An Afternoon with Mary Oliver

AN AFTERNOON WITH MARY OLIVER

August 27, 2019

Five of us

Sit in the August afternoon

at a table, adorned with a vase

of white zinnia,

purple Russian sage,

magenta coneflower,

orange marigold,

yellow coreopsis.

Our books of poetry,

stacked like place settings,

rest on the faded block print tablecloth.

It's Mary Oliver day!

We have come to investigate,

to mine, her wisdom,

her sensitivities.

As we sip

passionfruit and lemonaide

from glasses

heaped with cubes

of ice,

our faces brighten.

Libby reads first.

Singapore.

We can see clearly

the blue of the rag,

the metal of the ashtrays.

…I doubt for a moment that she loves her life.

And I want her to rise up from the crust and the slop

And fly down to the river.

This probably won’t happen

But maybe it will.

If the world were only pain and logic, who would want it?

Of course, it isn’t.

Neither do I mean anything miraculous, but only

The light that can shine out of life. I mean

the way she unfolded and refolded the blue cloth,

The way her smile was only for my sake; I mean

the way this poem is filled with trees, and birds.

Conversation

sure and even

begins.

Her poetry,

not all pretty,

we decide.

But,

It’s true and real.

What’s the difference?

After more words

From ourselves,

a pause hovers.

Joanie

takes a breath,

and reads,

The Country of the Trees

…And there will always be room for the weak, the violets

and the bloodroot.

When it is cold they will be given blankets of leaves.

When it is hot they will be given shade.

And not out of guilt, neither for a year-end deduction

but maybe for the cheer of their colors, their

small flower faces.

And none will ever speak a single word of complaint,

as though language, after all,

did not work well enough, was only an early stage.

Neither do they ever have any questions to the gods—

which one is the real one, and what is the plan.

As though they have been told everything already,

and are content.

Thoughts, impressions, feelings

rise and fall.

In many words

We say

what a powerful,

clear message

she sent

with such

gentle beauty.

Annie reads

The Fish

...and died in slow pouring off

of rainbows. Later

I opened his body and separated

the flesh from the bones

and I ate him. Now the sea

is in me: I am the fish, the fish

glitters in me, we are

risen, tangled together, certain to fall,

back to the sea. Out of pain,

and pain, and more pain

we feed this feverish plot, we are nourished

by the mystery.

A brief silence

makes room

for us to

digest the words.

We speak in a bell curve,

starting slowly,

building in the middle,

quieting at the end.

After the quiet,

Saran speaks

by reading.

Don’t Hesitate

If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy,

Don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty

Of lives, and whole towns destroyed or about

to be. We are not wise, and not very often

kind. And much can never be redeemed.

….Joy is not made to be a crumb.

So true,

so simple,

so difficult,

we sigh.

Only the leaves

hanging 

low above our heads

seem to move.

I take my turn

and recite.

Sunrise

….And I thought

I am so many!

What is my name?

What is the name of the deep

breath I would take over and over

for all of us.

You can call it whatever you want,

it is happiness;.

Another one of the ways to enter fire.

What does she mean

to enter fire. And I think,

What are we

missing? But each of us 

knows.

We read more

and more.

Mary Oliver

reveals herself

to us

over and over.

We linger,

In the warmth

of the afternoon sun.

A door has been opened for us.

A vastness revealed,

discovered,

amongst friends.

It seems

we don’t want

to leave this space.