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In A THOUSAND MORNINGS, Mary Oliver returns to the imagery that has come to define her life's work, transporting us to the marshland and coastline of her beloved home, Provincetown, Massachusetts. In these pages, Oliver shares the wonder of dawn, the grace of animals, and the transformative power of attention. Whether studying the leaves of a tree or mourning her adored dog, Percy, she is ever patient in her observations and open to the teachings contained in the smallest of moments.… (plus d'informations)
I enjoyed House of Light more, but these were still beautiful. There were some I could tell she spent more time on (or maybe she just liked them more) and others that were not very good. ( )
I love Mary Oliver's poetry so much I rushed through this book. Now I will go back and read it more slowly to savor her meanings and rhythms. I have it rated "really liked" it now, but may change it to amazing when the poems have time to sink into my depths. ( )
I am not a poetry person, but so many people told me to try Mary Oliver. This was my first foray into her work and I absolutely loved it. Her observations about the beauty of simple moments in nature around her took my breath away.
“The man who has many answers is often found in the theaters of information where he offers, graciously, his deep findings.
While the man who has only questions, to comfort himself, makes music.” ( )
Informations provenant du Partage des connaissances anglais.Modifiez pour passer à votre langue.
The life that I could still live, I should live, and the thoughts that I could still think, I should think. —C. G. Jung, The Red Book
Anything worth thinking about is worth singing about. —Bob Dylan, The Essential Interviews
Dédicace
Informations provenant du Partage des connaissances anglais.Modifiez pour passer à votre langue.
For Anne Taylor
Premiers mots
Citations
Informations provenant du Partage des connaissances anglais.Modifiez pour passer à votre langue.
POEM OF THE ONE WORLD
This morning the beautiful white heron was floating along above the water
and then into the sky of this the one world we all belong to
where everything sooner or later is a part of everything else
which thought made me feel for a little while quite beautiful myself.
THE MOTH, THE MOUNTAINS, THE RIVERS
Who can guess the luna's sadness who lives so briefly? Who can guess the impatience of stone longing to be ground down, to be part again of something livelier? Who can imagine in what heaviness the rivers remember their original clarity?
Strange questions, yet I have spent worthwhile time with them. And I suggest them to you also, that your spirit grow in curiosity, that your life be richer than it is, that you bow to the earth as you feel how it actually is, that we—so clever, and ambitious, and selfish, and unrestrained—are only one design of the moving, the vivacious many.
4. OF THE FATHER
He wanted a body so he took mine. Some wounds never vanish.
Oh the house of denial has thick walls and very small windows and whoever lives there, little by little, will turn to stone.
I HAVE DECIDED
I have decided to find myself a home in the mountains, somewhere high up where one learns to live peacefully in the cold and the silence. It's said that in such a place certain revelations may be discovered. That what the spirit reaches for may be eventually felt, if not exactly understood. Slowly, no doubt. I'm not talking about a vacation.
Of course at the same time I mean to stay exactly where I am.
I tell you that ant is very alive! Look at how he fusses at being stepped on.
GREEN, GREEN IS MY SISTER'S HOUSE
Don't you dare climb that tree or even try, they said, or you will be sent away to the hospital of the very foolish, if not the other one. And I suppose, considering my age, it was fair advice.
But the tree is a sister to me, she lives alone in a green cottage high in the air and I know what would happen, she'd clap her green hands, she'd shake her green hair, she'd welcome me. Truly
I try to be good but sometimes a person just has to break out and act like the wild and springy thing one used to be. It's impossible not to remember wild and want it back. So
if someday you can't find me you might look into that tree or—of course it's possible—under it.
THE WAY OF THE WORLD
The chickens ate all the crickets. The foxes ate all the chickens.
This morning a friend hauled his boat to shore and gave me the most wondrous fish. In its silver scales it seemed dressed for a wedding. The gills were pulsing, just above where shoulders would be, if it had had shoulders. The eyes were still looking around, I don't know what they were thinking.
The chickens ate all the crickets. The foxes ate all the chickens.
I ate the fish.
Derniers mots
Informations provenant du Partage des connaissances anglais.Modifiez pour passer à votre langue.
In A THOUSAND MORNINGS, Mary Oliver returns to the imagery that has come to define her life's work, transporting us to the marshland and coastline of her beloved home, Provincetown, Massachusetts. In these pages, Oliver shares the wonder of dawn, the grace of animals, and the transformative power of attention. Whether studying the leaves of a tree or mourning her adored dog, Percy, she is ever patient in her observations and open to the teachings contained in the smallest of moments.
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3
the beautiful white heron
was floating along above the water
and then into the sky of this
the one world
we all belong to
where everything
sooner or later
is a part of everything else
which thought made me feel
for a little while
quite beautiful myself. (