Mary Oliver Quotes (Author of A Thousand Mornings)
Mary Oliver’s Magnificent Short Guide to a Life of Wisdom
The day after the beloved poet Mary Oliver passed away, I awoke to an inch of fresh snow here in northern Manhattan. Later that morning, I walked my dog to the city park near our apartment. Soon after we entered, I unclipped her leash, and off she ran into the nearest open field. I watched her romp through the glimmering snow, bounding and ecstatic, for what felt like a long time. Oliver died from lymphoma on Thursday, January 17 at the age of
Mary Oliver. The Journey. One day you finally knew. But you didn't stop. You knew what you had to do,. It was already late. But little by little,.
No matter your thoughts following the presidential election, it stands that there are people hurting. There are people that are terrified and angry. And there are also people looking for hope, aching to see some progress that embraces diversity within the United States, and thereby not threatening it. Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes?
9 Beautiful Mary Oliver Quotes to Revitalize Your Soul
You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Her words contain a certain simplicity, minimalism, and clarity of vision that we rarely find in our convoluted, hyperspeed world. Her work hearkens back to the poetic prose of Thoreau , the poetry of Whitman , and the writings of British Romantics such as Wordsworth and Shelley. I consider this poem to be a concise and profound roadmap to a life of wisdom.
In her altogether magnificent book A Poetry Handbook public library , Oliver teases apart the mechanisms by which poetry enchants us, exploring the magic of rhythm as not only the fire in the belly of poetry but also a gateway into a profound human longing. If Romeo and Juliet had made their appointments to meet, in the moonlight-swept orchard, in all the peril and sweetness of conspiracy, and then more often than not failed to meet — one or the other lagging, or afraid, or busy elsewhere — there would have been no romance, no passion, none of the drama for which we remember and celebrate them. Writing a poem is not so different—it is a kind of possible love affair between something like the heart that courageous but also shy factory of emotion and the learned skills of the conscious mind. They make appointments with each other, and keep them, and something begins to happen. Or, they make appointments with each other but are casual and often fail to keep them: count on it, nothing happens. The part of the psyche that works in concert with consciousness and supplies a necessary part of the poem — the heart of the star as opposed to the shape of a star, let us say — exists in a mysterious, unmapped zone: not unconscious, not subconscious, but cautious.
Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? I found Mary Oliver far too late, but fortunately her words will be with us forever. It was relatively recently that I began to appreciate her work, as I was seeking some words of solace for someone I know. I go down to the shore in that time when my emotions roll over me like waves rolling in or ebbing out, and I say, oh, I am miserable, what must— what may I do? And the sea says in its lovely voice: "I will collect your tears.