Mary Oliver gone

Mary Oliver died yesterday of cancer but of 'a good age' having been born in 1935. She was an unpretentious poet of the natural world.  She shared her observations with a sensitivity to how the words sounded, and worked to make those words be an echo of the true voice of the world in which she chose to immerse herself.
"the world offers itself to your imagination / calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting" . . . In Blackwater Woods.

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 voices 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 you could save.

The Journey with pictures.