By Mary Oliver
Winner of a 1991 Christopher Award
Winner of the 1991 Boston Globe Lawrence L. Winship e-book Award
This selection of poems through Mary Oliver once more invitations the reader to step around the threshold of normal existence right into a international of traditional and non secular luminosity.
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Extra resources for House of Light
The small, pond turtle lifts its head into the air like a eco-friendly toe. It appears to be like round. What it sees is the full international swirling again from darkness: a crimson sunlight emerging over the water, over the pines, and the wind lifting, and the water-striders heading out, and the white lilies establishing their satisfied our bodies. The turtle doesn’t have a observe for any of it— the silky water or the large blue morning, or the curious affair of his personal physique. at the shore I’m so busy scribbling and crossing out I nearly pass over seeing him paddle away throughout the rainy, black woodland. an increasing number of the moments come to me: how a lot can the correct observe do? Now some of the lilies are a faint flamingo within their white hearts, and there's nonetheless time to allow the final roses of the dawn waft down into my uplifted eyes. ” compliment Knee-deep within the ferns bobbing up on the fringe of the whistling swamp, I watch the owl with its chuffed, heart-shaped face because it flies over the water— from side to side— because it flutters down like a hellish moth at any place the reeds twitch— each time, within the muddy conceal, a few little lifestyles sighs ahead of it slides into the moonlight and turns into a shadow. within the distance, lousy and infallible, the previous swamp belches. after all it stabs my center every time anything cries out like a teardrop. yet isn’t it marvelous, what's taking place within the branches of the pines: the owl’s younger, wearing snowflakes, are beginning to fatten— they beat their muscular wings, they dream of flying for one more million years over the water, over the ferns, over the world’s roughage because it bleeds and deepens. trying to find SNAKES since it is sweet to be afraid— yet no longer too afraid— I stroll rigorously up the slabby hill, via laces of bracken, throughout the thick, wild roses, looking forward to my center to fly up out of the leaves chilled and making a song, and it does. They’re there— of them, in sleepy loops— they usually upward push in a spit of power, like darkish stalks. one of the wild, purple roses, their mouths slim and obdurate, their pink eyes staring. Do you shiver on the mere point out in their sleek, shoulderless our bodies? i need to convey you the following. i need you to recollect the black plants in their faces in addition to their fast slithering— i need you to recollect the beautiful fireplace that dabs out in their mouths in addition to the plunge again into the shadows, and the heart’s thudding tune. FISH BONES probably Michelangelo or Picasso may have imagined those dream shapes, those curves and thongs, snow-needles, jaws, brain-cases, eye sockets— someone, besides, whose brain was once in a few transparent sort of rapture and possibly within the early morning while the sunlight on its invisible muscle was once emerging over the water. I don’t imagine it used to be only a floundering within the darkness, irrespective of how a lot time there has been. This morning I picked up whatever like a honey-combed center, and whatever else like a frozen flower on the foot of the waves and that i considered da Vinci— the best way he saved dreaming of what was once contained in the darkness— the way it desired to upward push on its invisible muscle, the way it desired to shine like hearth.