My Place in the Family of Things
Went to hear the Pulitzer-Prize winning and best-selling (how often do those adjectives modify the same noun?) poet Mary Oliver speak at the Lied Center on Wednesday evening. Though it resulted in sleep deprivation, it was worth it to hear her wry sense of humor and her wise words, modeled after Edna Vincent Millay and several Sufi poets.
I first posted one of her poems to LJ many years ago, when struggling with self-identity as related to my job. It was very helpful to me. In fact, Joe Biden apparently read the same poem at the memorial service for 9/11.
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You have only to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun & the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains & the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like wild geese, harsh & exciting -
over & over announcing your place
in the family of things.
At the poetry reading she related the sources of several of her poems, one which delighted me in particular. She said that someone in her town once came to her with a rumor that there was a bear in the woods near her home, Truro woods.
She said, "What part of the woods"?
He said, "Not really sure."
She said, "How long ago"?
He said, "Recently."
She said, "How many bears, just one?"
He said, "Not sure..."
Then she went to the post office and met a friend there.
She said, "Did you hear that there was a bear in Truro woods"?
He said, "Well, there isn't really. I was bored and started that rumor."
This story resulted in the following poem:
There's a bear in the Truro woods.
People have seen it--three or four,
or two, or one. I think
of the thickness of the serious woods
around the dark bowls of the Truro ponds;
I think of the blueberry fields, the blackberry tangles,
the cranberry bogs. And the sky
with its new moon, its familiar star-trails,
burns down like a brand new heaven,
while everywhere I look on the scratchy hillsides
shadows seem to grow shoulders. Surely
a beast might be clever, be lucky, move quietly
through the woods for years, learning to stay away
from roads and houses. Common sense mutters:
it can't be true, it must be somebody's
runaway dog. But the seed
has been planted, and when has happiness ever
required much evidence to begin
its leaf-green breathing?
And her relationship with animals makes my own seem not quite as abnormal.
He puts his cheek against mine
and makes small, expressive sounds.
And when I'm awake, or awake enough
he turns upside down, his four paws
in the air
and his eyes dark and fervent.
Tell me you love me, he says.
Tell me again.
Could there be a sweeter arrangement? Over and over
he gets to ask it.
I get to tell.
Nature is perhaps overused as metaphor in poetry, but it is one I prefer. The nature references and the simple language used so effectively both remind me of Robert Frost. Then, there are her deft understandings of the way of things. Stuns me into the realization that while pain seems personal, it actually is universal.
You have broken my heart.
Just as well. Now
I am learning to rise
above all that, learning
the thin life, waking up
simply to praise
everything in the world that is
strong and beautiful
always--the trees, the rocks,
the fields, the news
from heaven, the laughter
that comes back
all the same. Just as well. Time
to read books, rake the lawn
in peace, sweep the floor, scout
the faces of the pans,
anything, And I have been so
diligent it is almost
over, I am growing myself
as strong as a rock, as a tree
which, if I put my arms around it, does not
lean away. It is a
wonderful life. Comfortable.
I read the papers. Maybe
I will go on a cruise, maybe I will
cross the entire ocean, more than once.
whatever you think, I have scarcely
thought of you. whatever you imagine
it never really happened. Only a few
evenings of nonsense. Whatever you believe--
dear one, dear one--
do not believe this letter.
I first posted one of her poems to LJ many years ago, when struggling with self-identity as related to my job. It was very helpful to me. In fact, Joe Biden apparently read the same poem at the memorial service for 9/11.
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You have only to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun & the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains & the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like wild geese, harsh & exciting -
over & over announcing your place
in the family of things.
At the poetry reading she related the sources of several of her poems, one which delighted me in particular. She said that someone in her town once came to her with a rumor that there was a bear in the woods near her home, Truro woods.
She said, "What part of the woods"?
He said, "Not really sure."
She said, "How long ago"?
He said, "Recently."
She said, "How many bears, just one?"
He said, "Not sure..."
Then she went to the post office and met a friend there.
She said, "Did you hear that there was a bear in Truro woods"?
He said, "Well, there isn't really. I was bored and started that rumor."
This story resulted in the following poem:
There's a bear in the Truro woods.
People have seen it--three or four,
or two, or one. I think
of the thickness of the serious woods
around the dark bowls of the Truro ponds;
I think of the blueberry fields, the blackberry tangles,
the cranberry bogs. And the sky
with its new moon, its familiar star-trails,
burns down like a brand new heaven,
while everywhere I look on the scratchy hillsides
shadows seem to grow shoulders. Surely
a beast might be clever, be lucky, move quietly
through the woods for years, learning to stay away
from roads and houses. Common sense mutters:
it can't be true, it must be somebody's
runaway dog. But the seed
has been planted, and when has happiness ever
required much evidence to begin
its leaf-green breathing?
And her relationship with animals makes my own seem not quite as abnormal.
He puts his cheek against mine
and makes small, expressive sounds.
And when I'm awake, or awake enough
he turns upside down, his four paws
in the air
and his eyes dark and fervent.
Tell me you love me, he says.
Tell me again.
Could there be a sweeter arrangement? Over and over
he gets to ask it.
I get to tell.
Nature is perhaps overused as metaphor in poetry, but it is one I prefer. The nature references and the simple language used so effectively both remind me of Robert Frost. Then, there are her deft understandings of the way of things. Stuns me into the realization that while pain seems personal, it actually is universal.
You have broken my heart.
Just as well. Now
I am learning to rise
above all that, learning
the thin life, waking up
simply to praise
everything in the world that is
strong and beautiful
always--the trees, the rocks,
the fields, the news
from heaven, the laughter
that comes back
all the same. Just as well. Time
to read books, rake the lawn
in peace, sweep the floor, scout
the faces of the pans,
anything, And I have been so
diligent it is almost
over, I am growing myself
as strong as a rock, as a tree
which, if I put my arms around it, does not
lean away. It is a
wonderful life. Comfortable.
I read the papers. Maybe
I will go on a cruise, maybe I will
cross the entire ocean, more than once.
whatever you think, I have scarcely
thought of you. whatever you imagine
it never really happened. Only a few
evenings of nonsense. Whatever you believe--
dear one, dear one--
do not believe this letter.