...whoever you are, not matter how lonely the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh & exciting - over & over announcing your place in the family of things. Mary Oliver More Quotes by Mary Oliver More Quotes From Mary Oliver The face of the moose is as sad as the face of Jesus. Mary Oliver moose faces jesus I consider myself kind of a reporter - one who uses words that are more like music and that have a choreography. I never think of myself as a poet; I just get up and write. Mary Oliver use writing thinking I very much wished not to be noticed, and to be left alone, and I sort of succeeded. Mary Oliver left-alone left The man who has many answers is often found in the theaters of information where he offers, graciously, his deep findings. While the man who has only questions, to comfort himself, makes music. Mary Oliver comfort answers men When When it’s over, it’s over, and we don’t know any of us, what happens then. So I try not to miss anything. I think, in my whole life, I have never missed The full moon or the slipper of its coming back. Or, a kiss. Well, yes, especially a kiss. Mary Oliver kissing moon thinking It was not a choice of writing or not writing. It was a choice of loving my life or not loving my life. To keep writing was always a first priority.... I worked probably 25 years by myself.... Just writing and working, not trying to publish much. Not giving readings. A longer time than people really are willing to commit before they want to go public. Mary Oliver reading writing years Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous to be understood. How grass can be nourishing in the mouths of the lambs. How rivers and stones are forever in allegiance with gravity while we ourselves dream of rising. Mary Oliver dream forever rivers The language of the poem is the language of particulars. Mary Oliver language Emerson, I am trying to live, as you said we must, the examined life. But there are days I wish there was less in my head to examine, not to speak of the busy heart. Mary Oliver wish heart trying In my own work, I usually revise through forty or fifty drafts of a poem before I begin to feel content with it. Mary Oliver forty fifty feels At Blackwater Pond the tossed waters have settled after a night of rain. I dip my cupped hands. I drink a long time. It tastes like stone, leaves, fire. It falls cold into my body, waking the bones. I hear them deep inside me, whispering oh what is that beautiful thing that just happened? Mary Oliver rain beautiful fall For some things there are no wrong seasons. Which is what I dream of for me. Mary Oliver seasons dream And there you are on the shore, fitful and thoughtful, trying to attach them to an idea — some news of your own life. But the lilies are slippery and wild—they are devoid of meaning, they are simply doing, from the deepest spurs of their being, what they are impelled to do every summer. And so, dear sorrow, are you. Mary Oliver thoughtful summer ideas And now my old dog is dead, and another I had after him, and my parents are dead, and that first world, that old house, is sold and lost, and the books I gathered there lost, or sold- but more books bought, and in another place, board by board and stone by stone, like a house, a true life built, and all because I was steadfast about one or two things: loving foxes, and poems, the blank piece of paper, and my own energy- and mostly the shimmering shoulders of the world that shrug carelessly over the fate of any individual that they may, the better, keep the Niles and Amazons flowing. Mary Oliver fate dog book And it can keep you as busy as anything else, and happier. Mary Oliver busy inspirational Isn’t it wonderful the way the world holds both the deeply serious, and the unexpectedly mirthful? Mary Oliver serious way world You must not ever stop being whimsical. Mary Oliver whimsy whimsical healing Like Magellan, let us find our islands To die in, far from home, from anywhere Familiar. Let us risk the wildest places, Lest we go down in comfort, and despair. Mary Oliver risk islands home ...Sometimes I dream that everything in the world is here, in my room, in a great closet, named and orderly, and I am here too, in front of it, hardly able to see for the flash and the brightness- and sometimes I am that madcap person clapping my hands and singing; and sometimes I am that quiet person down on my knees. Mary Oliver singing dream hands Love, love, love, says Percy. And hurry as fast as you can along the shining beach, or the rubble, or the dust. Then, go to sleep. Give up your body heat, your beating heart. Then, trust. Mary Oliver giving-up heart beach
