Mary Oliver

To me, Mary Oliver is a pure Zen poet, though she might not be conventionally classified as such. In her examination of the natural world, she manages to capture the flash of the eternal in the transient, as in the following poem.  (I am not able to fix the formatting; please excuse that).


Leaving the house,

I went out to see

The frog, for example,

in her satiny skin;

and her eggs

like a slippery veil;

and her eyes

with their golden rims;

and the pond

with its risen lilies;

and its warmed shores

dotted with pink flowers;

and the long, windless afternoons;

and the white heron

like a dropped cloud,

taking one slow step

then standing awhile then taking

another, writing

her own soft-footed poem

through the still waters.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s