Mary Oliver: Evidence

 1.

Where do I live? If I had no address, as many people
do not, I could nevertheless say that I lived in the
same town as the lilies of the field, and the still
waters.

Spring, and all through the neighborhood now there are
strong men tending flowers.

Beauty without purpose is beauty without virtue. But
all beautiful things, inherently, have this function —

 to excite the viewers toward sublime thought. Glory
to the world, that good teacher.

Among the swans there is none called the least, or
the greatest.

I believe in kindness. Also in mischief. Also in
singing, especially when singing is not necessarily
prescribed.

As for the body, it is solid and strong and curious
and full of detail; it wants to polish itself; it
wants to love another body; it is the only vessel in
the world that can hold, in a mix of power and
sweetness: words, song, gesture, passion, ideas,
ingenuity, devotion, merriment, vanity, and virtue.

Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable.

2.

There are many ways to perish, or to flourish.

How old pain, for example, can stall us at the 

threshold of function.

 

Memory: a golden bowl, or a basement without light.

 

For which reason the nightmare comes with its

painful story and says: you need to know this. 

 

Some memories I would give anything to forget.

Others I would not give up upon the point of

death, they are the bright hawks of my life.

Still, friends, consider stone, that is without 

the fret of gravity, and water that is without 

anxiety. 

And the pine trees that never forget their 

recipe for renewal. 

And the female wood duck who is looking this way 

and that way for her children. And the snapping 

turtle who is looking this way and that way also. 

This is the world. 

And consider, always, every day, the determination 

of the grass to grow despite the unending obstacles. 

3. 

I ask you again: if you have not been enchanted by 

this adventure--your life--what would do for 

you? 

And, where are you, with your ears bagged down 

as if with packets of sand? Listen. We all 

have much more listening to do. Tear the sand 

away. And listen. The river is singing.

 

What blackboard could ever be invented that

could hold all the zeroes of eternity?

 

Let me put it this way — if you disdain the 

cobbler may I assume you walk barefoot?

 

Last week I met the so-called deranged man

who lives in the woods. He was walking with

great care, so as not to step on any small,

living thing.  

For myself, I have walked in these woods for

more than forty years, and I am the only

thing, it seems, that is about to be used up.

Or, to be less extravagant, will, in the

foreseeable future, be used up.

First, though, I want to step out into some

fresh morning and look around and hear myself

crying out: "The house of money is falling! 

The house of money is falling! The weeds are 

rising! The weeds are rising!"

 

— Mary Oliver

 

From Evidence: Poems by Mary Oliver

and

Devotions: The Selected Poems by Mary Oliver