printed in Devotions 2017)

The university gave me a new, elegant
classroom to teach in.  Only one thing, 
they said.  You can't bring your dog.
It's in my contract, I said.  (I had
made sure of that.)

We bargained and I moved to an old
classroom in an old building.  Propped 
the door open.  Kept a bowl of water
in the room.  I could hear Ben among
other voices barking, howling in the
distance.  Then they would all arrive - 
Ben, his pals, maybe an unknown dog
or two, all of them thirsty and happy.
They drank, they flung themselves down
among the students.  The students loved
it.  They all wrote thirsty, happy poems.

("The Poetry Teacher" by Mary Oliver, printed in Devotions 2017)

Meditation, so I've heard, is best accomplished
if you entertain a certain strict posture.
Frankly, I prefer just to lounge under a tree.
So why should I think I could ever be successful?

Some days I fall asleep, or land in that
even better place - half-asleep - where the world, 
spring, summer, autumn, winter - 
flies through my mind in its
hardy ascent and its uncompromising descent.

So I just lie like that, while distance and time
reveal their true attitudes: they never
heard of me, and never will, or ever need to.

Of course I wake up finally
thinking, how wonderful to be who I am,
made out of earth and water, 
my own thoughts, my own fingerprints - 
all that glorious, temporary stuff.

("On Meditating, Sort of" by Mary Oliver, printed in Devotions 2017)

When I moved from one house to another
there were many things I had no room 
for.  What does one do?  I rented a storage
space.  And filled it.  Years passed.
Occasionally I went there and looked in,
but nothing happened, not a single 
twinge of the heart.
As I grew older the things I cared 
about grew fewer, but were more
important.  So one day I undid the lock
and called the trash man.  He took
everything.
I felt like the little donkey when
his burden is finally lifted.  Things!
Burn them, burn them!  Make a beautiful
fire!  More room in your heart for love,
for the trees!  For the birds who own
nothing - the reason they can fly.

("Storage", by Mary Oliver, printed in Devotions, 2017)

Do you bow your head when you pray or do you look up into that blue space?
Take your choice, prayers fly from all directions.
And don't worry about what language you use, 
God no doubt understands them all.
Even when the swans are flying north and making
such a ruckus of noise, God is surely listening and understanding.
Rumi said, There is no proof of the soul.
But isn't the return of spring and how it
springs up in our hearts a pretty good hint?
Yes, I know, God's silence never breaks, but is that really a problem?
There are thousands of voices, after all.
And furthermore, don't you imagine (I just suggest it)
that the swans know about as much as we do about the whole business?
So listen to them and watch them, singing as they fly.
Take from it what you can.

("Whistling Swans", by Mary Oliver, printed in Devotions, 2017

This morning the redbirds' eggs
have hatched and already the chicks
are chirping for food.  They don't
know where it's coming from, they
just keep shouting, "More!  More!"
As to anything else, they haven't 
had a single thought.  Their eyes
haven't opened, they know nothing
about the sky that's waiting.  Or
the thousands, the millions of trees.
They don't even know they have wings.

And just like that, like a simple
neighborhood event, a miracle is
taking place.

("This Morning", by Mary Oliver, printed in Devotions, 2017)