West Wind: Poems and Prose Poems

by Mary Oliver

Then the wind fluttered its wrists, a sweet music as usual, though as usual I could not tell whether it was about caring or not caring that it tossed itself around, in the boughs of light, and sang.

and I thought how I meant to live a quiet life how I meant to live a life of mildness and meditation tapping the careful words against each other

What joy was it, that almost found me? What amiable peace?

What can we do but keep on breathing in and out, modest and willing, and in our places?

Even as the darkness has remained the pure, deep darkness. Even as the stars have twirled a little, while I stood here, looking up, one hot sentence after another.

And have you made inquiry yet as to what the poetry of this world is about? For what purpose do we seek it, and ponder it, and give it such value?

Language is, in other words, not necessary, but voluntary. If it were necessary, it would have stayed simple; it would not agitate our hearts with ever-present loveliness and ever-cresting ambiguity; it would not dream, on its long white bones, of turning into song.

Beauty can die all right— but don’t you worry, from utter darkness— since opposites are, finally, the same— comes light’s snowy field.

How the sky flares and grows brighter, all the time! How time extends!

If you think daylight is just daylight then it is just daylight.

This is my life, thinking of the darkness to follow.

I am stopped as the world comes back wet and beautiful I am thinking that language is not even a river is not a tree is not a green field is not even a black ant traveling briskly modestly from day to day from one golden page to another.

Was it alive? Of course it was alive.

There are days when I rise from my desk desolate.

And, therefore, let the immeasurable come. Let the unknowable touch the buckle of my spine.

How could I look at anything in this world and tremble, and grip my hands over my heart? What should I fear?

Here is the beautiful Nothing, body of happy, meaningless fire, wildfire, shaking the heart.

If there is life after the earth-life, will you come with me? Even then? Since we’re bound to be something, why not together.

You are young. So you know everything.

Without fanfare, without embarrassment, without any doubt, I talk directly to your soul.

And the speck of my heart, in my shed of flesh and bone, began to sing out, the way the sun would sing if the sun could sing, if light had a mouth and a tongue, if the sky had a throat, if god wasn’t just an idea but shoulders and a spine, gathered from everywhere, even the most distant planets, blazing up.

Who made your tyrant’s body, your thirst, your delving, your gladness? Oh tiger, oh bone-breaker, oh tree on fire! Get away from me. Come closer.

But how did you come burning down like a wild needle, knowing just where my heart was?

what will you say about the roses— their sighing, their tossing— and the want of the heart, and the trill of the heart, and the burning mouth of the wind?

I love this poet, which means nothing here or there, but is like a garden in my heart.

I am thinking of you. I am always thinking of you.

Do you think this world is only an entertainment for you?

Who can open the door who does not reach for the latch? Who can travel the miles who does not put one foot in front of the other, all attentive to what presents itself continually? Who will behold the inner chamber who has not observed with admiration, even with rapture, the outer stone?

And who will care, who will chide you if you wander away from wherever you are, to look for your soul?

Only last week I went out among the thorns and said to the wild roses: deny me not, but suffer my devotion.