
True she is local poet, was headlined in the NYTimes Travel Section this summer as "The Bard of Provincetown". Possibly Maya Angelou is the only other living poet who has such a following, it is like the following Robert Frost had in his later years.
For a poet to be loved in this technological age is wonderful, and more wonderful as this is not a performer like the slam poets who are mostly showmanship and less depth. Oliver simply read, slowly with her own cadence and emphasis, her probing questions about the meaning of life and death, her beautiful images of the natural world, prodding toward focus and attention that she embodies and that is rarely expounded [outside Zen retreats] in this age of multitasking and overload and even adult ADD.
Who else writes of going to the woods well before dawn to sit quietly and wait for the deer to walk by, so quietly "one would have come into my arms" she felt --
who does that today? Only a poet who doesn't "know exactly what praying is" but does "know how to pay attention." She does not only write of what we easily call beautiful; she finds beautiful and wonderful what others cringe at: the blood beak of the owl, the snake in the grass, the road kill gray foxes she tenderly carried into the grass.
It was a beautiful evening when many people were paying attention to Mary Oliver.
2 comments:
June, this review is beautiful. I'M SO JEALOUS of you. I wish I could have been there. I felt the impact of her poetry as I read your account. Such a mood it creates!
I hope we have Mary for many years!
What a boost for optimism she must be - and your post is. Excellent stuff (both).
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