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Red Bird
Red bird came all winter / firing up the landscape / as nothing else could. So begins Mary Oliver's twelfth book of poetry, and the image of that fiery bird stays with the reader, appearing in unexpected forms and guises until, in a postscript, he explains himself: "For truly the body needs / a song, a spirit, a soul. And no less, to make this work, / the soul has need of a body, / and I am both of the earth and I am of the inexplicable / beauty of heaven / where I fly so easily, so welcome, yes, / and this is why I have been sent, to teach this to your heart."
This collection of sixty-one new poems, the most ever in a single volume of Oliver's work, includes an entirely new direction in the poet's work: a cycle of eleven linked love poems-a dazzling achievement. As in all of Mary Oliver's work, the pages overflow with her keen observation of the natural world and her gratitude for its gifts, for the many people she has loved in her seventy years, as well as for her disobedient dog, Percy. But here, too, the poet's attention turns with ferocity to the degradation of the Earth and the denigration of the peoples of the world by those who love power. Red Bird is unquestionably Mary Oliver's most wide-ranging volume to date.
This collection of sixty-one new poems, the most ever in a single volume of Oliver's work, includes an entirely new direction in the poet's work: a cycle of eleven linked love poems-a dazzling achievement. As in all of Mary Oliver's work, the pages overflow with her keen observation of the natural world and her gratitude for its gifts, for the many people she has loved in her seventy years, as well as for her disobedient dog, Percy. But here, too, the poet's attention turns with ferocity to the degradation of the Earth and the denigration of the peoples of the world by those who love power. Red Bird is unquestionably Mary Oliver's most wide-ranging volume to date.
96 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2008
146 people are currently reading
3962 people want to read
About the author
Mary Oliver
104 books8,752 followersMary Jane Oliver was an American poet who won the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize. Her work is inspired by nature, rather than the human world, stemming from her lifelong passion for solitary walks in the wild.
Librarian Note: There is more than one author in the Goodreads database with this name. See this thread for more information.
Librarian Note: There is more than one author in the Goodreads database with this name. See this thread for more information.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 562 reviews
May 21, 2024
These poems were a calm relief at the end of the day. Whether it is the truth that comes from contemplating Nature or the emotion of a broken heart, Oliver's voice always sounds so true. There are so many classic poems here and as in all of her books (so far) each poem blends seamlessly into the next poem. I wanted to share the prose poem, Of the Empire.
Of the Empire
"We will be known as a culture that feared death and adored power, that tried to vanquish insecurity for the few and cared little for the penury of the many. We will be known as a culture that taught and rewarded the amassing of things, that spoke little if at all about the quality of life for people (other people), for dogs, for rivers. All the world, in our eyes, they will say, was a commodity. And they will say that this structure was held together politically, which it was, and they will say also that our politics was no more than an apparatus to accommodate the feelings of the heart, and that the heart, in those days, was small, and hard, and full of meanness."
Of the Empire
"We will be known as a culture that feared death and adored power, that tried to vanquish insecurity for the few and cared little for the penury of the many. We will be known as a culture that taught and rewarded the amassing of things, that spoke little if at all about the quality of life for people (other people), for dogs, for rivers. All the world, in our eyes, they will say, was a commodity. And they will say that this structure was held together politically, which it was, and they will say also that our politics was no more than an apparatus to accommodate the feelings of the heart, and that the heart, in those days, was small, and hard, and full of meanness."
November 3, 2021
03/11/2021: reread. my GOD it is a serious thing just to be alive on this fresh morning in this broken world!!!! i was halfway through listing my favorites before realizing the list covered just about every poem.
10/07/2020: every time i read poetry by mary oliver a flower blooms somewhere...!!!
“there you were, and it was like spring—
like the first fair water with the light on it, hitting the eyes.
why are we made the way we are made, that to love
is to want?”
favorites: maker of all things, even healing, there is a place beyond ambition, straight talk from fox, invitation, summer story, summer morning, of the empire, who said this? of goodness, & someday
10/07/2020: every time i read poetry by mary oliver a flower blooms somewhere...!!!
“there you were, and it was like spring—
like the first fair water with the light on it, hitting the eyes.
why are we made the way we are made, that to love
is to want?”
favorites: maker of all things, even healing, there is a place beyond ambition, straight talk from fox, invitation, summer story, summer morning, of the empire, who said this? of goodness, & someday
October 20, 2020
Her poems give me hope and strength. This collection didn't disappoint me but I feel some poems were written in a haste without giving much importance to what such lines would convey. But I like majority of the poems.
The soul of this collection is the message to save the Earth. And I much appreciate such messages and that through meaningful verses and lyrical lines.
The soul of this collection is the message to save the Earth. And I much appreciate such messages and that through meaningful verses and lyrical lines.
May 9, 2008
I read this a month or two ago in preparation for a reading last night -- I didn't quite know what to expect as I am somewhat new to Mary Oliver. Anyway, it was a beautiful night and an incredible reading. She was a bit older than I imagined and a bit more frail, but that is truly beside the point.
My original interpretation of the poems in Red Bird, perhaps due entirely to the way I read them, had a slight sensuality to them. Hearing Mary read aloud some of these poems (and from other collections) allowed me to hear them differently -- an overwhelming sense of love in Mary, grounded and a bit playful at times, but a simple and profound tenderness about the world she lives in. So beautiful.
My original interpretation of the poems in Red Bird, perhaps due entirely to the way I read them, had a slight sensuality to them. Hearing Mary read aloud some of these poems (and from other collections) allowed me to hear them differently -- an overwhelming sense of love in Mary, grounded and a bit playful at times, but a simple and profound tenderness about the world she lives in. So beautiful.
May 17, 2024
Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.
June 13, 2008
GO GET THIS BOOK!
Yeah,I'm yelling at you , reading the Sandra Brown! Hey!! Put down the James Patterson and get your hands on this!! It will rock your poetic world.
GO! While you are out, pick up a copy for me, so I don't "forget" to give this back to my friend.
Yeah,I'm yelling at you , reading the Sandra Brown! Hey!! Put down the James Patterson and get your hands on this!! It will rock your poetic world.
GO! While you are out, pick up a copy for me, so I don't "forget" to give this back to my friend.
January 13, 2016
sometimes - Mary Oliver
1.
Something came up
out of the dark.
It wasn’t anything I had ever seen before.
It wasn’t an animal
or a flower,
unless it was both.
Something came up out of the water,
a head the size of a cat
but muddy and without ears.
I don’t know what God is.
I don’t know what death is.
But I believe they have between them
some fervent and necessary arrangement.
2.
Sometime
melancholy leaves me breathless…
3.
Water from the heavens! Electricity from the source!
Both of them mad to create something!
The lighting brighter than any flower.
The thunder without a drowsy bone in its body.
4.
Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.
5.
Two or three times in my life I discovered love.
Each time it seemed to solve everything.
Each time it solved a great many things
but not everything.
Yet left me as grateful as if it had indeed, and
thoroughly, solved everything.
6.
God, rest in my heart
and fortify me,
take away my hunger for answers,
let the hours play upon my body
like the hands of my beloved.
Let the cathead appear again-
the smallest of your mysteries,
some wild cousin of my own blood probably-
some cousin of my own wild blood probably,
in the black dinner-bowl of the pond.
7.
Death waits for me, I know it, around
one corner or another.
This doesn’t amuse me.
Neither does it frighten me.
After the rain, I went back into the field of sunflowers.
It was cool, and I was anything but drowsy.
I walked slowly, and listened
to the crazy roots, in the drenched earth, laughing and growing.
Straight Talk From Fox
Listen says fox it is music to run
over the hills to lick
dew from the leaves to nose along
the edges of the ponds to smell the fat
ducks in their bright feathers but
far out, safe in their rafts of
sleep. It is like
music to visit the orchard, to find
the vole sucking the sweet of the apple, or the
rabbit with his fast-beating heart. Death itself
is a music. Nobody has ever come close to
writing it down, awake or in a dream. It cannot
be told. It is flesh and bones
changing shape and with good cause, mercy
is a little child beside such an invention. It is
music to wander the black back roads
outside of town no one awake or wondering
if anything miraculous is ever going to
happen, totally dumb to the fact of every
moment's miracle. Don't think I haven't
peeked into windows. I see you in all your seasons
making love, arguing, talking about God
as if he were an idea instead of the grass,
instead of the stars, the rabbit caught
in one good teeth-whacking hit and brought
home to the den. What I am, and I know it, is
responsible, joyful, thankful. I would not
give my life for a thousand of yours.
~ Mary Oliver ~
1.
Something came up
out of the dark.
It wasn’t anything I had ever seen before.
It wasn’t an animal
or a flower,
unless it was both.
Something came up out of the water,
a head the size of a cat
but muddy and without ears.
I don’t know what God is.
I don’t know what death is.
But I believe they have between them
some fervent and necessary arrangement.
2.
Sometime
melancholy leaves me breathless…
3.
Water from the heavens! Electricity from the source!
Both of them mad to create something!
The lighting brighter than any flower.
The thunder without a drowsy bone in its body.
4.
Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.
5.
Two or three times in my life I discovered love.
Each time it seemed to solve everything.
Each time it solved a great many things
but not everything.
Yet left me as grateful as if it had indeed, and
thoroughly, solved everything.
6.
God, rest in my heart
and fortify me,
take away my hunger for answers,
let the hours play upon my body
like the hands of my beloved.
Let the cathead appear again-
the smallest of your mysteries,
some wild cousin of my own blood probably-
some cousin of my own wild blood probably,
in the black dinner-bowl of the pond.
7.
Death waits for me, I know it, around
one corner or another.
This doesn’t amuse me.
Neither does it frighten me.
After the rain, I went back into the field of sunflowers.
It was cool, and I was anything but drowsy.
I walked slowly, and listened
to the crazy roots, in the drenched earth, laughing and growing.
Straight Talk From Fox
Listen says fox it is music to run
over the hills to lick
dew from the leaves to nose along
the edges of the ponds to smell the fat
ducks in their bright feathers but
far out, safe in their rafts of
sleep. It is like
music to visit the orchard, to find
the vole sucking the sweet of the apple, or the
rabbit with his fast-beating heart. Death itself
is a music. Nobody has ever come close to
writing it down, awake or in a dream. It cannot
be told. It is flesh and bones
changing shape and with good cause, mercy
is a little child beside such an invention. It is
music to wander the black back roads
outside of town no one awake or wondering
if anything miraculous is ever going to
happen, totally dumb to the fact of every
moment's miracle. Don't think I haven't
peeked into windows. I see you in all your seasons
making love, arguing, talking about God
as if he were an idea instead of the grass,
instead of the stars, the rabbit caught
in one good teeth-whacking hit and brought
home to the den. What I am, and I know it, is
responsible, joyful, thankful. I would not
give my life for a thousand of yours.
~ Mary Oliver ~
March 30, 2008
...and this is why I have been sent,
To teach this to your heart.
What a beautiful variety of poetry. I am new to Mary Oliver and can't wait to get my hands on more of her writing. She expresses love, appreciation for nature, gratitude, and even disappointment with those who are power hungry in a very flowing prose.
To teach this to your heart.
What a beautiful variety of poetry. I am new to Mary Oliver and can't wait to get my hands on more of her writing. She expresses love, appreciation for nature, gratitude, and even disappointment with those who are power hungry in a very flowing prose.
October 3, 2018
I read this book at first in pieces, picking poems like apples...one day Gala, the next Fuji. But then I read it front to back like a freaking fantastic feast and I am now...fully full.
April 13, 2021
IT IS A SERIOUS THING JUST TO BE ALIVE ON THIS FRESH MORNING IN THIS BROKEN WORLD
March 31, 2016
Deeply moving.
The poems made me cry (and I've never really cried over poetry before), or perhaps I just really needed them. I'm so glad I picked up this collection at just the right time: the time for deepening and quieting the spirit; for opening your life and opening your hands; for melancholy leaving you breathless; for apologizing for ever speaking of yourself as lonely; and, everything else that a tender heart could ruminate.
The poems made me cry (and I've never really cried over poetry before), or perhaps I just really needed them. I'm so glad I picked up this collection at just the right time: the time for deepening and quieting the spirit; for opening your life and opening your hands; for melancholy leaving you breathless; for apologizing for ever speaking of yourself as lonely; and, everything else that a tender heart could ruminate.
September 15, 2022
3.5
A little too religious for my taste but oh do I admire Mary Oliver's passion. She is a trailblazer in a calm sort of way. A lover of nature and life. It felt like talking to a very warm and accepting grandmother.
A little too religious for my taste but oh do I admire Mary Oliver's passion. She is a trailblazer in a calm sort of way. A lover of nature and life. It felt like talking to a very warm and accepting grandmother.
March 13, 2019
Mary Oliver is the best pick me up.
August 28, 2022
whenever i read mary oliver i am just left with such a calm, gentle, beautiful feeling i cannot even name.
June 18, 2019
Truly remarkable.
Invitation perhaps is my favorite poem of the collection, but I simply love her worldview and how it translates into her poetics.
Invitation perhaps is my favorite poem of the collection, but I simply love her worldview and how it translates into her poetics.
May 26, 2024
I’m reading poetry to avoid my studies
June 19, 2021
I do not currently have the tools to write a terribly insightful, objective review of a book of Mary Oliver's poetry as I wish that I did - perhaps I get closer to that with each volume I read? This I will say in an effort to get closer to that small goal: Mary Oliver's poems have a special ability to touch the soul, not only our own, but the soul of life, of every living thing and to illuminate our relationship to each other. In any form I have never encountered someone who understands and effectively communicates the human relationship to the world as a whole, a relationship that far too many among us simply miss and do not even know exists. I'm tempted to make reference to the poem "Invitation" (found in this book) that made me stop in my tracks and say simply, "Yes." But the message of the last poem in this volume, "Red Bird Explains Himself," might sum up this message and this book best, wherein Oliver via the Red Bird states:
"And this was my true task, to be the
music of the body. Do you understand? for truly the body needs
a song, a spirit, a soul. And no less, to make this work,
the soul has need of a body.
and I am both of the earth and I am of the inexplicable
beauty of heaven
where I fly so easily, so welcome, yes
and this is why I have been sent, to teach this to your heart."
"And this was my true task, to be the
music of the body. Do you understand? for truly the body needs
a song, a spirit, a soul. And no less, to make this work,
the soul has need of a body.
and I am both of the earth and I am of the inexplicable
beauty of heaven
where I fly so easily, so welcome, yes
and this is why I have been sent, to teach this to your heart."
November 7, 2016
While rereading the lovely poems in Red Bird, I’m reminded once again why Mary Oliver is certainly one of the greatest American poets since Robert Frost. She is an inspiring and visionary poet who quests after the essential matters of the heart and soul. She is a sage in her understanding of sorrow and joy and of investigating what it means to be human. She is the quintessential poet in search of capturing the beauty and meaning of life, or more aptly how to understand her mortality in relation to the world around her. In dealing with life through all its triumphs and failures, Oliver writes verse that leaps off the page. Her voice is full of immediacy, euphoria, gratitude, compassion, and love. She expresses her reverence for life as something astonishing, as something to cherish, and as something that can only be comprehended through the profundity of grief and love.
September 28, 2022
This was the third Mary Oliver collection that I’ve read, and out it three this was the one I liked best. By which I mean there were maybe 3-5 poems in total that I kind of liked.
Read
May 6, 2024“it is a serious thing just to be alive on this fresh morning in this broken world.”
July 1, 2025
"So come to the pond,
or the river of your imagination,
or the harbor of your longing,
and put your lips to the world.
And live
your life."
I spent last week in Massachusetts. With my family, I rambled across clamshell covered shores, hunted down graves of favorite authors in hilltop graveyards, and walked cobblestone city blocks brimming with history. My constant companion was this poetry collection by Massachusetts poet Mary Oliver.
"Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it."
I can't count how many times I've read this slim volume in the two months since I got it. Mary Oliver is hands down my favorite poet. Everything she writes is beautiful.
"So every day
I was surrounded by the beautiful crying forth of the ideas of God,
one of which was you."
or the river of your imagination,
or the harbor of your longing,
and put your lips to the world.
And live
your life."
I spent last week in Massachusetts. With my family, I rambled across clamshell covered shores, hunted down graves of favorite authors in hilltop graveyards, and walked cobblestone city blocks brimming with history. My constant companion was this poetry collection by Massachusetts poet Mary Oliver.
"Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it."
I can't count how many times I've read this slim volume in the two months since I got it. Mary Oliver is hands down my favorite poet. Everything she writes is beautiful.
"So every day
I was surrounded by the beautiful crying forth of the ideas of God,
one of which was you."
July 15, 2018
These poems are intimate astonishments, wonders of tender love for the world closely observed and its interplay with spirit - especially a spirit of song, whether in sorrow or confusion in aging and death of a loved one, or in rejoicing for the beauty and providence of the day. Her poems delight me! I've been searching for good writing that is both serious and uplifting, life-embracing -- and -- among living authors -- I found Mary Oliver.
Not This, Not That seems to be Mary Oliver's own, earthly take on St. Paul's litany "nothing can separate us from the love of God" -- expanded to embrace the love of everyone and everything else she loves.
Not This, Not That
Nor anything,
not the eastern wind whose other name is rain,
nor the burning heats of the dunes at the crown of summer,
nor the ticks, that new, ferocious populace,
not the President who loves blood,
nor the governmental agencies that love money,
will alter
my love for you, my friends and my beloved,
or for you, oh ghosts of Emerson and Whitman,
or for you, oh blue sky of a summer morning,
that makes me roll in a barrel of gratitude down hills,
or for you, oldest of friends: hope;
or for you, newest of friends, faith;
or for you, silliest and dearest of surprises, my own life.
Several poems take the imagined point of view of an animal -- often a bird or a fox -- familiar poetic tropes that Mary knows as animals through many years of walking and watching in the woods and and open land around her New England home. In Straight Talk from the Fox she calls out civilized humans in our separation from the fearful ways of nature in their wonder and joy.
Listen says the fox it is music to run
over the hills to lick
dew from the leaves to nose along
the edges of the pond to smell the fat
ducks in their bright feathers but
far out, safe in their rafts of
sleep. It is like
music to visit the orchard, to find
the vole sucking the sweet of the apple, or the
rabbit with his fast-beating heart. Death itself
is a music. Nobody has ever come close to
writing it down, awake or in a dream. It cannot
be told. It is flesh and bones
changing shape and with good cause, mercy
is a little child beside such an invention. It is
music to wander the black back roads
outside of town no one awake or wondering
if anything miraculous is ever going to
happen, totally dumb to the fact of every
moment's miracle. Don't think I haven't
peeked into your windows. I see you in all your seasons
making love, arguing, talking about God
as if he were an idea instead of the grass,
instead of the stars, the rabbit caught
in one good teeth-whacking hit and brought
home to its den. What I am, and I know it, is
responsible, joyful, thankful. I would not
give my life for a thousand of yours.
I love this poem. It may be the strongest in the book, it lodges in the mind and won't leave, breathtaking and wonderful and terrible in the ancient sense of the word, in its celebration of this wild aliveness -- and the hunt. On some level this poem terrifies me -- to say that mercy is lesser?
The ways of the fox are not ours -- no, her poems point out, ours are much worse. In Iraq she laments
I want to sing a song
for a body I saw
crumpled
and without a name
but clearly someone young
who had not yet lived his life
and never would.
How shall I do this?
And in Red, she relates her first encounter with a gray fox:
I wanted to see
gray fox.
Finally I found him.
He was in the highway.
He was singing
his death song.
I picked him up
and carried him
into a field
while the cars kept coming.
He showed me
how he could ripple
how he could bleed.
Goodbye I said
to the light of his eye
as the cars went by.
(This hits me personally -- living in a semi-rural area where I frequently take very long walks, I see many, oh so many bodies of animals killed on the road, so many that I wonder how many were hit on purpose.)
The Red Bird himself begins and ends the book and is sighted throughout, a light in the winter landscape of age, of Mary Oliver's loss of her lifelong partner. In Eleven Versions of the Same Poem, her cycle on love and loss, he makes his appearance -- as inspiration -- in I will try
I will try.
I will step from the house to see what I see
and hear and I will praise it.
I did not come into this world
to be comforted.
I came, like the red bird, to sing.
And in Red Bird Explains Himself
And this was my true task, to be the
music of the body.
The book ends with several poems of great interior peace-making and the difficult and hard won path of acceptance.
Someday
Even the oldest of the trees continues its wonderful labor.
Hummingbird lives in one of them.
He's there for the white blossoms, and the secrecy.
The blossoms could be snow, with a dash of pink.
At first the fruit is small and green and hard.
Everything has dreams, hope, ambition.
If I could I would always live in such shining obedience
where nothing but the wind trims the boughs.
I am sorry for every mistake I have made in my life.
I'm sorry I wasn't wiser sooner.
I'm sorry I ever spoke of myself as lonely.
Oh, love, lay your hands upon me again.
Some of the fruit ripens and is picked and is delicious.
Some of it falls and the ants are delighted.
Some of it hides under the snow and the famished deer are saved.
Amen, Ms. Oliver, Amen. Your work is needed. I need it.
4.5/5
Not This, Not That seems to be Mary Oliver's own, earthly take on St. Paul's litany "nothing can separate us from the love of God" -- expanded to embrace the love of everyone and everything else she loves.
Not This, Not That
Nor anything,
not the eastern wind whose other name is rain,
nor the burning heats of the dunes at the crown of summer,
nor the ticks, that new, ferocious populace,
not the President who loves blood,
nor the governmental agencies that love money,
will alter
my love for you, my friends and my beloved,
or for you, oh ghosts of Emerson and Whitman,
or for you, oh blue sky of a summer morning,
that makes me roll in a barrel of gratitude down hills,
or for you, oldest of friends: hope;
or for you, newest of friends, faith;
or for you, silliest and dearest of surprises, my own life.
Several poems take the imagined point of view of an animal -- often a bird or a fox -- familiar poetic tropes that Mary knows as animals through many years of walking and watching in the woods and and open land around her New England home. In Straight Talk from the Fox she calls out civilized humans in our separation from the fearful ways of nature in their wonder and joy.
Listen says the fox it is music to run
over the hills to lick
dew from the leaves to nose along
the edges of the pond to smell the fat
ducks in their bright feathers but
far out, safe in their rafts of
sleep. It is like
music to visit the orchard, to find
the vole sucking the sweet of the apple, or the
rabbit with his fast-beating heart. Death itself
is a music. Nobody has ever come close to
writing it down, awake or in a dream. It cannot
be told. It is flesh and bones
changing shape and with good cause, mercy
is a little child beside such an invention. It is
music to wander the black back roads
outside of town no one awake or wondering
if anything miraculous is ever going to
happen, totally dumb to the fact of every
moment's miracle. Don't think I haven't
peeked into your windows. I see you in all your seasons
making love, arguing, talking about God
as if he were an idea instead of the grass,
instead of the stars, the rabbit caught
in one good teeth-whacking hit and brought
home to its den. What I am, and I know it, is
responsible, joyful, thankful. I would not
give my life for a thousand of yours.
I love this poem. It may be the strongest in the book, it lodges in the mind and won't leave, breathtaking and wonderful and terrible in the ancient sense of the word, in its celebration of this wild aliveness -- and the hunt. On some level this poem terrifies me -- to say that mercy is lesser?
The ways of the fox are not ours -- no, her poems point out, ours are much worse. In Iraq she laments
I want to sing a song
for a body I saw
crumpled
and without a name
but clearly someone young
who had not yet lived his life
and never would.
How shall I do this?
And in Red, she relates her first encounter with a gray fox:
I wanted to see
gray fox.
Finally I found him.
He was in the highway.
He was singing
his death song.
I picked him up
and carried him
into a field
while the cars kept coming.
He showed me
how he could ripple
how he could bleed.
Goodbye I said
to the light of his eye
as the cars went by.
(This hits me personally -- living in a semi-rural area where I frequently take very long walks, I see many, oh so many bodies of animals killed on the road, so many that I wonder how many were hit on purpose.)
The Red Bird himself begins and ends the book and is sighted throughout, a light in the winter landscape of age, of Mary Oliver's loss of her lifelong partner. In Eleven Versions of the Same Poem, her cycle on love and loss, he makes his appearance -- as inspiration -- in I will try
I will try.
I will step from the house to see what I see
and hear and I will praise it.
I did not come into this world
to be comforted.
I came, like the red bird, to sing.
And in Red Bird Explains Himself
And this was my true task, to be the
music of the body.
The book ends with several poems of great interior peace-making and the difficult and hard won path of acceptance.
Someday
Even the oldest of the trees continues its wonderful labor.
Hummingbird lives in one of them.
He's there for the white blossoms, and the secrecy.
The blossoms could be snow, with a dash of pink.
At first the fruit is small and green and hard.
Everything has dreams, hope, ambition.
If I could I would always live in such shining obedience
where nothing but the wind trims the boughs.
I am sorry for every mistake I have made in my life.
I'm sorry I wasn't wiser sooner.
I'm sorry I ever spoke of myself as lonely.
Oh, love, lay your hands upon me again.
Some of the fruit ripens and is picked and is delicious.
Some of it falls and the ants are delighted.
Some of it hides under the snow and the famished deer are saved.
Amen, Ms. Oliver, Amen. Your work is needed. I need it.
4.5/5
December 20, 2023
Every time I read Mary Oliver's poetry it leaves my soul in a happier, more peaceful state than it was before. Is it possible that reading poetry is how I best connect with God?
August 3, 2024
4.5 stars!!! I love Mary Oliver so much🫶🏻
March 7, 2024
Lo lei al frente de lagos en Neuquen, pisando el pehuen mapu.
Excelente prologo. Lindos poemas.
Muy lindo leerlo al frente de la naturaleza infinita, ser parte, pisar, estar.
Gracias.
Excelente prologo. Lindos poemas.
Muy lindo leerlo al frente de la naturaleza infinita, ser parte, pisar, estar.
Gracias.
June 16, 2024
Oops! I usually try to savor a book of poetry, but I accidentally read this cover-to-cover in one sitting. No regrets.
July 27, 2025
Found me just when I needed it most.
August 9, 2020
“So come to the pond,
or the river of your imagination,
or the harbor of your longing,
and put your lips to the world.
And live
your life.”
1 Sentence Summary: A collection of poems by Mary Oliver about love, life, nature, and the world.
My Thoughts: Beautiful! I absolutely adore Mary Oliver’s poetry. It’s so gorgeous. So this review will just be a collection of my favorite quotes because they speak for themselves.
“let me abide in your shadow—
let me hold on
to the edge of your robe
as you determine
what you must let be lost
and what will be saved.”
“It is a serious thing
just to be alive
on this fresh morning
in this broken world.”
“Watching a Documentary about Polar Bears Trying to Survive on the Melting Ice Floes
That God had a plan, I do not doubt.
But what if his plan was, that we would do better?”
“Oh, love, lay your hands upon me again.
Some of the fruit ripens and is picked and is delicious.
Some of it falls and the ants are delighted.
Some of it hides under the snow and the famished deer are saved.”
“So every day
I was surrounded by the beautiful crying forth
of the ideas of God,
one of which was you.”
“Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.”
Recommend to: Poetry fans.
September 10, 2022
Invitation
Oh do you have time
to linger
for just a little while
out of your busy
and very important day
for the goldfinches
that have gathered
in a field of thistles
for a musical battle,
to see who can sing
the highest note,
or the lowest,
or the most expressive of mirth,
or the most tender?
Their strong, blunt beaks
drink the air
as they strive
melodiously
not for your sake
and not for mine
and not for the sake of winning
but for sheer delight and gratitude –
believe us, they say,
it is a serious thing
just to be alive
on this fresh morning
in this broken world.
I beg of you,
do not walk by
without pausing
to attend to this
rather ridiculous performance.
It could mean something.
It could mean everything.
It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:
You must change your life.
Oh do you have time
to linger
for just a little while
out of your busy
and very important day
for the goldfinches
that have gathered
in a field of thistles
for a musical battle,
to see who can sing
the highest note,
or the lowest,
or the most expressive of mirth,
or the most tender?
Their strong, blunt beaks
drink the air
as they strive
melodiously
not for your sake
and not for mine
and not for the sake of winning
but for sheer delight and gratitude –
believe us, they say,
it is a serious thing
just to be alive
on this fresh morning
in this broken world.
I beg of you,
do not walk by
without pausing
to attend to this
rather ridiculous performance.
It could mean something.
It could mean everything.
It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:
You must change your life.
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