I’m parched. The most terrible thing about this work is that I bought it. Mary Oliver brings the concept of trite to a brand new level of skill. There were several instances throughout reading her work that I wanted desperately to rip out my eyes. This sentiment came with all sorts of guilt as well because this is supposedly her grand work of spiritual expression and exploration and typically that’s a labor I can appreciate. However, there’s something obnoxious about some people when they first “catch fire”, so to speak. They have a tendency to regurgitate century upon century of typical reactions to a spiritual life –and that’s all well and good because they find their own voice eventually. But I’m certain that a poet should never ever publish themselves in this state of being. Mary Oliver is about six years off of a good spiritual poem.

Mozart, for Example” – p. 12

All the quick notes

Mozart didn’t have time to use

before he entered the cloud-boat

are falling now from the beaks

of the finches

that have gathered from the joyous summer

into the hard winter

and, like Mozart, they speak of nothing

but light and delight,

though it is true, the heavy blades of the world

are still pounding underneath.

And this is what you can do too, maybe,

if you live simply and with a lyrical heart

in the cumbered neighborhoods or even,

as Mozart sometimes managed to, in a palace,

offering tune after tune after tune,

making some hard-hearted prince

prudent and kind, just by being happy.

But was Mozart happy? His music certainly makes us happy!

“The Vast Ocean Begins Just Outside Our Church: The Eucharist” – p. 24

Something has happened

to the bread

and the wine.

They have been blessed.

What now?

The body leans forward

to receive the gift

from the priest’s hand,

then the chalice.

They are something else now

From what they were

Before this began.

I want

to see Jesus,

maybe in the clouds

or on the shore,

Just walking,

Beautiful man

and clearly

Someone else

Besides.

On the hard days

I ask myself

if I ever will.

Also there are times

my body whispers to me

that I have.

“Logan International” – p. 48

In the city called Wait,

also known as the airport,

you might think about your life –

there is not much else to do.

For one thing,

there is too much luggage,

and you’re truly lugging it –

you and, it seems, everyone.

What is it, that you need so badly?

Think about this.

Earlier, in another city,

you’re on the tarmac, a lost hour.

You’re going to miss your connection, and you know it,

and you do.

You’re headed for five hours of nothing.

And how long can you think about your own life?

What I did, to save myself,

was to look for children, the very young ones

who couldn’t even know where they were going, or why.

Some of them were fussing, of course.

Many of them were beautifully Hispanic.

The storm was still busy outside, and snow falling

anywhere, any time, is a wonder.

But even more wonderful, and maybe the only thing

to put your own life in proportion,

were the babies, the little ones, hot and tired

but still

gurgling, chuckling, as they looked –

wherever they were going, or not yet going,

in their weary parents’ arms (no!

their lucky parents arms)—

upon this broken world.
( )

As always, beautifully written. Different than in previous volumes, Oliver directs her poems -her prayers - directly to God. She successfully places her great love of the world in the context of her love for God, yet doesn't discount a universal understanding of faith. ( )

I have a couple of collections of Mary Oliver's poems. Despite the fact that this is written as she mourns the loss of her partner of 40 some years, this collection seems less preoccupied with death than the earlier collections.
There are some beautiful pieces of hope and faith is this collection. ( )

Oliver's tribute to her deceased partner. ( )