OTHERBOOKSBYMARYOLIVER

DreamWorkAmericanPrimitiveTwelveMoons

TheRiverStyx,OhioandOtherPoemsNoVoyageandOtherPoems

CHAPBOOKS

SleepingintheForestTheNightTraveler

ForMollyMaloneCook

CONTENTS

SOMEQUESTIONSYOUMIGHTASK

MOCCASINFLOWERS

THEBUDDHA’SLASTINSTRUCTION

SPRING

SINGAPORE

THEHERMITCRAB

LILIES

WINGS

THESWAN

THEKINGFISHER

INDONESIA

“ICHBINDERWELTABHANDENGEKOMMEN”TURTLE

THEDEER

THELOONONOAK-HEADPOND

WHATISIT?WRITINGPOEMS

SOMEHERONS

FIVEA.M.INTHEPINEWOODS

LITTLEOWLWHOLIVESINTHEORCHARD

THEGIFT

PIPEFISH

THEKOOKABURRAS

THELILIESBREAKOPENOVERTHEDARKWATER

DEATHATAGREATDISTANCE

THENOTEBOOK

PRAISE

LOOKINGFORSNAKES

FISHBONES

THEOAKTREEATTHEENTRANCETOBLACKWATERPOND

EVERYTHING

NATURE

SNAKE

THEPONDS

THESUMMERDAY

SERENGETI

THETERNS

ROSES,LATESUMMER

HERONSINWINTERINTHEFROZENMARSH

LOOKINGATABOOKOFVANGOGH’SPAINTINGS,INLEWISBURG,PENNSYLVANIA

FOXESINWINTER

HOWTURTLESCOMETOSPENDTHEWINTERINTHEAQUARIUM,THENAREFLOWN

SOUTHANDRELEASEDBACKINTOTHESEA

CROWS

MAYBE

FINCHES

WHITEOWLFLIESINTOANDOUTOFTHEFIELD

SOMEQUESTIONSYOUMIGHTASK

Isthesoulsolid,likeiron?Orisittenderandbreakable,likethewingsofamothinthebeakoftheowl?Whohasit,andwhodoesn’t?Ikeeplookingaroundme.ThefaceofthemooseisassadasthefaceofJesus.Theswanopensherwhitewingsslowly.Inthefall,theblackbearcarriesleavesintothedarkness.Onequestionleadstoanother.Doesithaveashape?Likeaniceberg?Liketheeyeofahummingbird?Doesithaveonelung,likethesnakeandthescallop?WhyshouldIhaveit,andnottheanteaterwholovesherchildren?WhyshouldIhaveit,andnotthecamel?Cometothinkofit,whataboutthemapletrees?Whatabouttheblueiris?Whataboutallthelittlestones,sittingaloneinthemoonlight?Whataboutroses,andlemons,andtheirshiningleaves?Whataboutthegrass?

MOCCASINFLOWERS

Allmylife,sofar,

Ihavelovedmorethanonething,includingthemossyhoovesofdreams,including

thespongylitterunderthetalltrees.

Inspringthemoccasinflowersreachforthecracklinglickofthesunandburndown.

Sometimes,intheshadows,Iseethehazyeyes,thelamb-lips

ofoblivion,itsdeepdrowse,andIcanimagineanewnothingintheuniverse,thematted

leavessplittingopen,revealingtheblackplanksofthestairs.

Butallmylife—sofar—Ihavelovedbesthowtheflowersriseandopen,how

thepinklungsoftheirbodiesenterthefireoftheworldandstandthereshiningandwilling—theonethingtheycandobeforetheyshuffleforwardintothefloorofdarkness,theybecomethetrees.

THEBUDDHA’SLASTINSTRUCTION

“Makeofyourselfalight,”saidtheBuddha,beforehedied.Ithinkofthiseverymorningastheeastbeginstotearoffitsmanycloudsofdarkness,tosendupthefirstsignal—awhitefanstreakedwithpinkandviolet,evengreen.Anoldman,helaydownbetweentwosalatrees,andhemighthavesaidanything,knowingitwashisfinalhour.Thelightburnsupward,itthickensandsettlesoverthefields.Aroundhim,thevillagersgatheredandstretchedforwardtolisten.Evenbeforethesunitselfhangs,disattached,intheblueair,Iamtouched

everywherebyitsoceanofyellowwaves.Nodoubthethoughtofeverythingthathadhappenedinhisdifficultlife.AndthenIfeelthesunitselfasitblazesoverthehills,likeamillionflowerson

fire—clearlyI’mnotneeded,yetIfeelmyselfturningintosomethingofinexplicablevalue.Slowly,beneaththebranches,heraisedhishead.Helookedintothefacesofthatfrightenedcrowd.

SPRING

Somewhere

ablackbearhasjustrisenfromsleepandisstaringdownthemountain.

AllnightinthebriskandshallowrestlessnessofearlyspringIthinkofher,herfour

blackfistsflickingthegravel,hertongue

likearedfiretouchingthegrass,thecoldwater.Thereisonlyonequestion:howtolovethisworld.

Ithinkofherrisinglikeablackandleafyledgetosharpenherclawsagainstthesilence

ofthetrees.

Whateverelsemylifeiswithitspoemsanditsmusicanditsglasscities,itisalsothisdazzlingdarkness

comingdownthemountain,breathingandtasting;alldayIthinkofher—her

whiteteeth,herwordlessness,herperfectlove.

SINGAPORE

InSingapore,intheairport,adarknesswasrippedfrommyeyes.Inthewomen’srestroom,onecompartmentstoodopen.Awomankneltthere,washingsomethinginthewhitebowl.

DisgustarguedinmystomachandIfelt,inmypocket,formyticket.

Apoemshouldalwayshavebirdsinit.Kingfishers,say,withtheirboldeyesandgaudywings.Riversarepleasant,andofcoursetrees.Awaterfall,orifthat’snotpossible,afountainrisingandfalling.Apersonwantstostandinahappyplace,inapoem.

WhenthewomanturnedIcouldnotanswerherface.Herbeautyandherembarrassmentstruggledtogether,andneithercouldwin.ShesmiledandIsmiled.Whatkindofnonsenseisthis?Everybodyneedsajob.

Yes,apersonwantstostandinahappyplace,inapoem.Butfirstwemustwatchherasshestaresdownatherlabor,whichisdull

enough.Sheiswashingthetopsoftheairportashtrays,asbigashubcaps,withabluerag.Hersmallhandsturnthemetal,scrubbingandrinsing.Shedoesnotworkslowly,norquickly,butlikeariver.Herdarkhairislikethewingofabird.

Idon’tdoubtforamomentthatshelovesherlife.AndIwanthertoriseupfromthecrustandtheslopandflydowntotheriver.Thisprobablywon’thappen.Butmaybeitwill.Iftheworldwereonlypainandlogic,whowouldwantit?

Ofcourse,itisn’t.NeitherdoImeananythingmiraculous,butonlythelightthatcanshineoutof

alife.Imeanthewaysheunfoldedandrefoldedthebluecloth,thewayhersmilewasonlyformysake;Imeanthewaythispoemisfilledwithtrees,andbirds.

THEHERMITCRAB

OnceIlookedinsidethedarknessofashellfoldedlikeapastry,andtherewasafancyface—oralmostaface

—itturnedawayandfriskedupitsbrawnyforearmssoquickly

againstthelightandmylookinginIscarcelyhadtimetoseeit,gleaming

underthepurewhiteroofofoldcalcium.WhenIsetitdown,ithurriedalongthetidelineofthesea,

whichwasslashingalongasusual,shoutingandhissingtowardthefuture,turningitsbackwitheverytideonthepast,leavingtheshorelitteredeverymorning

withmoreornamentsofdeath—whatapearlyrubblefromwhichtochooseahouselikeawhiteflower—andwhatarebelliontoleapintoit

andholdon,connectingeverything,thepasttothefuture—whichisofcoursethe

miracle—whichistheonlyargumentthereisagainstthesea.

LILIES

Ihavebeenthinkingaboutliving

liketheliliesthatblowinthefields.

Theyriseandfallinthewedgeofthewind,andhavenoshelterfromthetonguesofthecattle,andhavenoclosetsorcupboards,andhavenolegs.

StillIwouldliketobeaswonderful

asthatoldidea.ButifIwerealilyIthinkIwouldwaitalldayforthegreenface

ofthehummingbirdtotouchme.WhatImeanis,couldIforgetmyselfeveninthosefeatheryfields?

WhenvanGoghpreachedtothepoorofcoursehewantedtosavesomeone—mostofallhimself.Hewasn’talily,andwanderingthroughthebrightfieldsonlygavehimmoreideasitwouldtake

hislifetosolve.IthinkIwillalwaysbelonelyinthisworld,wherethecattlegrazelikeablack

andwhiteriver—wheretheravishingliliesmelt,withoutprotest,ontheirtongues—wherethehummingbird,wheneverthereisafuss,justrisesandfloatsaway.

WINGS

Isawtheheron

poiselikeabranchofwhitepetalsintheswamp,

inthemudthatlieslikeaglaze,

inthewaterthatswirlsitspalepanelsofreflectedclouds;Isawtheheronshakingits

dampwings—andthenIfelt

anexplosion—apain—

alsoahappinessIcanhardlymentionasIslidfree—asIsawtheworldthroughthose

yelloweyes—asIstoodlikethat,rippling,underthemottledskyoftheeveningthatwasbeginningtothrowitsdenseshadows.

No!saidmyheart,anddrewback.Butmybonesknewsomethingwonderfulaboutthedarkness—andthey

thrashedintheircords,theyfought,theywantedtoliedowninthatsilkymashoftheswamp,thesoonertofly.

THESWAN

Acrossthewidewaterssomethingcomesfloating—aslimanddelicate

ship,filledwithwhiteflowers—anditmoves

onitsmiraculousmusclesasthoughtimedidn’texist,asthoughbringingsuchgiftstothedryshorewasahappinessalmostbeyondbearing.

Andnowitturnsitsdarkeyes,itrearrangesthecloudsofitswings,ittrails

anelaboratewebbedfoot,thecolorofcharcoal.Soonitwillbehere.

Oh,whatshallIdowhenthatpoppy-coloredbeakrestsinmyhand?SaidMrs.Blakeofthepoet:Imissmyhusband’scompany—heisso

ofteninparadise.

Ofcourse!thepathtoheavendoesn’tliedowninflatmiles.It’sintheimaginationwithwhichyouperceivethisworld,

andthegestureswithwhichyouhonorit.Oh,whatwillIdo,whatwillIsay,whenthosewhitewings

touchtheshore?

THEKINGFISHER

Thekingfisherrisesoutoftheblackwavelikeablueflower,inhisbeakhecarriesasilverleaf.Ithinkthisistheprettiestworld—solongasyoudon’t

mindalittledying,howcouldtherebeadayinyourwholelifethatdoesn’thaveitssplashofhappiness?

Therearemorefishthanthereareleavesonathousandtrees,andanywaythekingfisherwasn’tborntothinkaboutit,oranythingelse.

Whenthewavesnapsshutoverhisbluehead,thewaterremainswater—hungeristheonlystory

hehaseverheardinhislifethathecouldbelieve.Idon’tsayhe’sright.NeitherdoIsayhe’swrong.Religiouslyheswallowsthesilverleafwithitsbrokenred

river,andwitharoughandeasycryIcouldn’trouseoutofmythoughtfulbodyifmylifedependedonit,heswingsbackoverthebrightseatodothesamething,todoit(asIlongtodosomething,anything)perfectly.

INDONESIA

Onthecurving,dustyroadswedrovethroughtheplantationswherethepickersbalancedonthehot

hillsides—thenweclimbedtowardthegreentrees,towardthewhitescarvesoftheclouds,totheinnthatisneverclosedinthisislandoffairestweather.

Thesunhunglikeastone,timedrippedawaylikeasteamingriverandfromsomewhereadrytonguelashed

outitssinglemotto:nowandforever.Andthepickersbalancedonthehothillsideslikegrayandblueblossoms,wrappedintheirheavylayersofclothesagainstthewhipsofthebranchesin

thatworldofleavesnopoorman,withabrownfaceandanemptysack,haseverpickedhiswayoutof.

Attheinnwesteppedfromthecartothegarden,whereteawasbroughttousscaldinginwhitecupsfromthefire.Don’taskifitwasthefireofhoneyorthefireofdeath,don’taskifwewere

determinedtolive,atlast,withmercifulhearts.Wesatamongtheunforgettableflowers.Weletthewhitecupscoolbeforeweraisedthemtoourlips.

“ICHBINDERWELTABHANDENGEKOMMEN”

TodayisGustavMahler’sbirthday,and

asusualIwentoutearlyintothesea-greenmorningwherethebirdsweresinging,

alloverbutmostlyatthescallopededgesofthepondsandinthebranchesofthetrees,whichflaredoutanddown,likethe

clothesofourspiritspatientlywaiting.ForhoursIwanderedoverthefieldsandtheonlythingthatkeptme

companywasasong,itglidedalongwithmydeliciousdarkhappiness,myheavy,

bristlingandachingdelightattheworldwhichhasbeenlikethisforeverandforever—theleaves,

thebirds,theponds,theloneliness,and,sometimes,fromalifetimeagoandanothercountrysuchawillingandliltingcompanion—asong

madesoobviouslyforme.Atwhatunknowablecost.

Andbyastranger.

TURTLE

NowIseeit—itnudgeswithitsbulldogheadtheslipperystemsofthelilies,makingthemtremble;andnowitnosesalonginthewakeofthelittlebrowntealwhois

leadinghersoftchildrenfromonesideofthepondtotheother;shekeepsclosetotheedge

andtheyfollowclosely,thegoodchildren—thetenderchildren,thesweetchildren,danglingtheirprettyfeetintothedarkness.

Andnowwillcome—Icancountonit—themurkysplash,thecertainvictoryofthatpinkandgassymouth,andthefranticcirclingofthehenwhiletherestofthechicksflareawayoverthewaterandintothereeds,andmyheartwillbe

mostmournfulontheiraccount.But,listen,what’simportant?Nothing’simportant

exceptthatthegreatandcruelmysteryoftheworld,ofwhichthisisapart,notbedenied.Once,

Ihappenedtosee,onacitystreet,insummer,adusty,fouledturtleploddingalong—asnapper—

brokenoutIsupposefromsomebackyardcage—andIknewwhatIhadtodo—Ilookeditrightintheeyes,andIcaughtit—Iputit,likeasmallmountainrange,intoaknapsack,andItookitoutofthecity,andIletitdownintothe

darkpond,intothecoolwater,andthelightofthelilies,tolive.

THEDEER

Youneverknow.

Thebodyofnightopenslikeariver,itdriftsupwardlikewhitesmoke,likesomanywrappingsofmist.Andonthehillsidetwodeerarewalkingalongjustasthoughthiswasn’tthe

owned,tilledearthoftodaybutthepast.Ididnotseethemthenextday,orthenext,butinmymind’seye—therethey

are,inthelonggrass,liketwosisters.

Thisistheearnestwork.Eachofusisgivenonlysomanymorningstodoit—tolookaroundandlove

theoilyfurofourlives,thehoofandthegrass-stainedmuzzle.DaysIdon’tdothis

Ifeeltheterrorofidleness,likearedthirst.Deathisn’tjustanidea.

Whenwediethebodybreaksopenlikeariver;theoldbodygoeson,climbingthehill.

THELOONONOAK-HEADPOND

criesforthreedays,inthegraymist.criesforthenorthithopesitcanfind.

plunges,andcomesupwithaslappingpickerel.blinksitsredeye.

criesagain.

youcomeeveryafternoon,andwaittohearit.yousitalongtime,quiet,underthethickpines,inthesilencethatfollows.

asthoughitwereyourowntwilight.asthoughitwereyourownvanishingsong.

WHATISIT?

Whocansay,isitasnowyegretorawhiteflowerstanding

attheglossyedgeofthelily—andfrog-filledpond?Hoursagotheorangesunopenedthecupsoftheliliesandtheleopardfrogs

begankickingtheirlongmuscles,breast-strokinglikelittlegreendwarvesundertheroofofthe

rich,iron-coloredwater.

Nowthesofteggsofthesalamanderintheirwrappingsofjellybegintoshiver.

They’retiredofsleep.Theyhaveanewidea.Theywanttoswimawayintotheworld.

Whocouldstopthem?Whocouldtellthemtogocautiously,toflowslowlyunderthelilypads?

Offtheygo,hundredsofthem,liketheblackfingerprintsoftherain.

Thefrogsfreezeintoperfectfive-fingeredshadows,butsuddenlytheflowerhasfire-coloredeyesandoneoftheshadowsvanishes.

Clearly,now,theflowerisabird.Itliftsitshead,itliftsthehingesofitssnowywings,tossingamomentoflightin

everydirection,likeachandelier,andthenoncemoreisstill.Thesalamanders,liketinybirds,lockedintoformation,flydownintotheendlessmysteriesofthe

transformingwater,andhowcouldanyonebelievethatanythinginthisworldisonlywhatitappearstobe—thatanythingiseverfinal—thatanything,inspiteofitsabsence,everdies

aperfectdeath?

WRITINGPOEMS

ThismorningIwatchedthepalegreenconesoftherhododendronsopeningtheirsmallpinkandred

blouses—thebodiesoftheflowerswereinstantlybeautifultothebees,theyhurriedoutofthatdarkplaceinthethicktreeoneafteranother,aninvisiblelineuponwhichtheiriridescence

caughtfireasthesuncaughtthem,slidingdown.

Isthereanythingmoreimportantthanhungerandhappiness?Eachbeeenteredthefrillsofaflowertofind

thestickyfountain,andifsomedustspilledonthewalkwaysofthepetalsandcaughtontotheirbodies,Idon’tknowifthebeesknowthatotherwisedeathis

everywhere,evenintheredswampofaflower.Buttheydidthis

withnosmallamountofdesperation—youmightsay:love.

Andtheflowers,asdaftasmud,pouredouttheirhoney.

SOMEHERONS

Abluepreacherflewtowardtheswamp,inslowmotion.

Ontheleafybanks,anoldChinesepoet,hunchedinthewhitegownofhiswings,waswaiting.

Thewaterwasthekindofdarksilkthathassilverlinesshotthroughitwhenitistouchedbythewindorissplashedupward,inasmall,quickflower,

bythelifebeneathit.

Thepreachermadehisdifficultlanding,hisskirtsuparoundhisknees.

Thepoet’seyesflared,justasapoet’seyesaresaidtodo

whenthepoetisawakenedfromtheforestofmeditation.Itwassummer.

Itwasonlyafewmomentspastthesun’srising,whichmeantthatthewholelongsweetdaylaybeforethem.

Theygreetedeachother,rumplingtheirgownsforaninstant,andthensmoothingthem.

Theyenteredthewater,andinstantlytwomoreherons—equallyasbeautiful—joinedthemandstoodjustbeneaththemintheblack,polishedwaterwheretheyfished,allday.

FIVEA.M.INTHEPINEWOODS

I’dseentheirhoofprintsinthedeepneedlesandknewtheyendedthelongnightunderthepines,walkingliketwomuteandbeautifulwomentowardthedeeperwoods,soIgotupinthedarkandwent

there.Theycameslowlydownthehillandlookedatmesittingunderthebluetrees,shylytheystepped

closerandstaredfromundertheirthicklashesandevennibbledsomedamptasselsofweeds.This

isnotapoemaboutadream,thoughitcouldbe.

Thisisapoemabouttheworldthatisours,orcouldbe.

Finallyoneofthem—Iswearit!—wouldhavecometomyarms.

Buttheotherstampedsharphoofinthepineneedleslike

thetapofsanity,andtheywentofftogetherthroughthetrees.WhenIwokeIwasalone,

Iwasthinking:sothisishowyouswiminward,sothisishowyouflowoutward,sothisishow

youpray.

LITTLEOWLWHOLIVESINTHEORCHARD

Hisbeakcouldopenabottle,andhiseyes—whenheliftstheirsoftlids—goonreadingsomethingjustbeyondyourshoulder—Blake,maybe,

ortheBookofRevelation.

Nevermindthatheeatsonlytheblack-smockedcrickets,anddragonfliesiftheyhappentobeoutlateovertheponds,andofcoursetheoccasionalfestalmouse.Nevermindthatheisonlyamemofromtheofficesoffear—it’snotsizebutsurgethattellsuswhenwe’reintouchwithsomethingreal,andwhenIhear

himintheorchardflutteringdownthelittlealuminumladderofhisscream—whenIseehiswingsopen,like

twoblackferns,aflurryofpalpitationsascoldassleetracketsacrossthemarshlandsofmyheart,

likeawildspringday.

Somewhereintheuniverse,inthegalleryofimportantthings,thebabyishowl,ruffledandrakish,sitsonitspedestal.

Dear,darkdappleofplush!Amessage,readsthelabel,fromthatmysteriousconglomerate:OblivionandCo.

Thehookedheadstaresfromitsblouseofdark,featherylace.

Itcouldbeavalentine.

THEGIFT

Iwantedtothankthemockingbirdforthevigorofhissong.Everydayhesangfromtherimofthefield,whileIpickedblueberriesorjust

idledinthesun.Everydayhecameflutteringbytoshowme,andwhynot,thewhiteblossomsin

hiswings.SoonedayIwenttherewithamachine,andplayedsomesongsofMahler.Themockingbirdstoppedsinging,hecamecloseandseemedtolisten.NowwhenIgodowntothefield,alittleMahlerspillsthroughthesputtersof

hissong.HowhappyIam,lounginginthelight,listeningasthemusicfloatsby!AndIgivethanksalsoformymind,thatthoughtofgivingagift.AndmostlyI’mgratefulthatItakethisworldsoseriously.

PIPEFISH

InthegreenandpurpleweedscalledZostera,looselyswingingintheshallows,Iwaded,I

reachedmyhandsinthatmosthumanofgestures—tofind,tosee,

toholdwhateveritisthat’sthere—andwhatcameupwasn’tmuchbutitglitteredandstruggled,ithadeyes,andabodylikeawand,ithadpoutinglips.

Nolonger,allofit,

thananyofmyfingers,itwantedawayfrommystrangeness,itwanted

togobackintothatwavingforestsoquickandwet.

Iforget

whenthishappened,howmanyyearsagoIopenedmyhands—likeapromiseIwouldkeepmywholelife,andhave—andletitgo.

Itellyouthisincaseyouhaveyettowadeintothegreenandpurpleshallowswherethediminutivepipefish

wantstogoonliving.Itellyouthisagainsteverythingyouare—yourhumanheart,yourhands

passingovertheworld,gatheringandclosing,sodryandslow.

THEKOOKABURRAS

Ineveryheartthereisacowardandaprocrastinator.Ineveryheartthereisagodofflowers,justwaitingtocomeoutofitscloudand

liftitswings.Thekookaburras,kingfishers,pressedagainsttheedgeoftheircage,theyasked

metoopenthedoor.YearslaterIwakeinthenightandrememberhowIsaidtothem,no,and

walkedaway.Theyhadthebrowneyesofsoft-hearteddogs.Theydidn’twanttodoanythingsoextraordinary,onlytoflyhometotheir

river.BynowIsupposethegreatdarknesshascoveredthem.Asformyself,Iamnotyetagodofeventhepalestflowers.Nothingelsehaschangedeither.Someonetossestheirwhitebonestothedung-heap.Thesunshinesonthelatchoftheircage.Ilieinthedark,myheartpounding.

THELILIESBREAKOPENOVERTHEDARKWATER

Insidethatmud-hive,thatgas-sponge,thatreeking

leaf-yard,thatripplingdream-bowl,theleeches’fleckedandswirlingbrothoflife,asrichasBabylon,

thefistscrackopenandthewandsoftheliliesquicken,theyriselikepalepoleswiththeirwrappedbeaksoflace;one

daytheytearthesurface,thenexttheybreakopenoverthedarkwater.

Andthereyouareontheshore,

fitfulandthoughtful,tryingtoattachthemtoanidea—somenewsofyourownlife.

Butthelilies

areslipperyandwild—theyaredevoidofmeaning,theyaresimplydoing,fromthedeepestspursoftheirbeing,whattheyareimpelledtodoevery

summer.Andso,dearsorrow,areyou.

DEATHATAGREATDISTANCE

Theripe,floatingcaps

oftheflyamanitaglowinthepinewoods.

Idon’teventhinkoftheeventualcorruptionofmybody,butofhowquaintand

humoroustheyare,likeacollectionofdoorknobs,half-moons,thenayellowdrizzleofflyingsaucers.

Inanycase

theywon’thurtmeunlessItakethembetweenmylipsandswallow,whichIknowenoughnottodo.Once,inthesouth,Ihadthishappen:

thesoftropeofawatermoccasinsliddowntheredkneesofamangrove,thehundredsofribshousedintheirsmooth,whitesleeves

ofmusclemovingitlikeahappinesstowardthewater,wheresomebubblesonthesurfaceofthatunderworld

announcedafatalcarelessness.Ididn’teventhenmovetowardthefinepointofthestory,butstoodinmylonelybodyamazedandfullofattentionasitfelllikeastreamofglowingsyrupintothedarkwater,asdeath

blurtedoutofthatperfectlyarrangedmouth.

THENOTEBOOK

“Sixa.m.—thesmall,pondturtleliftsitshead

intotheairlikeagreentoe.Itlooksaround.

Whatitseesisthewholeworldswirlingbackfromdarkness:aredsunrisingoverthewater,overthepines,andthewindlifting,andthewater-stridersheadingout,andthewhitelilies

openingtheirhappybodies.

Theturtledoesn’thaveawordforanyofit—thesilkywaterortheenormousbluemorning,orthecuriousaffairofhisownbody.

OntheshoreI’msobusyscribblingandcrossingoutIalmostmissseeinghimpaddleawaythroughthewet,blackforest.Moreandmorethemomentscometome:howmuchcantherightworddo?Nowafewoftheliliesareafaintflamingoinsidetheirwhitehearts,andthereis

stilltimetoletthelastrosesofthesunrisefloatdownintomyupliftedeyes.”

PRAISE

Knee-deep

intheferns

springingupattheedgeofthewhistlingswamp,Iwatchtheowl

withitssatisfied,heart-shapedfaceasitfliesoverthewater—backandforth—

asitfluttersdownlikeahellishmothwhereverthereedstwitch—whenever,inthemuddycover,somelittlelifesighsbeforeitslidesintothemoonlightandbecomesashadow.

Inthedistance,awfulandinfallible,theoldswampbelches.

Ofcourse

itstabsmyheartwheneversomethingcriesoutlikeateardrop.Butisn’titwonderful,whatishappeninginthebranchesofthepines:

theowl’syoung,dressedinsnowflakes,arestartingtofatten—theybeattheirmuscular

wings,theydreamofflyingforanothermillionyearsoverthewater,overtheferns,

overtheworld’sroughageasitbleedsanddeepens.

LOOKINGFORSNAKES

Becauseitisgoodtobeafraid—butnottooafraid—Iwalkcarefullyuptheslabbyhill,throughlacesofbracken,throughthethick,wildroses,waitingformyhearttoflyup

outoftheleaveschilledandsinging,

anditdoes.They’rethere—

twoofthem,insleepyloops—andtheyrise

inaspitofenergy,likedarkstalks.amongthewild,pinkroses,theirmouths

narrowandstubborn,theirredeyesstaring.

Doyoushiveratthemerementionoftheirglossy,shoulderlessbodies?

Iwouldliketobringyouhere.Iwouldlikeyoutoremembertheblackflowersoftheirfacesaswellastheir

quickslithering—Iwouldlikeyoutoremembertheprettyfirethatdabsoutoftheirmouthsaswellastheplungebackintotheshadows,andtheheart’sthuddingsong.

FISHBONES

MaybeMichelangeloorPicassocouldhaveimaginedthesedreamshapes,thesecurvesandthongs,snow-

needles,jaws,brain-cases,eyesockets—somebody,anyway,whosemindwasinsomeclearkindofrapture

andprobablyintheearlymorningwhenthesunonitsinvisiblemusclewasrisingoverthewater.

Idon’tthinkitwasjustaflounderinginthedarkness,nomatterhowmuchtimetherewas.

ThismorningIpickedupsomethinglikeahoney-combedheart,andsomethingelselikeafrozenfloweratthefootofthewavesandIthoughtofdaVinci—thewayhekeptdreamingofwhatwasinsidethedarkness—howitwantedtoriseonitsinvisiblemuscle,howitwantedtoshinelikefire.

THEOAKTREEATTHEENTRANCETOBLACKWATERPOND

EverydayonmywaytothepondIpassthelightning-felled,chesty,

hundred-fingered,blackoakwhich,summersago,swamforwardwhenthestormlaidoneleanyellowwandagainstit,smokingit

opentoitsrosyheart.

Itdroppeddowninaveilofrain,

inacloudofsapandfire,andbecamewhatithasbeeneversince—ablackboat

floatinginthetossingleavesofsummer,likethecoffinofOsirisdescending

uponthecloudyNile.But,listen,I’mtiredofthatbrazenpromise:deathandresurrection.I’mtiredofhearinghowthenitrogenswillreturntotheearthagain,

throughthehinterlandofpatience—howthemushroomsandtheyeastswillarriveinthewind—howthey’llanchorthepearlsoftheirbodiesandbegintognawthroughthedarkness,likewolvesatbones—whatIloved,Imean,was

thattree—treeofthemoment—treeofmyownsad,mortalheart—andIdon’twanttosinganymoreofthewayOsiriscamehomeatlast,onacleanand

powerfulship,overthedangeroussea,asatallandbeautifulstranger.

EVERYTHING

NodoubtinHolland,whenvanGoghwasaboy,therewereswansdriftingoverthegreenseaofthemeadows,andnodoubtonsomewarmafternoonhelaydownand

watchedthem,andalmostthought:thisiseverything.

Whatdrovehimtogetupandlookfurtheriswhatsavesthisworld,evenasitbreakstheheartsofmen.Inthemineswherehepreached,wherehestudiedtenderness,therewereonly

men,allofthemstreakedwithdust.Foryearshewouldreachtowardthedarkness.Butnodoubt,likeallofus,hefinallyrememberedeverything,includingthe

whitebirds,weightlessandunaccountable,floatingaroundthetownsofgritandhopelessness—andthisiswhatwouldfinishhim:notthegloom,whichwasonlyterrible,butthoselastyellowfields,whereclearlynothingintheworldmattered,oreverwould,buttheinsensiblelight.

NATURE

Allnightinandouttheslipperyshadowstheowlhunted,

thebeadsofbloodscarcelydryonthehookedbeakbeforehungeragainseizedhimandhefell,snippingthelifefromsomeplushbreather,andfloatedawayintothecrookedbranchesofthetrees,thatallnightwentonlapping

thesunkenrain,andgrowing,bristlinglifespreadingthroughalltheirbranchesasonebyone

theytossedthewhitemoonupwardonitsslowwaytoanothermorninginwhichnothingnewwouldeverhappen,whichis

thetruegiftofnature,whichisthereasonweloveit.

Forgiveme.ForhoursIhadtriedtosleepandfailed;

restlessandwild,Icouldsettleonnothingandfell,inenvyofthethingsofdarknessfollowingtheirsleepycourse—therootandbranch,thebloodiedbeak—eventhescreamsfromthecoldleaveswereasredsongsthatroseandfellintheiraccustomedplace.

SNAKE

Andhereistheserpentagain,dragginghimselfoutfromhisnestofdarkness,hiscaveundertheblackrocks,hiswinter-death.

Heslidesoverthepineneedles.Heloopsaroundthebunchesofrisinggrass,lookingforthesun.

Well,whodoesn’twantthesunafterthelongwinter?Istepaside,hefeelstheairwithhissofttongue,aroundthebonesofhisbodyhemoveslike

oil,downhillhegoestowardtheblackmirrorsofthepond.LastnightitwasstillsocoldIwokeandwentouttostandintheyard,andthere

wasnomoon.

SoIjuststoodthere,insidethejawofnothing.Anowlcriedinthedistance,IthoughtofJesus,howhecrouchedinthedark

fortwonights,thenfloatedbackabovethehorizon.

Therearesomanystories,morebeautifulthananswers.Ifollowthesnakedowntothepond,thickandmuskyheisascircularashope.

THEPONDS

Everyyear

thelilies

aresoperfectIcanhardlybelievetheirlappedlightcrowdingtheblack,mid-summerponds.Nobodycouldcountallofthem—themuskratsswimmingamongthepadsand

thegrassescanreachouttheirmusculararmsandtouchonlysomany,theyarethatrifeandwild.Butwhatinthisworldisperfect?

Ibendcloserandseehowthisoneisclearlylopsided—andthatonewearsanorangeblight—andthisoneisaglossycheekhalfnibbledaway—andthatoneisaslumpedpursefullofitsown

unstoppabledecay.

Still,whatIwantinmylifeistobewillingtobedazzled—tocastasidetheweightoffactsandmaybeeventofloatalittleabovethisdifficultworld.

IwanttobelieveIamlookingintothewhitefireofagreatmystery.Iwanttobelievethattheimperfectionsarenothing—thatthelightis

everything—thatitismorethanthesumofeachflawedblossomrisingandfading.AndIdo.

THESUMMERDAY

Whomadetheworld?Whomadetheswan,andtheblackbear?Whomadethegrasshopper?Thisgrasshopper,Imean—theonewhohasflungherselfoutofthegrass,theonewhoiseatingsugaroutof

myhand,whoismovingherjawsbackandforthinsteadofupanddown—whoisgazingaroundwithherenormousandcomplicatedeyes.

Nowsheliftsherpaleforearmsandthoroughlywashesherface.Nowshesnapsherwingsopen,andfloatsaway.Idon’tknowexactlywhataprayeris.Idoknowhowtopayattention,howtofalldownintothegrass,howtokneel

downinthegrass,howtobeidleandblessed,howtostrollthroughthefields,whichiswhatIhavebeendoingallday.

Tellme,whatelseshouldIhavedone?Doesn’teverythingdieatlast,andtoosoon?Tellme,whatisityouplantodowithyouronewildandpreciouslife?

SERENGETI

Whenhecomes,walkingunderthebaobab,awashwiththesun,orfleckedwithpatchesof

shadows—hiscurledlip,underthelonghairasroughasacribofhay,dappledwithblackflies—whenhecomes,

atnight,floatingalongtheedgesofthewaterholes—whenhesnufflestheground,andopensthewettunnelofhisthroat,androars—Ithinkofthe

heavy-browed,crouchedfishermenhowtheystoodatduskattherimofthecaveandlisteneduntilitcametothem

forthefirsttime—theterrorandtheaweoftheswinging,goldenfootthatwaitsinthedarkness.

CananyonedoubtthatthelionofSerengetiispartoftheideaofGod?Cananyonedoubtthat,forthosefirst,almost-uprightbodiesintheshadowofKilimanjaro,inthelushgardenofAfrica,inthecontinuationofeverything

beyondeachindividualthing,thelionwasboththefloweroflifeandthewinchofdeath—thebone-breaker,

andtheagentoftransformation?Nodoubt,inthebeginning,heroseoutofthegrasslikeafire—asnowherises

outofthegrass,likeafire,gleamingandunapproachable,andnoticesme,andfixesmewithhislarge,almostfatherlyeyes,

andflexeshisshoulders.

Idon’tknowanythingsobeautifulasthesunlightinhisroughhair.

Idon’tknow

whereIhaveseensuchpowerbefore—exceptperhapsinthechapelwhereMichelangelo’sGod,tawnyandmuscular,

tearsthelandfromthefirmamentandplacesthesunintheskysothatwemay

tearsthelandfromthefirmamentandplacesthesunintheskysothatwemaylive

ontheearth,

amongtheamazements,andthelionrunssoftlythroughthedust,andhiseyes,underthethick,animallashes,are

almosttender,andIdon’tknowwhenIhavebeensofrightened,

orsohappy.

THETERNS

Thebirdsshrugofftheslantair,theyplungeintotheseaandvanishundertheglassyedgesofthewater,

andthencomeback,flyingoutofthewaves,aswhiteassnow,shakingthemselves,shakingthelittlesilverfish,cryingout

intheirownlanguage,voiceslikeroughbells—it’swonderfulandithappenswheneverthetidestartsitsgushingjourneyback,everymorning

orafternoon.

Thisisapoemaboutdeath,

abouttheheartblanchinginitsfoldofshadowsbecauseitknowssomedayitwillbethefishandthewaveandnolongeritself—itwillbethosewhitewings,

flyinginandoutofthedarknessbutnotknowingit—thisisapoemaboutlovingtheworldandeverythinginit:theself,theperpetualmuscle,thepassage

inandout,thebristlingswingofthesea.

ROSES,LATESUMMER

Whathappens

totheleavesaftertheyturnredandgoldenandfallaway?Whathappens

tothesingingbirdswhentheycan’tsinganylonger?Whathappenstotheirquickwings?

Doyouthinkthereisanypersonalheavenforanyofus?Doyouthinkanyone,

theothersideofthatdarkness,willcalltous,meaningus?

Beyondthetreesthefoxeskeepteachingtheirchildrentoliveinthevalley.sotheyneverseemtovanish,theyarealwaysthereintheblossomoflightthat

standsupeverymorninginthedarksky.Andoveronemoresetofhills,alongthesea,thelastroseshaveopenedtheirfactoriesofsweetnessandaregivingitbackto

theworld.IfIhadanotherlifeIwouldwanttospenditallonsomeunstintinghappiness.

Iwouldbeafox,oratreefullofwavingbranches.Iwouldn’tmindbeingaroseinafieldfullofroses.

Fearhasnotyetoccurredtothem,norambition.Reasontheyhavenotyetthoughtof.Neitherdotheyaskhowlongtheymustberoses,andthenwhat.Oranyotherfoolishquestion.

HERONSINWINTERINTHEFROZENMARSH

Allwinter

twoblueheronshunkeredinthefrozenmarsh,liketwocolumnsofbluesmoke.

WhattheyateIcan’timagine,

unlessitwasthesmalllacesofsnowthatsettledintheruckusofthecattails,ortheglazedwindowsoficeunderthetiredpitchforksoftheirfeet—sotheansweris

theyatenothing,andnothinggoodcouldcomeofthat.

Theyweremiredinnature,andstarving.

Still,everymorningtheyshruggedtherimefromtheirshoulders,andalldaythey

stoodtoattention

inthestubbleddesolation.Iwasfilledwithadmiration,sympathy,

and,ofcourse,empathy.

Itcalledforamiracle.Finallythemarshsoftened,andtheirwingscrankedopenrevealingtheoldblue

light,sothatIthought:howcouldthispossiblybetheblunt,darkfinish?Firstone,thentheother,vanishedintotheditchesandupheavals.

Allspring,Iwatchedtherisingblue-greengrass,aboveitsgleamingandsubstantialshadows,tossinthebreeze,likewings.

LOOKINGATABOOKOFVANGOGH’SPAINTINGS,INLEWISBURG,PENNSYLVANIA

Don’ttry

totellmewhatcanorcan’tbedone.Thesnowisfallingagain,perfectlyatleisure

overthegray,thin-hairedbacksofthemountainsofPennsylvania.I’mfarfromhome.

Andneitherarethesetrees—olivesandalmonds—home;neitheristhisgathering

ofsunflowers,thisyellowhouse,home.Don’ttrytotellmewhatonepoorandlonelyDutchmancanorcan’tdowithabrush

andarollofcanvasandhiscrazyoldheart.Outside,

thesnowfloatsdown,itsiftsthroughthecrookedbranches,itdoesn’thesitate,itsettlesoverthegroundlikethewhitefireitwasinthebeginning,whereveritbegantopourthroughtheblacksky—whatalightitbecomesanywhereatallitrubsagainstthisearth—thiscrazyoldhome.

FOXESINWINTER

Everynightinthemoonlightthefoxescomedownthehilltognawonthebonesofbirds.Ineversaidnaturewasn’tcruel.Once,inacityashotasthesewoodsarecold,Imetaboywithabrokenface.Tostayalive,hewasabeggar.Also,inthenight,athief.

Andtherearebirdsinhiscountrythatlooklikerainbows—ifhecouldhavecaughtthem,hewouldhavetornofftheirfeathersandputtheirbodiesintohisown.Thefoxesarehungry,whocouldblamethemforwhattheydo?Ineversaid

weweren’tsunkinglitteringnature,untilweareabletobecomesomethingelse.Asfortheboy,it’ssimple.

Hehadnothing,notevenabird.Allnightthepinesaresocoldtheirbranchescrack.Allnightthesnowfallssoftlydown.Thenitshineslikeafield

ofwhiteflowers.Thenittightens.

HOWTURTLESCOMETOSPENDTHEWINTERINTHEAQUARIUM,THENARE

FLOWNSOUTHANDRELEASEDBACKINTOTHESEA

Somewheredownbeach,inthemorning,atwater’sedge,Ifoundaseaturtle,itshugeheadasmolderingapricot,itsshellstreamingwithseaweed,itseyesclosed,itsflippersmotionless.

WhenIbentdown,itmovedalittle.WhenIpickeditup,itsighed.Wasitfortypounds,orfiftypounds,orahundred?Wasittwomilesbacktothecar?Wewalkedalittlewhile,andthenwerested,andthenwewalkedon.Iwalkedwithmymouthopen,myheartroared.Theeyesopened,Idon’tknowwhattheythought.Sometimestheflippersswamattheair.Sometimestheeyesclosed.Icouldn’twalkanymore,andthenIwalkedsomemorewhileitturnedinto

granite,orcement,butwiththatapricot-coloredhead,thatstillness,thatBuddha-likepatience,thatcold-shockedbutslowlybeatingheart.

Finally,wereachedthecar.

Theafternoonistheotherpartofthisstory.Haveyoueverfoundsomethingbeautiful,andmaybejustintime?Howsuchachallengecanfillyou!Jesuscouldwalkoverthewater.Ihadtowalkankle-deepinthesand,andIdidit.Mybonesdidn’tquitesnap.

Comeonin,andseemesmile.Iprobablywon’tstopforhours.Already,inthewarmth,theturtlehasraiseditshead,islookingaround.Today,whocoulddenyit,Iamanimportantperson.

CROWS

ItisJanuary,andtherearethecrowslikeblackflowersonthesnow.WhileIwatchtheyriseandfloattowardthefrozenpond,theyhaveseensome

streakofdeathonthedarkice.Theygatherarounditandconsumeeverything,thestringsandtheredmusicof

thatnamelessbody.Thentheyshout,onehungry,bluntvoiceechoinganother.

Itbeginstorain.Later,itbecomesFebruary,andevenlater,springreturns,achorusofthousands.Theybow,andbegintheirimportantmusic.Irecognizetheoriole.Irecognizethethrush,andthemockingbird.Irecognizethebusinessofsummer,whichistoforgeahead,delicately.SoIdipmyfingersamongthegreenstems,delicately.Iloungeattheedgeoftheleafingpond,delicately.Iscarcelyrememberthecrustofthesnow.Iscarcelyremembertheicydawnsandthesunlikealampwithoutafuse.Idon’trememberthefuryofloneliness.Ineverfeltthewind’sdrift.Ineverheardofthestrugglebetweenanythingandnothing.Ineversawtheflapping,blood-gulpingcrows.

MAYBE

SweetJesus,talkinghismelancholymadness,stoodupintheboatandthesealaydown,silkyandsorry.Soeverybodywassavedthatnight.

Butyouknowhowitiswhensomething

differentcrossesthethreshold—theunclesmuttertogether,

thewomenwalkaway,theyoungbrotherbeginstosharpenhisknife.Nobodyknowswhatthesoulis.

Itcomesandgoeslikethewindoverthewater—sometimes,fordays,youdon’tthinkofit.

Maybe,afterthesermon,afterthemultitudewasfed,oneortwoofthemfeltthesoulslipforthlikeatremorofpuresunlight,beforeexhaustion,

thatwantstoswalloweverything,grippedtheirbonesandleftthemmiserableandsleepy,astheyarenow,forgettinghowthewindtoreatthesailsbeforeheroseandtalkedtoit—tenderandluminousanddemandingashealwayswas—athousandtimesmorefrighteningthanthekillersea.

FINCHES

Iceinthewoods,snowinthefields,afewfinchessinging.Ilookupintimetoseetheirraspberry-coloredfacesandtheblacktearsontheirbreasts.Ofcourse,theyarejusttryingtostayalivelikethefrozenriverandthecrows.Butwhowouldguessthat,thewaytheydanglethebrightnecklacesoftheirmusicfromthetopsofthetrees?Beforenightfall,they’dbetterfindwherethelastspraysofseedshavefallen,they’dbetterfindshelterfromthewind.Andtheretheygo,tinyrosettesofenergy,asthoughnothinginthisworldwasfrightening—asthoughtheonlythingthatmatteredwastopraisetheworldsufficiently—asthoughtheywereonlylooking,light-heartedly,forthenexttreeinwhichtosing;andhereIam,athomeagain,outofthesnowyfields,whereIwilltakeoffmyjacket,andsitdownatthetable,andgoovermyversesagain.

WHITEOWLFLIESINTOANDOUTOFTHEFIELD

Comingdownoutofthefreezingskywithitsdepthsoflight,likeanangel,

orabuddhawithwings,itwasbeautifulandaccurate,

strikingthesnowandwhateverwastherewithaforcethatlefttheimprintofthetipsofitswings—fivefeetapart—andthegrabbingthrustofitsfeet,and

theindentationofwhathadbeenrunningthroughthewhitevalleysofthesnow—andthenitrose,gracefully,andflewbacktothefrozenmarshes,tolurk

there,likealittlelighthouse,intheblueshadows—soIthought:

maybedeathisn’tdarkness,afterall,butsomuchlight

wrappingitselfaroundus—assoftasfeathers—thatweareinstantlywearyoflooking,andlooking,andshutoureyes,notwithoutamazement,andlet

ourselvesbecarried,asthroughthetranslucenceofmica,totheriverthatiswithouttheleastdappleorshadow—thatisnothingbutlight—scalding,

aortallight—inwhichwearewashedandwashedoutofourbones.

BeaconPress

25BeaconStreetBoston,Massachusetts02108-2892www.beacon.org

BeaconPressbooksarepublishedundertheauspicesoftheUnitarianUniversalistAssociationofCongregations.

©1990byMaryOliverAllrightsreservedPrintedintheUnitedStatesofAmerica102120

TextdesignbyDedeCummingsMythankstotheeditorsofthefollowingmagazines,inwhichsomeofthesepoemspreviouslyappeared:Amicus(Spring,ThePipefish,TheSwan,FiveA.M.inthePinewoods);Antaeus(Nature);TheAtlantic(Lilies,WritingPoems,MoccasinFlowers,TheLoononOak-HeadPond);CountryJournal(TheDeer,TheGift,Wings,TheNotebook,HeronsinWinterintheFrozenMarsh,HowTurtlesCometoSpendtheWinterintheAquarium…,Finches,Turtle);HarvardMagazine(SomeQuestionsYouMightAsk);KenyonReview(FishBones,Indonesia,TheTerns);OhioReview(Crows);PartisanReview(Everything);Ploughshares(Maybe,LittleOwlWhoLivesintheOrchard);Poetry(TheHermitCrab,TheKingfisher,Singapore,DeathataGreatDistance,Snake,WhatIsIt?);SycamoreReview(TheKookaburras);VirginiaQuarterlyReview(TheBuddha’sLastInstruction,TheLiliesBreakOpenOvertheDarkWater);WesternHumanitiesReview(Praise,“IchbinderWeltabhandengekommen”);Wigwag(TheSummerDay,SomeHerons);Wilderness(ThePonds).WhiteOwlFliesIntoandOutoftheFieldoriginallyappearedinTheNewYorker.

Thisbookisprintedonacid-freepaperthatmeetstheuncoatedpaperANSI/NISOspecificationsforpermanenceasrevisedin1992.

LibraryofCongressCataloging-in-PublicationDataOliver,MaryHouseoflight/MaryOliver.p.cm.e-ISBN978-0-8070-9539-3ISBN978-0-8070-6811-3(pbk.)I.Title.PS3565.L5H68.1990811'.54—dc2089-46059