the poetry of Mary Oliver

[BrianLCrabtree]

As I prepare for my third trip to the Way, departing from Arles on 9 August 2024, I've enjoyed a few of Mary Oliver's poems. She was an American poet who loved walking in the outdoors, in nature. She experienced heartbreak and trauma early in life, so time in nature and writing were therapeutic for her. As far as I know, she did not walk the Camino de Santiago, but as a pilgrim on the Way, her writing strikes me as worthwhile reading. Among many of her poems, I love this one, called Wild Geese.

“You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.”

Bon Chemin, Buen Camino, everybody.

 

[Tincatinker]

I always loved this stanza from The Summer Day: "Tell me, what is it you plan to do. With your one wild and precious life?"

 

[rainswift]

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice --
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voice behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
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.

- Mary Oliver

Buen Camino on your journeys, everyone.

 

[VNwalking]

The Journey

That's one of my favorites.

Here's another, a prose poem:

I OWN A HOUSE
I own a house, small but comfortable. In it is a bed, a desk, a kitchen, a closet, a telephone. And so forth—you know how it is: things collect.

Outside the summer clouds are drifting by, all of them with vague and beautiful faces. And there are the pines that bush out spicy and ambitious, although they do not even know their names. And there is the mockingbird; over and over he rises from his thorn-tree and dances—he actually dances, in the air. And there are days I wish I owned nothing, like the grass.

 

[davejsy]

Tell me, what is it you plan to do. With your one wild and precious life?

One of my favourites.

 

[AR1965]

As I prepare for my third trip to the Way, departing from Arles on 9 August 2024, I've enjoyed a few of Mary Oliver's poems. She was an American poet who loved walking in the outdoors, in nature. She experienced heartbreak and trauma early in life, so time in nature and writing were therapeutic for her. As far as I know, she did not walk the Camino de Santiago, but as a pilgrim on the Way, her writing strikes me as worthwhile reading. Among many of her poems, I love this one, called Wild Geese.

“You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.”

Bon Chemin, Buen Camino, everybody.

Oh!!! This is my absolute favorite poem of all time! I shared this just a couple of days ago with a dear Camino friend of mine while we were in León. I can’t think of a better poem to describe the Camino.

 

[artsschmidt]

I think the title to that poem is Wild Geese. The most amazing woman read that to me this year on the meseta.

 

[rainswift]

This poem by Geneen Marie Haugen also brings to mind the same feelings.

It is called:

The Return

Some day, if you are lucky,
you’ll return from a thunderous journey
trailing snake scales, wing fragments
and the musk of Earth and moon.

Eyes will examine you for signs
of damage, or change
and you, too, will wonder
if your skin shows traces

of fur, or leaves,
if thrushes have built a nest
of your hair, if Andromeda
burns from your eyes.

Do not be surprised by prickly questions
from those who barely inhabit
their own fleeting lives, who barely taste
their own possibility, who barely dream.

If your hands are empty, treasureless,
if your toes have not grown claws,
if your obedient voice has not
become a wild cry, a howl,

you will reassure them. We warned you,
they might declare, there is nothing else,
no point, no meaning, no mystery at all,
just this frantic waiting to die.

And yet, they tremble, mute,
afraid you’ve returned without sweet
elixir for unspeakable thirst, without
a fluent dance or holy language

to teach them, without a compass
bearing to a forgotten border where
no one crosses without weeping
for the terrible beauty of galaxies

and granite and bone. They tremble,
hoping your lips hold a secret,
that the song your body now sings
will redeem them, yet they fear

your secret is dangerous, shattering,
and once it flies from your astonished
mouth, they-like you-must disintegrate
before unfolding tremulous wings.

- Geneen Marie Haugen

 

[haikutaxi]

As I prepare for my third trip to the Way, departing from Arles on 9 August 2024, I've enjoyed a few of Mary Oliver's poems. She was an American poet who loved walking in the outdoors, in nature. She experienced heartbreak and trauma early in life, so time in nature and writing were therapeutic for her. As far as I know, she did not walk the Camino de Santiago, but as a pilgrim on the Way, her writing strikes me as worthwhile reading. Among many of her poems, I love this one, called Wild Geese.

“You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.”

Bon Chemin, Buen Camino, everybody.

I have many books of Mary Oliver's poetry and frequently encountered her walking on the bay beach in Provincetown and in Beech Forest. Silent greetings, a meeting of the eyes, a meeting of the minds and a shy smile as we each went our solitary way. Fond memories.