Going to Hell in a Poetry Handbook

[Stuart Leichter]

Colin Ward's recommended Mary Oliver shows up in this week's (April 4) New
Yorker:

The Poet with His Face in His Hands

You want to cry aloud for your
mistakes. But to tell the truth the world
doesn't need any more of that sound.

So if you're going to do it and can't
stop yourself, if your pretty mouth can't
hold it in, at least go by yourself across

the forty fields and the forty dark inclines
of rocks and water to the place where
the falls are flinging out their white sheets

like crazy, and there is a cave behind all that
jubilation and water fun and you can
stand there, under it, and roar all you

want and nothing will be disturbed; you can
drip with despair all afternoon and still,
on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched

by the passing foil of the water, the thrush,
puffing out its spotted breast, will sing
of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.

-- Mary Oliver

[Leisha]

I have thought that she was overrated, but I like this poem a lot. I
enjoyed her poetry handbook, even though it's basically a primer. It's
good to return to the basics again and again, don't you think?

Leisha

[Pertial]

I assume your point is that Oliver,
as she crazily dances on her
"New Yorker" forty
dark and abstractly inclined fields,
rocks and water merging into a drone
of drip and despair,
has grainy reason for poetic jubilation?

The wings of my question dance
on every white sheet of Mary's menopause.

Foils of water have a drying effect on
on my mouth, as it hardens into a roar.

But Hell!


P

Post by Stuart Leichter
Colin Ward's recommended Mary Oliver shows up in this week's (April 4) New
The Poet with His Face in His Hands
You want to cry aloud for your
mistakes. But to tell the truth the world
doesn't need any more of that sound.
So if you're going to do it and can't
stop yourself, if your pretty mouth can't
hold it in, at least go by yourself across
the forty fields and the forty dark inclines
of rocks and water to the place where
the falls are flinging out their white sheets
like crazy, and there is a cave behind all that
jubilation and water fun and you can
stand there, under it, and roar all you
want and nothing will be disturbed; you can
drip with despair all afternoon and still,
on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched
by the passing foil of the water, the thrush,
puffing out its spotted breast, will sing
of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.
-- Mary Oliver

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[Stuart Leichter]

Post by Pertial
I assume your point is that Oliver,
as she crazily dances on her
"New Yorker" forty
dark and abstractly inclined fields,
rocks and water merging into a drone
of drip and despair,
has grainy reason for poetic jubilation?
The wings of my question dance
on every white sheet of Mary's menopause.
Foils of water have a drying effect on
on my mouth, as it hardens into a roar.
But Hell!
P

Okay. Though my reason for the display is to show timeliness and currency
since Mary Oliver's handbook often heads the list of Colin Ward's suggested
books for aspiring writers of poetry. It's a tiny gesture for Colin's fans
and detractors while he heals and puts away the engine block heater for the
year. Also, it's nice to see someone with two first names rather than with
two last names like Harrison Ford.

Post by Pertial

Post by Stuart Leichter
Colin Ward's recommended Mary Oliver shows up in this week's (April 4) New
The Poet with His Face in His Hands
You want to cry aloud for your
mistakes. But to tell the truth the world
doesn't need any more of that sound.
So if you're going to do it and can't
stop yourself, if your pretty mouth can't
hold it in, at least go by yourself across
the forty fields and the forty dark inclines
of rocks and water to the place where
the falls are flinging out their white sheets
like crazy, and there is a cave behind all that
jubilation and water fun and you can
stand there, under it, and roar all you
want and nothing will be disturbed; you can
drip with despair all afternoon and still,
on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched
by the passing foil of the water, the thrush,
puffing out its spotted breast, will sing
of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.
-- Mary Oliver

----== Posted via Newsfeeds.Com - Unlimited-Uncensored-Secure Usenet News==----
http://www.newsfeeds.com The #1 Newsgroup Service in the World! 120,000+ Newsgroups
----= East and West-Coast Server Farms - Total Privacy via Encryption =----

[Will-Dockery]

Post by Stuart Leichter
Colin Ward's recommended Mary Oliver shows up in this week's (Apri

4) Ne

Post by Stuart Leichter
Yorker
The Poet with His Face in His Hand
You want to cry aloud for you
mistakes. But to tell the truth the worl
doesn't need any more of that sound
So if you're going to do it and can'
stop yourself, if your pretty mouth can'
hold it in, at least go by yourself acros
the forty fields and the forty dark incline
of rocks and water to the place wher
the falls are flinging out their white sheet
like crazy, and there is a cave behind all tha
jubilation and water fun and you ca
stand there, under it, and roar all yo
want and nothing will be disturbed; you ca
drip with despair all afternoon and still
on a green branch, its wings just lightly touche
by the passing foil of the water, the thrush
puffing out its spotted breast, will sin
of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything
-- Mary Olive

Excellent selection from Mary Oliver


This is a response to the post seen at
http://www.jlaforums.com/viewtopic.php?p=658308398#65830839