Image courtesy of Penguin Press
Beloved poet Mary Oliver has died at 83. Lynn Nearyās lovely remembrance is here.
And hereās her poemĀ āWhen Death Comesā
When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox;
when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.
When itās over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When itās over, I donāt want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I donāt want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I donāt want to end up simply having visited this world.
She will be sorely missed
amandla
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