Monday, July 10, 2006

A poem by Mary Oliver

The power and absolute beauty of this poem are both piercing and unrestrained. If only I could imagine my own strong, thick wings.......


Isn't it plain the sheets of moss, except that
they have no tongues, could lecture
all day if they wanted about

spiritual patience? Isn't it clear
the black oaks along the path are standing
as though they were the most fragile of flowers?

Every morning I walk like this around
the pond, thinking: if the doors of my heart
ever close, I am as good as dead.

Every morning, so far, I'm alive. And now
the crows break off from the rest of the darkness
and burst up into the sky—as though

all night they had thought of what they would like
their lives to be, and imagined
their strong, thick wings.


Peg said...

And where you would fly off to??

What is the poem..."the moving finger writes, and having writ not a drop of tear shall erase a line".

It goes something like that. Can you find it for me?

reacher said...

That is from "The Rubiayat" by Omar Khayyam. This poem was written in the 1100's and has 114 stanzas. The passage you referred to is located at about stanza 71 or 72 depending on which translation you are referencing. Here is is:
"The Moving Finger writes; and Having Writ,
Moves on, nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it."

Thanks for reminding me of this.

Anonymous said...

Very pretty site! Keep working. thnx!