![]() Had it not been for Mary Oliver, I might never have read another poem after 11th grade English. My teacher drained any appreciation I had mustered for poetry by analyzing the heck out of every poem we encountered. What's the meter, rhyme scheme, tone, imagery? Iambic pentameter is forever etched in my memory. Roughly 25 years passed without a poem gracing my life. Then a friend placed a Mary Oliver poem in a birthday card. I don't recall which poem, or which line, drew me in and made me feel that Mary had written it just for me, that poetry could connect to the depths of who I was or what I believed. Perhaps it was. . . "...Sometimes I need only to stand wherever I am to be blessed." (It Was Early) OR "...and there was a new voice which you slowly recognized as your own, that kept you company as you strode deeper and deeper into the world, determined to do the only thing you could do -- determined to save the only life that you could save." (The Journey) OR "...Well, the whole afternoon went on that way until I thought I could feel the almost born things in the earth rejoicing. As for myself, I just kept walking, thinking: once more I am grateful to be present." (Just Rain) OR a myriad of others. More years passed, and Mary and her poetry became my friends. I bought her books. I underlined her words. Iambic pentameter never once crossed my mind. Then I heard that Mary was coming to town – to NYC – where we happened to be living at the time, to read her poetry. Mary was in her seventies then, with hair whiter than my own, but the opportunity to see her in person felt like scoring a ticket to a rock star's sold out concert. Following her reading at the 92nd Street Y, my friend Margie and I stood in a long, meandering line to get Mary's signature in her latest book of poetry. We were instructed to have our books open to the title page so Mary could sign quickly. She was tired, we were told, and eager to leave. My profusive speech of awe and gratitude dwindled to two words as Mary and I momentarily touched the book together. "Thank you," I said, hoping that my sincere gaze and attempts at telepathy would fill in the gaps, that she would somehow intuit her monumental influence on my life. Mary died last week. I knew she was in poor health, but the news hit me like an impossibility. Somehow, I believed that Mary would never die, like other writers whose words stretch beyond their years to speak just to me. I cried as I read one of her poems after another. Then as the tears stopped, I found myself on the final lines of I Am Standing.
". . . and something somewhere inside my own unmusical self begins humming: thanks for the beauty of the world. Thanks for my life." Amen!
2 Comments
Nola
2/4/2019 02:01:19 pm
Thanks for sharing. I remember your love of her poetry and when I heard about her passing, I instantly thought of you and how difficult that would be for you, almost like losing a friend. Thank you for sharing your thoughts and her written words.
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After writing my books, Labyrinth Journeys ~ 50 States, 51 Stories and The Power of Bread, I knew I wasn't finished writing, or journeying. Please join me as I continue both and see where they lead me (and you!) ~Twylla Alexander |