Mary Oliver and Here Is the Serpent Again

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"To exist gimmicky is to rise through the stack of the past, similar the burn through the mountain. But a rut and then securely and intelligently born tin can bear a new idea into the air."
― Mary Oliver, A Poetry Handbook

"I did think, let's become about this slowly.
This is important. This should take some actually deep thought. We should have small thoughtful steps.
But, bless the states, we didn't."
― Mary Oliver, Felicity

"Peradventure the idea of the world as flat isn't a tribal retentiveness or an archetypal memory, but something far older -- a flim-flam retentivity, a worm memory, a moss memory.

Retention of leaping or crawling or shrugging rootlet by rootlet forrard, across the flatness of everything.

To perceive of the earth every bit round needed something else -- continuing upwards! -- that hadn't yet happened.

What a wild family! Fox and giraffe and wart hog, of course. But these also: bodies like tiny strings, bodies like blades and blossoms! Cord grass, Christmas fern, soldier moss! And hither comes grasshopper, all toes and knees and eyes, over the little mountains of the dust.

When I come across the black cricket in the woodpile, in autumn, I don't frighten her. And when I see the moss grazing upon the rock, I affect her tenderly,

sweet cousin."
― Mary Oliver, Winter Hours: Prose, Prose Poems, and Poems

"I had a canis familiaris
who loved flowers.
Briskly she went
through the fields,

still paused
for the honeysuckle
or the rose,
her dark head

and her wet nose
touching
the confront
of every ane

with its petals
of silk,
with its fragrance
rising

into the air
where the bees,
their bodies
heavy with pollen,

hovered—
and easily
she adored
every blossom,

not in the serious,
careful way
that we choose
this blossom or that bloom—

the way we praise or don't praise—
the style we beloved
or don't love—
but the style

we long to be—
that happy
in the heaven of globe—
that wild, that loving."
― Mary Oliver, Dog Songs

"Emerson, I am trying to live, as y'all said we must, the examined life. But there are days I wish there was less in my head to examine, not to speak of the busy middle."
― Mary Oliver, Cerise Bird

"Why should I have been surprised?
Hunters walk the forest
without a audio.
The hunter, strapped to his rifle,
the fox on his feet of silk,
the serpent on his empire of muscles—
all move in a stillness,
hungry, conscientious, intent.
Just equally the cancer
entered the forest of my torso,
without a sound."
― Mary Oliver, Bluish Horses

"You do not take to be good.
You exercise not accept to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You lot simply have to permit the soft creature of your body
love what information technology loves."
― Mary Oliver, Red Bird

"All my life
I accept been restless-
I have felt in that location is something
more than wonderful than gloss-
than wholeness-
than staying at home."
― Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems, Book One

"Today

Today I'thou flying depression and I'm not maxim a word. I'm letting all the voodoos of ambition sleep. The world goes on as information technology must, the bees in the garden rumbling a little, the fish leaping, the gnats getting eaten. And so forth. Only I'm taking the twenty-four hours off. Tranquillity as a feather. I hardly move though actually I'm traveling a terrific distance. Stillness. One of the doors into the temple."
― Mary Oliver, A Yard Mornings

"At present and again there's a moment,
when the eye cries aloud:
yep, I am willing to be
that wild darkness,
that long, bluish body of light."
― Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems, Volume One

"If the globe were only pain and logic, who would want it?"
― Mary Oliver, Singapore

"To live in this world, you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to agree it against your basic knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it become, to permit it go."
― Mary Oliver, American Primitive

"I woke
And crept
Similar a true cat

On silent feet
Virtually my own house-
To look

At you lot
While you were sleeping,
Your pilus

Sprayed on the pillow,
Your eyes
Closed,

Your body
Safe and alone,
And my doors

Shut for your prophylactic
And your comfort.
I did this

Thinking I was intruding
Yet wanting to run into
The most beautiful thing

That has ever been in my firm."
― Mary Oliver, Blue Horses

"Over and over in the butterfly we see the idea of transcendence. In the wood we encounter not the inert just the aspiring. In water that departs forever and forever returns, we experience eternity."
― Mary Oliver, Long Life: Essays and Other Writings

"And it is exceedingly curt, his galloping life. Dogs dice so shortly. I accept my stories of that grief, no dubiety many of you practise too. It is nigh a failure of will, a failure of beloved, to permit them abound old—or then information technology feels. Nosotros would practice anything to proceed them with u.s., and to keep them young. The i gift we cannot give.  •"
― Mary Oliver, Canis familiaris Songs

"It's true, isn't it,
in our world,
that the petals pooled with nectar, and the polished thorns
are a single thing-
that the petals pooled with nectar, and the polished thorns
are a single thing-
that even the purest low-cal, lacking the robe of darkness,
would be without expression-
that love itself, without hurting, would be
no more than than a shrug gable condolement."
― Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems, Volume One

"I believe yous did not have a happy life.
I believe you were cheated.
I believe your best friends were loneliness and misery.
I believe your busiest enemies were acrimony and depression.
I believe joy was a game you could never play without stumbling.
I believe comfort, though you craved information technology, was forever a stranger.
I believe music had to bee melancholy or not at all.
I believe no trinket, no precious metal, shone and then vivid equally
your bitterness.
I believe you lay down at concluding in your coffin none the wiser and
unassuaged.
Oh, common cold and dreamless nether the wild, amoral, reckless, peaceful flowers of the hillsides."
― Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems, Volume 1

"Teach the children. We don't matter so much, but the children practice. Show them daisies and the pale hepatica. Teach them the taste of sassafras and wintergreen. The lives of the blue sailors, mallow, sunbursts, the moccasin flowers. And the frisky ones–inkberry, lamb's quarters, blueberries. And the aromatic ones–rosemary, oregano. Give them peppermint to put in their pockets as they go to schoolhouse. Give them the fields and the woods and the possibility of the world salvaged from the lords of profit. Stand them in the stream, head them upstream, rejoice as they learn to love this green space they live in, its sticks and leaves and so the silent, beautiful blossoms. Attending is the start of devotion."
― Mary Oliver, Upstream: Selected Essays

"Sleep comes its fiddling while. Then I wake in the valley of midnight or three a.m. to the first fragrances of spring which is coming, all by itself, no matter what. My eye says, what you lot thought you have you lot do non take. My torso says, volition this pounding ever stop? My heart says: there, there, be a good student. My body says: let me up and out, I want to fondle those soft white flowers, open in the night."
― Mary Oliver, A Thousand Mornings

"Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not terminal!      What a task          to ask of annihilation, or anyone, yet it is ours,     and not by the century or the yr, only by the hours. One"
― Mary Oliver, Why I Wake Early on

"Truly
I try to exist adept merely sometimes
a person just has to break out and
act like the wild and springy thing
one used to exist. It's incommunicable not
to call back wild and want information technology back. So
if someday you can't detect me you might
look into that tree or—of class
it's possible—nether it."
― Mary Oliver, A Thousand Mornings

"And probably, if they don't waste material time looking for an easier world, they can do it."
― Mary Oliver, Dream Piece of work

"On the windless days, when the maples have put forth their deep canopies, and the sky is wearing its new blue immensities, and the current of air has dusted itself not an hour ago in some spicy field and hardly touches us as it passes by, what is it we exercise? We lie downwardly and rest upon the generous earth. Very likely nosotros fall asleep."
― Mary Oliver, Long Life: Essays and Other Writings

"لا أريد أن أتساءل في حيرة
هل صنعت شيئا من حياتي،
لا..
لا أريد..
أن أتحسر أو أخاف،
أو أن أغوص في جدال.
أنا فقط أريد..
ألا ينتهي بي المطاف..
كعابرة سبيل... في هذه الحياة."
― Mary Oliver

"And I thought: I shall remember this all my life. The peril, the running, the howling of the dogs, the smothering. Then the happiness—of activeness, of leaping. So the green sweetness of altitude. And the copse: their thickness and their pity, all around."
― Mary Oliver, Winter Hours: Prose, Prose Poems, and Poems

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A Thousand Mornings
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New and Selected Poems, Volume One
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Upstream
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Devotions
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