Mary Oliver - Felicity: Poems
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If I have any secret stash of poems, anywhere, it might be about love, not anger, Mary Oliver once said in an interview. Finally, in her stunning new collection, Felicity, we can immerse ourselves in Olivers love poems. Here, great happiness abounds.
Our most delicate chronicler of physical landscape, Oliver has described her work as loving the world. With Felicity she examines what it means to love another person. She opens our eyes again to the territory within our own hearts; to the wild and to the quiet. In these poems, she describeswith joythe strangeness and wonder of human connection.
As in Blue Horses, Dog Songs, and A Thousand Mornings, with Felicity Oliver honors love, life, and beauty.
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Copyright 2015 by Mary Oliver Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader. Acknowledgments to the original publishers of several poems appear . Excerpts from poems by Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks. Used by permission of Coleman Barks. ISBN: 978-0-698-40747-3 Version_1 For Anne Taylor
Augustine?
And, look! the way the rising sun strikes them, they could be flowers opening!
Like, telling someone you love them. Or giving your money away, all of it. Your heart is beating, isnt it? Youre not in chains, are you? There is nothing more pathetic than caution when headlong might save a life, even, possibly, your own.
Ill just tell you this: only if there are angels in your head will you ever, possibly, see one.
Today Rumi (obit. 1273) came visiting, and not for the first time. True he didnt speak with his tongue but from memory, and whether he was short or tall I still dont know. But he was as real as the tree I was under. Just because somethings physical doesnt mean its the greatest. He offered a poem or two, then sauntered on.
I sat awhile feeling content and feeling contentment in the tree also. Isnt everything in the world shared? And one of the poems contained a tree, so of course the tree felt included. Thats Rumi, who has no trouble slipping out of your long black coat, oh Mr. Death.
Try to find the right place for yourself. If you cant find it, at least dream of it. When one is alone and lonely, the body gladly lingers in the wind or the rain, or splashes into the cold river, or pushes through the ice-crusted snow. Anything that touches. God, or the gods, are invisible, quite understandable. But holiness is visible, entirely.
Some words will never leave Gods mouth, no matter how hard you listen. In all the works of Beethoven, you will not find a single lie. All important ideas must include the trees, the mountains, and the rivers. To understand many things you must reach out of your own condition. For how many years did I wander slowly through the forest. What wonder and glory I would have missed had I ever been in a hurry! Beauty can both shout and whisper, and still it explains nothing.
The point is, youre you, and thats for keeps.
Which was a good enough reason for me not to want to be there. But now its more serious. There is no field, neither have the woods survived. So, where is meadowlark? If anyone has seen him, please would you let me know posthaste?
What could it be? What could it be? What do you think it could be?
Still, he sings. If he can, he enters a house through the tiniest crack under the door. Then the house grows colder. He sings slower and slower. Then, nothing. This must mean something, I dont know what.
But certainly it doesnt mean he hasnt been an excellent cricket all his life.
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