When I arrived home from the community Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday I noticed that I had not brought in my mail from Wednesday. I was feeling a little low, mostly from being tired and a bit from missing my family. When I opened the front door to retrieve my mail, I almost missed a slim cardboard box propped up against the house. A package from Amazon.com. Oh joy of joys! I had almost forgot that I had placed an order for Mary Oliver’s twenty-second book of poems, A Thousand Mornings. You cannot imagine my smile as I tore the box open and saw its cover.
One can never feel low or lonely when there is a book of Mary Oliver poems in one’s hands.
I knew I had plenty of work to finish that evening, but first things first. I opened a Flying Bison Blizzard Bock, ran a hot bath and settled in for a soak, sip and read.
It is an event in my life, when a new Mary Oliver book is published. In the past so many years I have celebrated the arrivals of Evidence, Thirst, Swan, and Red Bird. I have purchased at least five copies of her New and Selected Poems because I can’t help but give them away when I meet someone who has never heard of her before. And each time I receive a new title it is my constant companion for weeks upon weeks. If you find it strange that a book of poems can be a companion, then you have not met a Mary Oliver poem yet.
A Thousand Mornings is a slender volume, seventy-six pages, and yet how many hours of pleasure, contemplation and company it contains. When I read Oliver’s poems I am always transported to my own experiences. The places she unfolds in her work are so similar to my favourite places at the farm, the creatures I encounter, the plants and trees and insects, that I am immersed in that world but with an even closer view. Because this is what Mary does, illuminates the most intricate details of what she notices, and somehow brings a universal light to the profound human experience as well. Amazement. Awe. Wonder. Gratitude. Reverence. For all that lives, and also dies.
I have noticed over the past several books she has published that more and more she is slipping more personal, more intimate details of her own life within the words. Mary is notoriously private, rarely gives interviews, and has often spoke of how she keeps her private and personal life out of her work, at least in a confessional way. But in A Thousand Mornings there are several poems that are intimate to her life, much more so than in any of her other works. And yet there is still nothing confessional about them, only an expansive wisdom that never says, “this is the answer,” but instead leaves only questions in the reader’s mind. Questions and a sense of amazement for the world, and tremendous comfort. Mary Oliver is a poet who honours mystery. I find immeasurable comfort in that.
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.
Lizzy White
William