The words of a mystic



I want to be Mary Oliver’s intern

mary oliver

Because I can’t read her work without believing it comes straight from heaven.


Where we are


Sunday mornings

Early, early mornings and cups of cocoa when those mornings are very cold and orange juice when they are not.

This morning, after working for some time on a business profile for a client, I visited some news sites and decided, 1-2-3, to give evenings over to news.

For the morning, I prefer poetry.

And, music.

It can, yes

Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood. — T.S. Eliot

There’s this, too, to get the new calendar off to a good start. Wonder words.

ee lovings for friday

[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]


i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
                                                      i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

A day to listen to Wild Geese

It is a beautiful snowy day where I am. A day to celebrate seasons and sun and winter and snow.

A day to enjoy listening to Mary Oliver reading “Wild Geese.”

So, here she is. I hope you apprmary olivereciate the gift of her words.

Deference to words and wonder

Cold Poem

by Mary Oliver

Cold now.
Close to the edge. Almost
unbearable. Clouds
bunch up and boil down
from the north of the white bear.
This tree-splitting morning
I dream of his fat tracks,
the lifesaving suet.

I think of summer with its luminous fruit,
blossoms rounding to berries, leaves,
handfuls of grain.

Maybe what cold is, is the time
we measure the love we have always had, secretly,
for our own bones, the hard knife-edged love
for the warm river of the I, beyond all else; maybe

that is what it means the beauty
of the blue shark cruising toward the tumbling seals.

In the season of snow,
in the immeasurable cold,
we grow cruel but honest; we keep
ourselves alive,
if we can, taking one after another
the necessary bodies of others, the many
crushed red flowers.