The three ingredients of poetry: the mystery of the universe, spiritual curiosity, the energy of language.
Mary OliverAnd there you are on the shore, fitful and thoughtful, trying to attach them to an idea โ some news of your own life. But the lilies are slippery and wildโthey are devoid of meaning, they are simply doing, from the deepest spurs of their being, what they are impelled to do every summer. And so, dear sorrow, are you.
Mary OliverWriters sometimes give up what is most strange and wonderful about their writing - soften their roughest edges - to accommodate themselves toward a group response.
Mary OliverAt Blackwater Pond the tossed waters have settled after a night of rain. I dip my cupped hands. I drink a long time. It tastes like stone, leaves, fire. It falls cold into my body, waking the bones. I hear them deep inside me, whispering oh what is that beautiful thing that just happened?
Mary Oliver