By Mary Oliver
In 1000 Mornings, Mary Oliver returns to the imagery that has come to outline her life's paintings, transporting us to the marshland and sea coast of her loved domestic, Provincetown, Massachusetts. even if learning the leaves of a tree or mourning her precious puppy Percy, Oliver is open to the lessons inside the smallest of moments and explores with startling readability, humor, and kindness the mysteries of our day-by-day event.
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Extra resources for A Thousand Mornings: Poems
But you don't see. It's night—what can one see? Now, I have no choice but to see with your eyes, he said, so I'm not alone, so you're not alone. And really, there's nothing over there where I pointed. Only the stars crowded together in the night, tired, like those people coming back in a truck from a picnic, disappointed, hungry, nobody singing, with wilted wildflowers in their sweaty palms. But I'm going to insist on seeing and showing you, he said, because if you too don't see, it will be as if I h a d n ' t — I'll insist at least on not seeing with your eyes— and maybe someday, from a different direction, we'll meet.
And only this carriage to remain, with its little yellow wheels of lemon parked for so many years on a side street with unlit lamps, and then a small song, a little mist, and then nothing? 28 o TTNAIKES WOMEN Women are very distant. " They set the bread down on the table so that we don't feel they're absent. Then we recognize that it was our fault. " When we strike the match, she turns slowly and moves off with inexplicable concentration toward the kitchen. Her back is a bitterly sad hill loaded with many dead— the family's dead, her dead, your own death.
He glues something to the wall. Only the knife on the table is a thought, a flash of light. Poor music; if you can fit, come in through the hole in the neighborhood's elbow. * Tellos Agras is the pseudonym of Evangelos Ioannou (1899-1944), the poet and critic. From 1923 to 1940 he wrote poems ranging from the bucolic mode to the late Symbolist mode, the latter under the influence of Moreas and Laforgue. " ο 33 34 o TO IAIO A2TEPI T H E SAME STAR Drenched, the roofs glisten in the moon's light. T h e women wrap themselves in their shawls.
A Thousand Mornings: Poems by Mary Oliver