Not too long ago, I decided to spend my Sunday morning sipping coffee and reading poetry. It turns out, this book was just the right thing for me to read.

I don’t read poetry all that often. Probably the last complete book I read was Oliver’s Dream Work. This didn’t have a “Wild Geese” or “The Journey” in it, but it did have have moments that caught me, and poems that made me stop and think and reread and feel.

Some of the lines that grabbed me were:

“To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.” (from “Yes! No!”)

“perfectly finished, perfectly heartbroken, perfectly wild” (the last line from “In Pobiddy, Georgia”)

“I’m going to be happy, and frivolous, and useful.” (from “Fletcher Oak”)

I lingered over different poems: “Hummingbirds” and “Snails”, “Porcupine”, “The Pinewoods”, “December”. Looking at that list of titles, I realize that though I am a city person now, I did grow up in the country, and something in Oliver’s writing speaks to my early (and continued) wonder at the the animals and plants around me.

And because I can’t help but quote one more thing I loved, I’ll share this from “At the Lake”:

Inside every mind
there’s a hermit’s cave
full of light,

full of snow,
full of concentration.

One thing I think I’ve learned is that I should set aside more mornings to sip coffee and read poetry. It seems, now that I think about it, a necessary luxury.

I’ve written about a book of poetry only once before: Mary Oliver’s Dream Work. This is because I don’t read books of poetry often, and because it seems harder to write about poetry. I will concede it might get less difficult if worked at reading more poetry, writing about poetry more often, and letting go of any worries about whether or not I sound like I know what I’m doing.

Which means I probably shouldn’t admit I was drawn to this bright yellow book because of the one-eared bunny on the cover. In my defense, not only did I not put the book down when I realized it was poetry, I even recognized and was happy to see James Tate blurbing it. (I like his short stories.) Flipping through the pages, I came to this:

I must convince you that while
it’s true I have the face of a human,
this does not make me a centaur,
manticore, or great Icelandic king.
I’m sure you’re full of questions,
such as Have you heard we are
surrounded by daffodils of normal
proportions? And all I can tell you
is that yes, we are surrounded,
by daffodils, perhaps, but even
more so we are swimming in an air
that’s been touched here and there
with the kind of dust that, once
lit up, won’t let the swimmers go

So I decided I needed to take the book home.

I liked the book. I can’t really explain the poems, yet I know I’ll read them all again.

I can’t remember the last time I read an entire book of poetry. I know it’s been a very long time, but something about how “Wild Geese” struck me when I read it in a blog post compelled me to find and read more of Oliver’s work.

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.

Now, I’m lucky because in my case find meant simply asking, “Hey honey, do we have any Oliver? Do you have the one with ‘Wild Geese’ in it?”

I think it was the opening line, the statement “You do not have to be good.” Oh, and way it paired with “You only have to let the soft animal of your body / love what it loves” that grabbed me, that forced me to pay attention in that way that only happens when lines reverberate as true in my mind.

There were other moments like that for me in the book. “Dogfish” was one, and since it was the first poem in the book, that kept me going:

I wanted
the past to go away, I wanted
to leave it, like another country; I wanted
my life to close, and open
like hinge, like a wing, like the part of the song
    where it falls
down over the rocks: an explosion, a discovery;
    I wanted
to hurry into the work of my life; I wanted to know,

whoever I was, I was

“Dogfish” also has these quietly vivid lines about the fish. I could so easily see them, a few feet down in the water, not knowing they were in trouble.

Oliver takes other poets to task in “Members of the Tribe”. In “The Waves” (Surely the sea / is the most beautiful fact / in our universe, but / you won’t find a fisherman / who will say so) she reminds us what the ocean really is, and is about (everything is here / that you could ever imagine). “The Journey” presented yet another “Wild Geese”-like moment for me, and made me realize reading more poetry (okay, if I’m truly honest, stopping the almost reflexive response of deliberately not reading poetry) is something I would enjoy doing.

The mental energy I use in reading poetry is different than I use in reading stories (of facts or fiction) and I think I’ll value that the more often I experience it. Oliver was certainly a worthwhile place to start, after so long. Highly recommended.