Talk with the Preacher
Sharing a poem by Mary Oliver today. She is one of my favorite poets, and lately I have been starting my days sitting on the porch reading her poems. She writes about nature much more deeply than I ever could, but every time I read her poems I am surprised at the resonance I feel to her metaphors. Sometimes she even makes me think about moments in which I have been moved by nature.
This particular poem stuck out to me this week. It made me remember living in Prague, where every spring the fields around our house would be filled with bright orange poppies. Sometimes I would pull the car over and get out just to watch them sway in the fields and lean toward the sun. Their graceful motion seemed always to stand in sharp contrast to the radically bright color of their blooms.
Here, Oliver does with her words what I could never do with mine–she takes the metaphor of the poppies and makes it universal, touching a part of human living we all share. Today, enjoy her words:
Poppies by Mary Oliver
The poppies send up their
orange flares; swaying
in the wind, their congregations
are a levitation
of bright dust, of thin
and lacy leaves.
There isn’t a place
in this world that doesn’t
sooner or later drown
in the indigos of darkness,
but now, for a while,
the roughage
shines like a miracle
as it floats above everything
with its yellow hair.
Of course nothing stops the cold,
black, curved blade
from hooking forward—
of course
loss is the great lesson.
But I also say this: that light
is an invitation
to happiness,
and that happiness,
when it’s done right,
is a kind of holiness,
palpable and redemptive.
Inside the bright fields,
touched by their rough and spongy gold,
I am washed and washed
in the river
of earthly delight—
and what are you going to do—
what can you do
about it—
deep, blue night?
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