Tuesday, June 23, 2015

Southern Walden and Mary Oliver

I love it when ideas and thoughts I've had for a while visit me again and remind me what is lacking in my life. Such was the case when Thoreau's Walden bubbled to the surface in my mind and waved at me. I decided to wave back . . . and soon I found myself reading the poem Have You Ever Tried to Enter the Black Branches by Mary Oliver. Rather than talk about the poem and what it meant to me, I decided to post it on my blog. I hope you guys read it. Thank you and good night.

(photo taken by Kimberly B. Richardson at Overton Park, Bike Gate June 2015)

Have you ever tried to enter the long black branches 
of other lives -
tried to imagine what the crisp fringes, full of honey, 
from the branches of the young locust trees, in early morning, 
feel like? 

Do you think this world was only an entertainment for you? 

Never to enter the sea and notice how the water divides 
with perfect courtesy, to let you in! 
Never to lie down on the grass, as though you were the grass! 
Never to leap to the air as you open your wings over 
the dark acorn of your heart! 

No wonder we hear, in your mournful voice, the complaint 
that something is missing from your life! 

Who can open the door who does not reach for the latch? 
Who can travel the miles who does not put one foot 
in front of the other, all attentive to what presents itself 
Who will behold the inner chamber who has not observed 
with admiration, even with rapture, the outer stone? 

Well, there is time left - 
fields everywhere invite you into them. 

And who will care, who will chide you if you wander away 
from wherever you are, to look for your soul? 

Quickly, then, get up, put on your coat, leave your desk! 

To put one's foot into the door of the grass, which is 
the mystery, which is death as well as life, and 
not be afraid! 

To set one's foot in the door of death, and be overcome 
with amazement! 

To sit down in front of the weeds, and imagine 
god the ten-fingered, sailing out of his house of straw, 
nodding this way and that way, to the flowers of the 
present hour, 
to the song falling out of the mockingbird's pink mouth, 
to the tippets of the honeysuckle, that have opened

in the night 

To sit down, like a weed among weeds, and rustle in the wind! 

Listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life? 

While the soul, after all, is only a window, 

and the opening of the window no more difficult 
than the wakening from a little sleep. 

Only last week I went out among the thorns and said 
to the wild roses: 
deny me not, 
but suffer my devotion. 
Then, all afternoon, I sat among them. Maybe 

I even heard a curl or tow of music, damp and rouge red, 
hurrying from their stubby buds, from their delicate watery bodies. 

For how long will you continue to listen to those dark shouters, 
caution and prudence? 
Fall in! Fall in! 

A woman standing in the weeds. 
A small boat flounders in the deep waves, and what's coming next 
is coming with its own heave and grace. 

Meanwhile, once in a while, I have chanced, among the quick things, 
upon the immutable. 
What more could one ask? 

And I would touch the faces of the daises, 
and I would bow down 
to think about it. 

That was then, which hasn't ended yet. 

Now the sun begins to swing down. Under the peach-light, 
I cross the fields and the dunes, I follow the ocean's edge. 

I climb, I backtrack. 
I float. 
I ramble my way home.

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