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| ©2015 Ravenna Taylor, Wichechoke Creek, Delaware Township, New Jersey |
Evidence
Mary Oliver
1
Where
do I live? If I had no address, as many people
do
not, I could nevertheless say that I lived in the
same
town as the lilies of the field, and the still
waters.
Spring,
and all through the neighborhood now there are
strong
men tending flowers.
Beauty
without purpose is beauty without virtue. But
all
beautiful things, inherently, have this function—
to
excite the viewers toward sublime thought. Glory
to
the world, that good teacher.
Among
the swans there is none called the least, or
the
greatest.
I
believe in kindness. Also in mischief. Also in
singing,
especially when singing is not necessarily
prescribed.
As
for the body, it is solid and strong and curious
and
full of detail; it wants to polish itself; it
wants
to love another body; it is the only vessel in
the
world that can hold, in a mix of power and
sweetness:
words, song, gesture, passion, ideas,
ingenuity,
devotion, merriment, vanity, and virtue.
Keep
some room in your heart for the unimaginable.
2
There
are many ways to perish, or to flourish.
How
old pain, for example, can stall us at the
threshold
of function.
Memory:
a golden bowl, or a basement without light.
For
which reason the nightmare comes with its
painful
story and says: you need to know this.
Some
memories I would give anything to forget.
Others
I would not give up upon the point of
death,
they are the bright hawks of my life.
Still,
friends, consider stone, that is without
the
fret of gravity, and water that is without
anxiety.
And
the pine trees that never forget their
recipe
for renewal.
And
the female wood duck who is looking this way
and
that way for her children. And the snapping
turtle
who is looking this way and that way also.
This
is the world.
And
consider, always, every day, the determination
of
the grass to grow despite the unending obstacles.
3
I
ask you again: if you have not been enchanted by
this
adventure—your life—what would do for
you?
And,
where are you, with your ears bagged down
as
if with packets of sand? Listen. We all
have
much more listening to do. Tear the sand
away.
And listen. The river is singing.
What
blackboard could ever be invented that
could
hold all the zeros of eternity?
Let
me put it this way—if you disdain the
cobbler
may I assume you walk barefoot?
Last
week I met the so-called deranged man
who
lives in the woods. He was walking with
great
care, so as not to step on any small,
living
thing.
For
myself, I have walked in these woods for
more
than forty years, and I am the only
thing,
it seems, that is about to be used up.
Or,
to be less extravagant, will, in the
foreseeable
future, be used up.
First,
though, I want to step out into some
fresh
morning and look around and hear myself
crying
out: "The house of money is
falling! The house of money is falling! The weeds are rising!
The weeds are
rising!"
From the collection "Evidence," ©2009 Mary Oliver, Beacon Press
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| ©2015 Ravenna Taylor, "Glimmer," oil on paper with collaged fabric, 22.5 x 27 inches - see more: www.abartonline.com |
