The only poet
you read, when you read
poetry, is this one.
You don't read much
or often, yet when you do
she's it, the one who
had you from the start with her
crystalline words rising and
falling to sit you still, almost in a trance.
You found her wording
so much better than knowing
or naming
as her language tells of a thing's
motive for moving, or not moving but
being still, stone-Buddha still,
yet she, her wording do move you
to tears, sometimes, and
to tremendous gala, other times.
She's not what you'd expect in
a goddess, take for example the look,
but then having never looked
upon a god, you expect nothing in
that regard, so you are left with
her wording
as the captivator of your soul with its
right speech elegant and elusive and delicate
and its right rhythm magical and majestic.
She could be a goddess, you know,
but that would impress you not
as much as her wording,
and still there's more to it than that,
so listen, let her tell you everything you need be told.
Leaving the house,
I went out to see
the frog, for example . . .
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.
This poet dwells solitary
at the crossroad of
language and
observation
so there's more to her wording than
writing, or conversely,
for it is her power to see
that you want to notice as it
grabs the attention and will not release you
until you are left content with
her gold words like gauzy wings
when she exercises them.
Quote from Mary Oliver, "Summer Poem," What Do We Know, p.1
http://www.poets
