Tag Archives: Mary Oliver

See how they banter and riot.

nature, poetry, ,

It’s the season for Cabbage Whites! I’ve written about them before, and posted several poems. Mary doesn’t name these as Cabbage Whites, but I’m assuming. It doesn’t matter; the delightful thing is that she describes the essential “delicate in a hurry” nature of them, such that one wonders if they will ever stop and drink. Of course they eventually do, and I can get a decent picture of them then; but it’s the lobbing and banging I can never capture, so I’m glad Mary has done it, in rhythm and words.

SEVEN WHITE BUTTERFLIES

Seven white butterflies
delicate in a hurry look
how they bang the pages
…….of their wings as they fly

to the fields of mustard yellow
and orange and plain
gold all eternity
…….is in the moment this is what

Blake said Whitman said such
wisdom in the agitated
motions of the mind seven
…….dancers floating

even as worms toward
paradise see how they banter
and riot and rise
…….to the trees flutter

lob their white bodies into
the invisible wind weightless
lacy willing
…….to deliver themselves unto

the universe now each settles
down on a yellow thumb on a
brassy stem now
…….all seven are rapidly sipping

from the golden tower who
would have thought it could be so easy?

-Mary Oliver

 

I thought the earth remembered me.

nature, poetry, , , , ,

SLEEPING IN THE FOREST

I thought the earth remembered me,
she took me back so tenderly,
arranging her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds.
I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,
nothing between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths
among the branches of the perfect trees.
All night I heard the small kingdoms
breathing around me, the insects,
and the birds who do their work in the darkness.
All night I rose and fell, as if in water,
grappling with a luminous doom. By morning
I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.

-Mary Oliver

June Night by Charles Ephraim Burchfield, 1959

Why a tree should be this sweet.

love, nature, poetry, ,

So far I myself have only encountered the black locust tree, and I understand that its pods are toxic. I think the flowers smell pretty nice, but I read today that they are blah, compared to the honey locust. I hope I will one day meet those honey flowers, too (the picture below I found online), but this poem is about more than just one delicious species.

HONEY LOCUST

Who can tell how lovely in June is the
….honey locust tree, or why
a tree should be so sweet and live
….in this world? Each white blossom
on a dangle of white flowers holds one green seed–
….a new life. Also each blossom on a dangle of flower holds a flask
of fragrance called Heaven, which is never sealed.
….The bees circle the tree and dive into it. They are crazy
with gratitude. They are working like farmers. They are as
….happy as saints. After awhile the flowers begin to
wilt and drop down into the grass. Welcome
….shines in the grass.

…………………………………….Every year I gather
handfuls of blossoms and eat of their mealiness; the honey
….melts in my mouth, the seeds make me strong,
both when they are crisp and ripe, and even at the end
….when their petals have turned dully yellow.

…………………………………………………………………..So it is
if the heart has devoted itself to love, there is
….not a single inch of emptiness. Gladness gleams
all the way to the grave.

-Mary Oliver

This lady whom everyone loves.

my garden, poetry, ,

Yesterday afternoon the garden was brilliant under the sunbeams that followed rain showers. This strip of purple caught my eye, revealing itself to be violets that had quietly grown lush over the wet winter, along the edge of the patio where they also had planted themselves years ago. Sometimes they volunteer in pots and choke out whatever I had intended to nurture, but this little border didn’t encroach on anything, so I was pleased to see them suddenly dressed in their purple gowns, as one more sign announcing: SPRING!

I’m afraid my grandchildren went home before the violets bloomed, but I will invite a few young outdoorsy friends over soon, and invite them to gather happiness in their small hands.

CHILDREN, IT’S SPRING

And this is the lady
Whom everyone loves,
Ms. Violet
in her purple gown

Or, on special occasions,
A dress the color
Of sunlight. She sits
In the mossy weeds and waits

To be noticed.
She loves dampness.
She loves attention.
She loves especially

To be picked by careful fingers,
Young fingers, entranced
By what has happened
To the world.

We, the older ones,
Call it Spring,
And we have been through it
Many times.

But there is still nothing
Like the children bringing home
Such happiness
In their small hands.

-Mary Oliver