David Herbert Lawrence ...was an English writer and poet. His collected works represent, among other things, an extended reflection upon the dehumanising effects of modernity and industrialisation. Some of the issues Lawrence explores are sexuality, emotional health, vitality, spontaneity, and instinct.
Lawrence's opinions earned him many enemies and he endured official persecution, censorship, and misrepresentation of his creative work throughout the second half of his life, much of which he spent in a voluntary exile he called his "savage pilgrimage".At the time of his death, his public reputation was that of a pornographer who had wasted his considerable talents. E. M. Forster, in an obituary notice, challenged this widely held view, describing him as "the greatest imaginative novelist of our generation."Later, the literary critic F. R. Leavis championed both his artistic integrity and his moral seriousness.
He became notorious as the author of Lady Chatterley's Lover, which was banned for a long time – until 30 years after his death! Several other novels, also banned for a time, are now recognised as great works of art.
He also wrote plays, criticism, travel books, and of course poetry. And he was highly regarded as a painter.
This poem appeals to me for its sweet nostalgia, its frank homesickness for the past. My mother played the piano too, and sang, so I can take myself back into just such a scene as he describes. But far from wanting to weep for my lost childhood, I enjoy revisiting as a temporary escape from the troubled times we live in.
Material shared in 'The Living Dead' is presented for study and review. Poems, photos and other writings and images remain the property of the copyright owners, where applicable (older poems may be out of copyright). This photograph of D.H. Lawrence is in the Public Domain.
The hour’s come to redeem the pledge (not wholly?)
in Fate’s “Long years ago we made a tryst” land.
Clearly, these men were here only to destroy,
a mosque now the dust of a prejudiced land.
Will the Doomsayers die, bitten with envy,
when springtime returns to our dismissed land?
The prisons fill with the cries of children.
Then how do you subsist, how do you persist, Land?
“Is my love nothing for I’ve borne no children?”
I’m with you, Sappho, in that anarchist land.
A hurricane is born when the wings flutter . . .
Where will the butterfly, on my wrist, land?
You made me wait for one who wasn’t even there
though summer had finished in that tourist land.
Do the blind hold temples close to their eyes
when we steal their gods for our atheist land?
Abandoned bride, Night throws down her jewels
so Rome—on our descent—is an amethyst land.
At the moment the heart turns terrorist,
are Shahid’s arms broken, O Promised Land?
– Agha Shahid Ali (1949-2001)
Some of us who also play over at dVerse Poets' Pub, particularly in this year's 'Poetry Form' series, are currently trying our hands at the ghazal, an ancient Persian form which has also been adapted into other languages such as Urdu and Hindi. So I thought I'd look for one by a famous contemporary exponent. Though originally from Kashmir, Ali, who lived and worked in the United States from 1976 until his death, wrote his poetry in English; perhaps that gives those of us who write in English an even better idea of the ghazal form. Then again, I think his style must be unique, even when the form is traditional. In the Introduction to his book, Ravishing Disunities, featuring ghazals in English by a number of other poets, Ali is firmly in favour of the traditional form, including the connections of theme.* Kashmir, where he grew up, a disputed territory between India, Pakistan and China, became so war-torn that eventually it was no longer feasible for him to make return visits home – all the more sad in that previously Kashmir had long been famous for its great beauty. His beloved homeland was the subject of much of his poetry.
His personal sadness about his homeland seems to inform this poem, along with an expatriate's ambivalence as to which country is 'home'. From this he seems to extrapolate to sorrows, disappointments and blights of various kinds pertaining to other lands; for instance some of his lines make me think of the Israel-Palestine conflict. Other references are so personal that we can't know any details beyond what is mentioned – yet that doesn't matter, the point being the moods of the various moments in the various lands, adding up to overall beauty, love and grief. That's my reading, anyway.
Wikipedia describes the ghazal as 'a form of amatory poem or ode. ... [which] may be understood as a poetic expression of both the pain of loss or separation and the beauty of love in spite of that pain'. It seems that they are often sung, as you can discover on YouTube. Ali was greatly influenced by the famous – described as 'legendary' – Indian singer of ghazals (and other classical Indian music) Begum Akhtar, with whom he formed a friendship. As well as becoming a noted poet in English, he had an academic career in America. His Wikipedia entry lists his occupation as 'Poet. Professor.' and adds: 'Ali taught at the MFA Program for Poets & Writers at University of Massachusetts Amherst, at the MFA Writing Seminars at Bennington College as well as at creative writing programs at University of Utah, Baruch College, Warren Wilson College, Hamilton College and New York University. He died of brain cancer in December 2001 and was buried in Northampton, in the vicinity of Amherst, a town sacred to his beloved poet Emily Dickinson.'
Despite his sad, early death, he made his mark on the world with his own poetry, which won various awards, and with his translations from the Urdu of another renowned ghazal poet, Faiz Ahmed Faiz. In his obituary the KashmirWalla newspaper notes: 'To commemorate his legacy, the University of Utah in Salt Lake City has constituted an award in his name — Agha Shahid Ali Prize in Poetry, for young poets and writers.'
Books by and about him are at Amazon, and you can find here a series of quotes from his work.
_____________________
*He says (in a much longer context): 'When poets go crazy with the idea of composing thematically independent couplets in a free verse poem, they manage to forget what holds the couplets together—a classical exactness, a precision so stringent that it, when brilliant, surpasses the precision of the sonnet and the grandeur of the sestina (I do mean that) and dazzles the most untutored of audiences. The ghazal's disconnectedness must not be mistaken for fragmentariness...' and, 'If one writes in free verse—and one should—to subvert Western civilization, surely one should write in forms to save oneself from Western civilization?'
Material shared in 'The Living Dead' is
presented for study and review. Poems, photos and other writings and images
remain the property of the copyright owners, where applicable (older poems may
be out of copyright). The photo of Agha Shahid Ali, from his Wikipedia entry, is used according to Fair Use.
now a branch and now a nightingale By Federico Garcia Lorca (1898-1936 from Poet in Spain, translated by Sarah Arvio
Every April (America's 'National Poetry Month' which has spread online to become international) the publisher Knopf posts a poem a day from its distinguished collection, to people who ask to be put on that email list. (To sign up for next time, click this link – or you can view all the poems they share, and the publications they'e from, at Knopf's Tumblr.) The two poems above formed one of their mail-outs this year, with the following note:
While working on Poet in Spain, her translations of the great García Lorca, the poet Sarah Arvio spent time with the original drafts of his famous Dark Love Sonnets, on folded-over sheets of grayish stationery from the Hotel Victoria, in Valencia. Composed for a male lover, the sonnets were, she relates, “rapidly written with a blunt pencil in the same hand . . . in a hotel room; my sense is that he wrote them without a pause, perhaps in one day or one weekend.” She remarks on the stunning perfection of what appear to be first drafts—or, at any rate, the only versions of the poems that have come down to us, given the poet’s murder by Fascist forces very close to the time of their composition, and the subsequent banning of Lorca’s works by Franco’s regime. Though Lorca died in 1936, the sonnet sequence did not reach the reading world until the 1980s; however, it has no equal in conveying an intense passion that is fatefully braided with the mortal necessity of secrecy and the terror of persecution, which, alas, were prescient. Along with the eleven now eternal sonnets, Arvio offers, for the first time in English, a fragment found among the poet’s manuscripts which may have been the opening octet of another—unfinished. Beginning “Oh hotel bed,” it appears here below the haunting “Love Sleeps in the Poet’s Chest.” Wikipedia tells us that Lorca was a Spanish poet, playwright and theatre director. Indeed, I remember a friend who once lived in Spain referring to him as a playwright. His plays were evidently still popular there long after his death. I was surprised: she did not seem to be aware of him as a poet, whereas I had thought poetry the sum total of his writing. Wikipedia also notes, in passing: 'Although García Lorca's drawings do not often receive attention, he was also a talented artist.' He was known as a talented musician, too, before focusing on writing. His friends included such luminaries as film-maker Luis Bunuel and artist Salvador Dali. He was encouraged by Dali, in 1928, to publicly exhibit his drawings. The Encyclopaedia Britannica tells us that,'A gifted draughtsman blessed with a startling visual imagination, Lorca produced hundreds of sketches in his lifetime.' Of even greater interest to us, the Britannica biography also remarks that he 'in a career that spanned just 19 years, resurrected and revitalized the most basic strains of Spanish poetry and theatre.... In the early 1930s Lorca helped inaugurate a second Golden Age of the Spanish theatre.' He was a poetic theorist and innovator, who postulated the concept of 'duende' (particularly as exhibited in flamenco dancing) as a kind of wild, instinctive, passionate form of inspiration. It includes sadness and darkness. Wikipedia calls it 'a Spanish term for a heightened state of emotion, expression and authenticity'. Britannica also tells us that Lorca 'was executed by a Nationalist firing squad in the first months of the Spanish Civil War.' Yes, he was killed at the age of 38, evidently for his socialism, in a Spain which was at that time becoming increasingly right-wing. There are theories that he may also have been singled out for his homosexuality, in the era of institutionalised and legally sanctioned homophobia. (Yet this supposed crime gave rise to the beautiful love poems I've shared with you today – thanks to Sarah Arvio and Knopf.) Sarah Arvio is a noted American poet, essayist and translator, and the recipient of a number of literary awards. Many books of Lorca's are available at Amazon, in English or Spanish (often both). Sarah Arvio's own books are also available at Amazon, including The Poet in Spain.
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remain the property of the copyright owners, where applicable (older poems may
be out of copyright).
The word goes round Repins,
the murmur goes round Lorenzinis,
at Tattersalls, men look up from sheets of numbers,
the Stock Exchange scribblers forget the chalk in their hands
and men with bread in their pockets leave the Greek Club:
There's a fellow crying in Martin Place. They can't stop him.
The traffic in George Street is banked up for half a mile
and drained of motion. The crowds are edgy with talk
and more crowds come hurrying. Many run in the back streets
which minutes ago were busy main streets, pointing:
There's a fellow weeping down there. No one can stop him.
The man we surround, the man no one approaches
simply weeps, and does not cover it, weeps
not like a child, not like the wind, like a man
and does not declaim it, nor beat his breast, nor even
sob very loudly—yet the dignity of his weeping
holds us back from his space, the hollow he makes about him
in the midday light, in his pentagram of sorrow,
and uniforms back in the crowd who tried to seize him
stare out at him, and feel, with amazement, their minds
longing for tears as children for a rainbow.
Some will say, in the years to come, a halo
or force stood around him. There is no such thing.
Some will say they were shocked and would have stopped him
but they will not have been there. The fiercest manhood,
the toughest reserve, the slickest wit amongst us
trembles with silence, and burns with unexpected
judgements of peace. Some in the concourse scream
who thought themselves happy. Only the smallest children
and such as look out of Paradise come near him
and sit at his feet, with dogs and dusty pigeons.
Ridiculous, says a man near me, and stops
his mouth with his hands, as if it uttered vomit—
and I see a woman, shining, stretch her hand
and shake as she receives the gift of weeping;
as many as follow her also receive it
and many weep for sheer acceptance, and more
refuse to weep for fear of all acceptance,
but the weeping man, like the earth, requires nothing,
the man who weeps ignores us, and cries out
of his writhen face and ordinary body
not words, but grief, not messages, but sorrow,
hard as the earth, sheer, present as the sea—
and when he stops, he simply walks between us
mopping his face with the dignity of one
man who has wept, and now has finished weeping.
Evading believers, he hurries off down Pitt Street.
– Les Murray (1938-20129) from The Weatherboard Cathedral, 1969
I think this was the first poem of Les Murray's I ever read. It's one of his most famous. I like to try and share things here which you are less likely to have come across already, but this is such an iconic piece I feel I can't go past it.
Also, although Murray's work is well-known outside Australia too, he is nevertheless a very Australian poet, using references and a vernacular which I find has not always been well understood when I've shared poems by other Australians here. The language of this poem is more universal than some of his others.
Murray was also an anthologist and critic. Wikipedia tells us:
'His career spanned over 40 years and he published nearly 30 volumes of poetry as well as two verse novels and collections of his prose writings. His poetry won many awards and he is regarded as "the leading Australian poet of his generation". He was rated by the National Trust of Australia as one of the 100 Australian Living Treasures.'
As well as the many prestigious literary awards, he also received the Order of Australia for his achievements. It was widely expected, before his death, that he might become a Nobel Prize winner for Literature. (Despite such acclaim, the general public was inclined to confuse him with a popular sports journalist and broadcaster of the same name!)
He died a few days ago, at the age of 80. The obituary in The Sydney Morning Herald does a good job of summarising his life and career. It includes a link to an archival interview which is interesting too. (And I've saved you the trouble by also including the link here.)
Murray was controversial because of his outspoken conservative opinions, but as the obituary says, no-one doubted his poetic genius.
At one time, back in the eighties, he was reluctant to join the performance poetry movement to take poetry 'off the page'. He explained that when poetry is read on the page, the mind hears it in particular ways, with particular nuances that don't happen when it's heard read aloud – and he was writing for that kind of reader, the one who reads the poem on the page. He felt that an audience hearing the poem read aloud might miss a lot of subtleties. (Or something like that; it's a long time ago and I don't recall the exact words.)
I think (and thought then) it was a valid point. Particularly as, when looking through his poetry now, I found that I went back and read every one twice. Not that they were inaccessible or hard to understand, but that I wanted to go deeper and let things sink in more. I had the sense that I could benefit from this, and also that it would be possible. Right on both counts.
However, at the time, some of us who were into performance tried to explain and demonstrate to Les the rich possibilities of that way of conveying poetry, and he listened. I don't know if we persuaded him, or if he just decided he'd better not neglect another, increasingly popular way of reaching an audience, but he did thereafter read his work aloud. In fact he did so all over the country, and the world. He was that rare thing, a poet who supported himself by his poetry – and without living in poverty.
I just bought the Kindle edition of his Collected Poems (published in 2018). It's the last of several 'Collected' published at different stages of his career. Though he wrote over 40 books – of poetry alone; more if one includes the prose volumes – this is one of only two of his books available from Amazon Australia, which seems scandalous. I don't know whether to blame Amazon, his publishers, or the buying public.
However, you can read all his published poems at Australian Poetry Library. You really should bookmark the site to return to for a browse now and then. He was far too prolific for you to be able to read them all in one sitting. You may well want to read them all! 'The Living Dead' I call this column. There is no doubt whatsoever that Les Murray's work will live.
Material shared in 'The Living Dead' is
presented for study and review. Poems, photos and other writings and images
remain the property of the copyright owners, where applicable (older poems may
be out of copyright). This photograph of Les Murray is by Brian Jenkins in 2004, made available through Creative Commons CC BY 3.0.
'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs
The first flower of the plain.
I love the season well,
When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell
The coming-on of storms.
From the earth's loosened mould
The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives;
Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold,
The drooping tree revives.
The softly-warbled song
Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored wings
Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along
The forest openings.
When the bright sunset fills
The silver woods with light, the green slope throws
Its shadows in the hollows of the hills,
And wide the upland glows.
And when the eve is born,
In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far,
Is hollowed out and the moon dips her horn,
And twinkles many a star.
Inverted in the tide
Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw,
And the fair trees look over, side by side,
And see themselves below.
Sweet April! many a thought
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed;
Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought,
Life's golden fruit is shed.
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) Usually I come across a poem which makes me think, 'I MUST have that for Poets United!' for one of my Friday features, whether 'I Wish I'd Written This', 'The Living Dead' or 'Thought Provokers'. This time, instead, I thought first, 'I'd love to find an April poem to use' – what with it not only being April, but April being Poetry Month to many of us who are busy writing a poem a day, whether to prompts or from our own inspiration. So, not having a particular poem in mind this time, I had to look for one. I Googled April poems.
There were various good ones, but I couldn't go past lovely Longfellow. Not only was I brought up on his 'Hiawatha', also this poem stood out for me for its musicality, which made it more accessible than the other April poems using older versions of the language. I see from the Wikipeda entry on Longfellow that his poems were 'known for their musicality' and am reminded that the full title of the major work I just mentioned is 'The Song of Hiawatha'. He was also known for liking to use 'stories of mythology and legend', and of course my beloved 'Hiawatha' fills that bill. I had not realised what a lovely nature poet he could be, too. Silly of me! 'Hiawatha' is full of a deep love and respect for nature, presented through Native American ideas and practices. Nowadays we might wonder at the correctness of his appropriating indigenous stories; at the time, I think, white writers had no consciousness that this might be inappropriate (at the very least). Leaving aside the question of doing it at all, it seems to me that his writing was respectful of the subject matter – although it's rather startling to read in Wikipedia that part of his inspiration for 'Hiawatha' came from Finnish legends! What can I say? I was a child, my Dad read 'Hiawatha' to me and my brother as a bedtime serial, and we loved it. I still love it. The most popular poet of his day – and one of those who is still recognised immediately by surname only – Longfellow has been criticised since for being 'minor and derivative' and indeed for appealing to the masses. (Something which has also been seen, in some quarters, as a deficiency in Mary Oliver!) That last seems to me very skewed thinking. How I would love for my own poetry to have mass appeal! How I would love for poetry in general to be so widely appreciated! Similarly, he has been belittled for the fact that his work is loved by children. As he was one of the influences who made this child love poetry and try to write it, I can hardly deplore that either. His poetry is still readily available via Amazon, including some Kindle and Audible editions. (I have 'Hiawatha' of course – in a hardback I've had for decades, inherited from my father – but I find ebooks much easier now, so I've grabbed that version too.) Well, that was a long 'aside'! The poem I've shared with you today is nothing to do with 'Hiawatha' but it does have the lyricism which was the poet's trademark, and it's full of joy – even with the hint of mortality at the end. In my part of the world April is not the Spring renewal he describes, but for many of you it is – and the poem is so celebratory that I simply can't be pedantic on such a point. I hope you all enjoy it too.
Material shared in 'The Living Dead' is
presented for study and review. Poems, photos and other writings and images
remain the property of the copyright owners, where applicable (older poems may
be out of copyright).
This photo of Longfellow was taken by Julia Margaret Cameron in 1868, and is in the Public Domain.
The most important thing we've learned, So far as children are concerned, Is never, NEVER, NEVER let Them near your television set -- Or better still, just don't install The idiotic thing at all. In almost every house we've been, We've watched them gaping at the screen. They loll and slop and lounge about, And stare until their eyes pop out. (Last week in someone's place we saw A dozen eyeballs on the floor.) They sit and stare and stare and sit Until they're hypnotised by it, Until they're absolutely drunk With all that shocking ghastly junk. Oh yes, we know it keeps them still, They don't climb out the window sill, They never fight or kick or punch, They leave you free to cook the lunch And wash the dishes in the sink -- But did you ever stop to think, To wonder just exactly what This does to your beloved tot? IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD! IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD! IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND! IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND! HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE! HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE! HE CANNOT THINK -- HE ONLY SEES! 'All right!' you'll cry. 'All right!' you'll say, 'But if we take the set away, What shall we do to entertain Our darling children? Please explain!' We'll answer this by asking you, 'What used the darling ones to do? 'How used they keep themselves contented Before this monster was invented?' Have you forgotten? Don't you know? We'll say it very loud and slow: THEY ... USED ... TO ... READ! They'd READ and READ, AND READ and READ, and then proceed To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks! One half their lives was reading books! The nursery shelves held books galore! Books cluttered up the nursery floor! And in the bedroom, by the bed, More books were waiting to be read! Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales And treasure isles, and distant shores Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars, And pirates wearing purple pants, And sailing ships and elephants, And cannibals crouching 'round the pot, Stirring away at something hot. (It smells so good, what can it be? Good gracious, it's Penelope.) The younger ones had Beatrix Potter With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter, And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland, And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and- Just How The Camel Got His Hump, And How the Monkey Lost His Rump, And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul, There's Mr. Rat and Mr. Mole- Oh, books, what books they used to know, Those children living long ago! So please, oh please, we beg, we pray, Go throw your TV set away, And in its place you can install A lovely bookshelf on the wall. Then fill the shelves with lots of books, Ignoring all the dirty looks, The screams and yells, the bites and kicks, And children hitting you with sticks- Fear not, because we promise you That, in about a week or two Of having nothing else to do, They'll now begin to feel the need Of having something to read. And once they start -- oh boy, oh boy! You watch the slowly growing joy That fills their hearts. They'll grow so keen They'll wonder what they'd ever seen In that ridiculous machine, That nauseating, foul, unclean, Repulsive television screen! And later, each and every kid Will love you more for what you did.
– Roald Dahl (1916-1990)
I came across this gem and thought we were due to have some fun. Mind you, I think Dahl was perfectly serious in his message; the fun is in the way he says it.
I don't know how justified he was in his fears. It seems to be agreed that excessive viewing is bad for children in various ways, particularly very young children. Whether it stops them from reading is open to question.
I'm old enough to recall that when we first got television there were dire warnings to that effect. Perhaps this poem was written in that era. As things have turned out, it depends very much on the amount and kind of viewing any child does. Some TV shows actually create a wish to read, e.g. documentaries which inspire further exploration, or shows based on works of fiction which make some of us want to read the books.
However I don't want to start a serious argument here. Whatever we think about TV, I'm sure poets are all very much in favour of reading! Personally I'm not planning to give up either. Mainly I just thought it would be good to have a laugh, and to remember that poetry can be comical.
Roald Dahl, of course, was a prolific writer and best-selling author, probably best known for his children's stories. Wikipedia describes him as 'a British novelist, short story writer, poet, screenwriter, and fighter pilot' and adds that 'His books have sold more than 250 million copies worldwide.'
His writing, often humorous, has been described as 'darkly comic' and unsentimental. His children's stories include the well-known Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, James and the Giant Peach and Matilda, which have translated well to stage and screen. There are eight pages of books still available at his Amazon profile, including some Kindle editions. I hope you enjoyed his anti-TV diatribe.
Material shared in 'The Living Dead' is
presented for study and review. Poems, photos and other writings and images
remain the property of the copyright owners, where applicable (older poems may
be out of copyright). The photo of a young Roald Dahl 'is from the Carl Van Vechten Photographs collection at the Library of Congress. According to the library, there are no known copyright restrictions on the use of this work.'
so this is how you pray. – Mary Oliver (1935-2019) from House of Light (Boston, Beacon Press, 1990)
This is my personal favourite Mary Oliver poem – though they are all wonderful and I love every poem of hers I've ever seen or heard. I first discovered her work when I found House of Light in my (then) local library many years ago, probably around 1993. I contemplated stealing the book! As a former librarian, and someone brought up to consider books sacred, you may understand what a huge departure it was for me even to think of such a thing, and how powerful the cause.
I didn't give in to such a nefarious impulse, but always meant to buy the book. I couldn't find it in Australia at that time; shops probably didn't keep it very long after the publication date. Only after she died I finally bethought myself to look on Amazon, and now have it at last, in Kindle. I love it as much as ever. Meantime, of course, I have been delighted by much more of her work. Thank God she was prolific, and has left us a wonderful legacy!
So many of us have had a love affair with Oliver's translucent work – work profound yet completely accessible. The day the world received the news of her death (one week ago, the day after it happened) my son and his family were visiting from interstate. We had a happy day together – yet all the time, in backdrop, was my consciousness of loss. All over facebook, other poets expressed shock and mourning too. So did many non-poets who also loved her poetry. She was undoubtedly the most popular contemporary poet in the English-speaking world, deservedly so. After her death, I read that her work was sometimes belittled by critics because of that popularity, as if it equated with a lack of literary merit – to which I can only say, 'Nonsense!' The apparent simplicity does not mean it wasn't meticulously crafted. She herself is famous for having opined that poetry shouldn't be 'fancy', and so obviously she set out to make sure hers wasn't. The right decision, clearly. Yet she had a distinctively beautiful poetic voice, her simplicity and clarity far from banal. Like other greats, most notably Shakespeare, some of her more striking lines and phrases are widely remembered and quoted out of context. They are striking both for their powerful sentiments and the beauty of their wording.
She was primarily a nature poet, has been described as an ambassador for the environment, and stated in one poem (Messenger) that loving the world was her work. The link on her name, above, leads to her Wikipedia entry – if anyone needs to read it. I think it is well-known that she was American, a Pulitzer prize-winner, and a recipient of the National Book Award; that she lived a long time in Provincetown, Massachusetts with her partner, the photographer Mary Malone Cook, who pre-deceased her in 2005; and that her influences were Whitman, Thoreau, Emerson, Rumi, Hafiz, Shelley and Keats.
There have been a number of obituaries, of course, which also give details of her life and work. You can find them here. If you simply Google her name, or 'Mary Oliver poems' you'll find a lot of material too. And of course her books are available through Amazon.
You can also find many examples of her reading her work and occasionally even being interviewed about it (though she seldom gave interviews) on YouTube. This is one I enjoyed:
Though she is greatly mourned, I'm sure everyone is thankful that her poetry remains with us. This one (the final poem in House of Light) seems appropriate to share with you just now, too:
White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field
Coming down
out of the freezing sky
with its depths of light,
like an angel, or a buddha with wings,
it was beautiful and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings— five feet apart—and the grabbing thrust of its feet,
and the indentation of what had been running
through the white valleys of the snow—
and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes
to lurk there, like a little lighthouse,
in the blue shadows—
so I thought:
maybe death isn’t darkness, after all,
but so much light wrapping itself around us—
as soft as feathers—
that we are instantly weary of looking, and looking, and shut our eyes, not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow—
that is nothing but light—scalding, aortal light—
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.
Material shared in 'The Living Dead' is
presented for study and review. Poems, photos and other writings and images
remain the property of the copyright owners, where applicable (older poems may
be out of copyright).
Both poems reproduced here are set out as they are in the book.
