Curiosity 76: Mary Oliver, poet

The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac, part 3

I know, you never intended to be in this world.

But you’re in it all the same.

so why not get started immediately.

I mean, belonging to it.
There is so much to admire, to weep over.

And to write music or poems about.

Bless the feet that take you to and fro.
Bless the eyes and the listening ears.
Bless the tongue, the marvel of taste.
Bless touching.

You could live a hundred years, it’s happened.
Or not.
I am speaking from the fortunate platform
of many years,
none of which, I think, I ever wasted.
Do you need a prod?
Do you need a little darkness to get you going?
Let me be urgent as a knife, then,
and remind you of Keats,
so single of purpose and thinking, for a while,
he had a lifetime.

I have of course featured Mary Oliver (1935–2019) before, many times, but each time I happen on a poem of hers—this one today on FB—I appreciate the slowing down and invitation to reflect on my own experience of being on this planet. Oliver was diagnosed with lymphoma in 2015; she died in January 2019. This poem is from before all that, her book Blue Horses published in 2014, but still: she always had death in mind, from her close observation of the natural world, where death is merely an unavoidable fact, part of the cycle of life. She does not sentimentalize, either beauty or darkness. 

This section is part of a four-part poem titled "The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac." The reference to John Keats (1795–1821), I imagine, is to his brilliance—and to the fact that he was only 25 when he died of tuberculosis in Rome. He managed to be a practicing poet for only seven years (his first extant poem, "An Imitation of Spenser," dates from 1814), a published one for less than five (his first poem in print, "O Solitude," appeared in the Examiner in May 1816)—and yet what a legacy.

In 2015 Oliver participated in a rare interview with Krista Tippett of On Being. 

And finally, a long read from her book A Thousand Mornings in October 2012:

This will probably not be the last time I feature Mary Oliver, assuming I keep this confounded blog going. I can count on her for wisdom.