Mary Oliver's Dog Songs rule

Vick Mickunas gave me his review copy of Dog Songs, the soon-to-be-released book of poems by Mary Oliver.

He wrote a little note in the book, signed it over to me this way:

"Dear Jeff, poetry is an art. It rarely pays but it sure feels good. Vick"

On Vick's radio show, recorded over the phone while I was still in DC, I recited "The Courage All Around " and "Always Jewish, Lately Palestinian."

Then Vick recited Mary O's poem, "How It Is With Us, How It Is With Them."

It's a great poem. Everyone should read it. "The Storm (Bear)" is another good one, short and wise. It says better what I've tried to say in some of my own poems, like, say, "Ecstasy" or "The Smell of Eternity," which is also a dog poem.

But the poem from Dog Songs that I want to share here is "If You Are Holding This Book," which reads:

You may not agree, you may not care, but
if you are holding this book you should know
that of all the sights I love in this world--
and there are plenty--very near the top of
the list is this one: dogs without leashes."

There's only one thing that I'd change in Oliver's poem. I'd move the "of" at the end of the fourth line  to the beginning of the fifth and last line. How's that for picking nits?
                                                       

Ecstasy

In this moment,

the world around is a perfect space.

The hot point inside you

and the cold point there

balance the hot and cold

the whole universe around.

In this moment,

you rip loose, run

naked, unshod,

down streets and alleys,

toe and heel transforming asphalt

to sea foam, soothing your soul.

In this moment,

you stride this way,

whip arms swinging,

shoulders like easy oil,

greasing and flinging you

through damp and distance.

The darkness divides for you,

wayfarer,

long strider stampeding by,

bearing secrets.

Like racehorses and hound dogs,

nostrils grasping and snatching

your own scent, the moist surround,

all the exuberant plants of the night.

You are hailed,

summoned

and called

to this exquisite place.

The Transgressive Acts of Men

Excluded from the matrilineal ascent,

I intrude.

I am before and beyond

all my mothers,

all my daughters,

mothering the clan;

in my DNA,

the Amazonian last daughter

staring in wonder

at the brink,

holding the hand

of all my sisters,

mindful of our brothers,

among whom I once was counted;

all who we were,

all who we are gone nova.

The end

when it comes,

almost more than we can bear,

more for certain than we can know,

memories on the way,

partners on the road,

dreams on the wing,

exploding outward.

Tomorrow for the second step

I’m thinking time

for the next book,

fiction or otherwise,

bio- or auto-,

titled maybe

“Misdiagnosed, self-medicated, freely

associated and so on

and so forth”

sub-titled maybe

“A memoir of traps

in place and in time”

authored by Longing to Get Out

ghostwritten maybe

by Anything for a Buck

and published maybe

by Slow to Print Books & Son

thinking maybe that if the title

and sub-title and author’s name

and ghostwriter’s credit are

long enough and clear enough

the book itself can go short.

Page one would begin

because that is what page one does,

page two would begin

with a cliché

about journeys of self-discovery

and segue into

a discussion of agoraphobia

depression and related maladies

and my favorite vegetable

treatment, a topical ointment

guaranteed

to get the hero out the door

where what happens next

will not be therapeutic,

but colorful maybe

 and as the train of thought

rumbles on thinking

I’ll post this on Facebook maybe

and the train suddenly derails

with a roaring and a squealing

the hero somehow avoiding injury,

dragging himself home,

suffering a few cuts,

making somehow out of all of this
a silk potholder, if not a purse,

embroidering as finishing touch

“Tomorrow for the second step!”

If not us...

What if geography overwhelmed

history? Left us with no story

to tell? It would begin

and begin and begin.

The end, if it came,

would be a long time coming

and look like we’d seen it all before.

We wouldn’t decisively know

what we’d seen and the words

for regret would sound little

and late, if we heard them at all.

When the glaciers came,

they’d press down hard,

grinding and gravelling

our stillborn lives and,

if we could see ourselves,

we’d be so much unambitious

dust. It would begin

and begin and begin,

and when the wind picked up

the dust, it would whisper

late summer’s turn to fall,

snow yet to come,

to bury all our undreamed dreams

in mounds where our endless

undanced dances

would begin and begin

and begin

a fruitless drift,

never to arrive at the foot

of the tower,

with the faint image

of god unremarked,

and nothing but ghosts passing by

in a place no one could name.

Never to get to where

history remembers who we are,
where hope is a gift

we must work harder to give.

Two Poems

Bends for a Time as if Tame

Already begun

the slipping away,

the traveler poem comes

on the crest of a wave,

seeking two or three words, maybe four.

The flank-heaving poem

rests in our care,

bends, for a time,

as if tame.

Next the words and the writer

stand on the shore

thanking the poem

for the time,

watching the poem

roll away.

Counting on You

I wish my voice

would rumble the bones

in your ear

as it thunders in mine,

could speak the same truth

it whispers in mine,

could sing the same song

that I'm hearing.

Out of dashed hope

Vacant, pungent,

stained and sweaty,

flailed wish and purpose,

aimless winged days winging

away.

Hoping

something rich with vigor

survives the cleaning up.

Some thing green and growing,

hardier than the decomposing

dream long since bled

out to dry,

and to dust.

Too long and too slow,

shuffling fate retains

a pulse,

sightless, intransigent pulse,

bizarre oasis

on a featureless plain,

the beating heart

invents, again,

what the mind forgets

or never knew.

It would be something

fierce, resurgent,

damp and earthy,
the beautiful face,

another sweet roar coming.

Wake-up Call

On the move
spot to spot,
gone noon
or higher,

hearing the heaven
breathe in my ear,
bound for the quick path,
point to point,

but yellow heat smoking,
staining my eyes,
melting the way,

the red splash
rafting
through tunnels and branches,
bathing tissues and brain cells,

calling my name,
singing the praises
hot blood
does sing

Carried on the Wind

The wind never thinks

about rhythm,

just comes and blows

and hunts, maybe,

for a little wet

to wick away

The moist of it

wraps me in eddies

and sweet caresses

I pick through the folds

seeking surprises,

lightweight gifts

of quick chills,

the scent of mystery ahead,

the new world

blowing in