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)
Tag: Poems (Page 4 of 9)
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)
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.
I heard the Poor Old Woman say:
"At break of day the fowler came,
And took my blackbirds from their songs
Who loved me well thro' shame and blame.
"No more from lovely distances
Their songs shall bless me mile by mile,
Nor to white Ashbourne call me down
To wear my crown another while.
"With bended flowers the angels mark
For the skylark the place they lie,
From there its little family
Shall dip their wings first in the sky.
"And when the first surprise of flight
Sweet songs excite, from the far dawn
Shall there come blackbirds loud with love,
Sweet echoes of the singers gone.
"But in the lonely hush of eve
Weeping I grieve the silent bills."
I heard the Poor Old Woman say
In Derry of the little hills.
("Lament for the Poets: 1916", by Francis Ledwidge, printed in Poems of the Irish People, 2016)
This little book of Irish poems has been really fun to read. I started it on a sick day when I wanted something simple to read, and I’m so glad I did. It’s a small, pocket-sized book with 65 poems by about forty-six authors named authors, 2 translators, and a few anonymous authors. Most of the authors I hadn’t heard of, but you may recognize William Butler Yeats among the names. Perhaps some of these authors only wrote a handful of poems. I’m glad they were included in this little volume. Here is the list of features authors (including links to the poems I posted).
- Anonymous
- Cecil Frances Alexander
- William Allingham
- Edmund John Armstrong
- John Banim
- Ethna Carbery
- William Carleton
- John Keegan Casey
- Andrew Cherry
- Nora Chesson
- Luke Aylmer Conolly
- Thomas Osborne Davis
- Aubrey de Vere
- William Drennan
- Samuel Ferguson
- Ellen Forrester
- Alice Furlong
- Eva Gore-Booth
- Alfred Percival Graves
- Stephen Lucius Gwyn
- Katharine Tynan Hinkson
- Nora Hopper
- John Kells Ingram
- Thomas Caulfield Irwin
- James Joyce
- Rose Kavanagh
- Carles Joseph Kickham
- William Larminie
- Emily Lawless
- Francis Ledwidge
- Samuel Lover
- Francis Sylvester Mahoney
- Thomas D’Arcy McGee
- Thomas Moore
- Alice Mulligan
- Ellen O’Leary
- James Orr
- Seems O’Sullivan
- George Nugent Reynolds
- T.W. Rolleston
- Dora Sigerson Shorter
- John Millington Synge
- John Todhunter
- Edward Walsh
- John Walsh
- Lady Wilde
- William Butler Yeats
- translator Michael Cavanagh
- translator James Clarence Mangan
I
Little Cowboy, what have you heard,
Up on the lonely rath's green mound?
Only the plaintive yellow bird
Sighing in sultry fields around,
Chary, chary, chary, chee-ee! -
Only the grasshopper and the bee? -
"Tip tap, rip-rap,
Tick-a-tack-too!
Scarlet leather, sewn together,
This will make a shoe.
Left, right, pull it tight;
Summer days are warm;
Underground in winter,
Laughing at the storm!"
Lay your ear close to the hill.
Do you not catch the tiny glamour,
Busy click of an elfin hammer,
Voice of the Lepracaun singing shrill
As he merrily plies his trade?
He's a span
And a quarter in height.
Get him in sight, hold him tight,
And you're a made
Man!
II
You watch your cattle the summer day,
Sup on potatoes, sleep in the hay;
How would you like to roll in your carriage,
Look for a duchess's daughter in marriage?
Seize the Shoemaker - then you may!
"Big boots a-hunting,
Sandals in the hall,
White for a wedding-feast,
Pink for a ball.
This way, that way,
So we make a shoe;
Getting rich every stitch,
Tick-tack-too!"
Nine-and-ninety treasure-crocks
This keen miser-fairy hath,
Hid in mountains, woods, and rocks,
Ruin and round-tow'r, cave and rath,
And where the cormorants build;
From times of old
Guarded by him;
Each of them fill'd
Full to the brim
With gold!
III
I caught him at work one day, myself,
In the castle-ditch, where foxglove grows, -
A wrinkled, wizen'd, and bearded Elf,
Spectacles stuck on his pointed nose,
Silver buckles to his hose,
Leather apron - shoe in his lap -
"Rip-rap, Tip-tap,
Tick-tack-too!
(A grasshopper on my cap!
Away the moth flew!)
Buskins for a fairy prince,
Brogues for his son, -
Pay me well, pay me well,
When the job is done!"
The rogue was mine, beyond a doubt.
I stared at him; he stared at me;
"Servant, Sir!" "Humph!" says he,
And pull'd a snuff-box out.
He took a long pinch, look'd better pleased,
The queer little Lepracaun;
Offer'd the box with a whimsical grace, -
Pouf! he flung the dust in my face,
And, while I sneezed,
Was gone!
("The Lepracaum; or, Fairy Shoemaker" by William Allingham, printed in Poems of the Irish People, 2016)
This poem was better the second time I read it, so try it once more. Isn’t it cute? A story about a Lepracaun? It reads kind of like a conversation between two people, maybe one is older and wiser than the other, maybe a parent or grandparent speaking to a child? Whoever is telling the story builds the drama up, first describing the Lepracaun, then quoting it (as if they had heard it speak before). What gives more credibility to the story than describing the shoes the Lepracaun is making, as in the second stanza? Then for the best part: almost catching the Lepracaun. But he’s too clever. Poof! He throws snuff in the storyteller’s face and vanishes away. We may never know if the Lepracaun is real. He’s just too smart to get caught!
When all were dreaming
But Pastheen Power,
A light came streaming
Beneath her bower:
A heavy foot
At her door delayed,
A heavy hand
On the latch was laid.
"Now who dare venture,
At this dark hour,
Unbid to enter
My maiden bower?"
"Dear Pastheen, open
The door to me,
And your true lover
You'll surely see."
"My own true lover,
So tall and brave,
Lives exiled over
The angry wave."
"Your true love's body
Lies on the bier,
His faithful spirit
Is with you here."
"His look was cheerful,
His voice was gay;
Your speech is fearful,
Your face is grey;
And sad and sunken
Your eye of blue,
But Patrick, Patrick,
Alas! 'tis you!"
Ere dawn was breaking
She heard below
The two cocks shaking
Their wings to crow.
"Oh, hush you, hush you,
Both red and grey,
Or you will hurry
My love away.
"Oh hush your crowing,
Both grey and red,
Or he'll be going
To join the dead;
Or, cease from calling
His ghost to the mould,
And I'll come crowning
Your combs with gold."
When all were dreaming
But Pastheen Power,
A light went streaming
From out her bower;
And on the morrow,
When they awoke,
They knew that sorrow
Her heart had broke.
("Song of the Ghost" by Alfred Percival Graves, printed in Poems of the Irish People, 2016)
This poem is both sweet and sad, something I noticed with a lot of the Irish poems. Poor Pastheen, whose love was exiled and forced from his home. When he is dead, his spirit comes to claim the bride he never got to marry. Then she dies of a broken heart. At least the lovers were able to be together for one night, even if it was in death.
Hi! I'm Cadie. Welcome to my Collection of Bookish Thoughts where I will share with you everything I love about books.