Reading Mary Oliver again; even her prose is poetry.
Time means little in the world of poems
To be contemporary
is to rise through
of the past,
like the fire through
Only a heat
so deeply and intelligently
born can carry
a new idea into
– Mary Oliver, A Poetry Handbook, p. 12
I found a copy of Mary Oliver’s A Poetry Handbook at the used book store last week. I picked it up this morning and these sentences jumped off the page.
(Found poetry from p. 9)
Reblogged from the Lexington Poetry Month blog.
Beyond the margins of the self
Poetry is a river; many voices travel in it; poem
after poem moves along in the exciting crests and falls of the river
waves. None is timeless; each arrives
in an historical context; almost
everything, in the end, passes. But the desire
to make a poem, and the world’s willingness to receive
it—indeed, the world’s need of it—
these never pass.