"When I Am Among the Trees" by Mary Oliver

 

When I am among the trees,

especially the willows and the honey locust,

equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,

they give off such hints of gladness.

I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,

in which I have goodness, and discernment,

and never hurry through the world

but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves

and call out, “Stay awhile.”

The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,

“and you too have come

into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled

with light, and to shine.”

"I Worried" by Mary Oliver

 

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.

"When Death Comes" by Mary Oliver

 

Cote des Neiges Cemetery, July 2022

When death comes like the hungry bear in autumn; when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse   to buy me, and snaps the purse shut; when death comes like the measle-pox   when death comes like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,   I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering: what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?   And therefore I look upon everything as a brotherhood and a sisterhood, and I look upon time as no more than an idea, and I consider eternity as another possibility,   and I think of each life as a flower, as common as a field daisy, and as singular,   and each name a comfortable music in the mouth, tending, as all music does, toward silence,   and each body a lion of courage, and something precious to the earth.   When it's over, I want to say all my life I was a bride married to amazement. I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.   When it's over, I don't want to wonder if I have made of my life something particular, and real.   I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened, or full of argument.   I don't want to end up simply having visited this world

The season of October

Let's make October a season unto itself, that's how October felt this year; warm, blue sky, beginning with green leaves, then yellow leaves, and now the leaves have fallen. The transition from late summer to fall is impressive. There are even a few flowers left in the garden; so far, no frost.

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You know what poets need? They need to write a poems that people want to read, that people refer to when they think of that poet's work. Poets don't need a lot of poems but they need at least one or two poems that speak to people, that speak to the inner being of people. If poets write and publish a lot of books and poems it's possible that most of that output will be fairly meaningless, just more dross; what poets need are a few signature poems that are identified with them as poets. 

One of the worst things for a poet is to be obscure in their work. Mary Oliver isn't obscure in her work and some poets complain that her work lacks depth, but many readers love her work and she is one of the most popular poets of the last thirty or more years. You can be obscure and a few people will think you are clever and really smart, taking poetry to the next level, but it takes just one person to see that the obscurity in this person's work is meaningless, pretension, and then the whole house of cards will fall. A really good poet can be obscure and with time it will be explained or speculated on and it will be interesting to read about, it might even benefit that person's reputation as a poet; but minor poets, when they are obscure or copying the work of other poets, it might be that they just aren't very good at writing poems, they don't have anything to say. 

Here we are, walking on the hidden trail, just a few days ago. It's one of the most beautiful Octobers, it's the new season of October and it was a great day for a walk.