The Nourishing Dark Bread of a Poem – Mary Oliver’s Poem, Flare

American poet Mary Oliver (1935-2019)

From Flare

       1.

Welcome to the silly, comforting poem.

It is not the sunrise,
which is a red rinse,
which is flaring all over the eastern sky;

it is not the rain falling out of the purse of God;

it is not the blue helmet of the sky afterward,

or the trees, or the beetle burrowing into the earth;

it is not the mockingbird who, in his own cadence,
will go on sizzling and clapping
from the branches of the catalpa that are thick with blossoms,
that are billowing and shining,
that are shaking in the wind.

Mary Oliver from Flare in THE LEAF AND THE CLOUD, Da Capo Press, 2000

It’s been a long while since I picked up fingers to type a poetry blog post. Just haven’t had it in me to read much poetry or write about it. But when a good friend and poet sent me a blog posted today by a former student of Mary Oliver’s something shifted for me. That post features tough, dark poems that as the writer, Summer Brennan, says, don’t make it into the yoga studios where Mary’s more uplifting, dare I say, comforting poems are so often shared.

I wrote about this side of Mary in this blog post after she died in January 2019. I cited two of the three poems Summer mentions, Rage and Tecumseh. I had not come across her third pick, Kookaburra before.

After reading Summer’s post I thought of Mary’s twelve part poem Flare. Part one begins this post and the full twelve part poem concludes the post. If I had to sum the poem up I would use these lines from Mary’s poem Lead from her New and Selected Poems – Volume Two.

I tell you this
to break your heart,
by which I mean only
that it break open and never close again
to the rest of the world.

Here it is. Not a poetry to close your eyes to the darkness of the world but a poetry that says see the dark, (and Mary had lots of that in her early years of abuse) but don’t stay there. Misery and a disappointment; misery and a terror may have come out of her mother and father as Mary says in part nine but as she says in part six: the iron thing they carried, I will not carry.

The irony in the first line of Flare is startling to me: Welcome to the silly, comforting poem. As it turns out the poem is not silly because, if it provides comfort, it is a comfort that comes in spite of the darkness or perhaps because of it, because it is not defeated by the darkness in the same way a flower comes out of the dark earth, is not defeated by it. Here is part eight:

The poem is not the world.
It isn’t even the first page of the world.

But the poem wants to flower, like a flower.
It knows that much.

It wants to open itself,
like the door of a little temple,
so that you might step inside and be cooled and refreshed,
and less yourself than part of everything.

A secret perhaps: to become less yourself and part of everything. So much of the flowering of Mary’s poetry comes out of the dark earth of her life that did not defeat her. Her griefs, sorrows, loneliness. And if there is a driving theme or force behind Mary’s poetry, an ars poetica, if you will, it might be these lines from Flare’s last section, part twelve:

When loneliness comes stalking, go into the fields, consider
the orderliness of the world. Notice
something you have never noticed before,

like the tambourine sound of the snow-cricket
whose pale green body is no longer than your thumb.

Stare hard at the hummingbird, in the summer rain,
shaking the water-sparks from its wings.

Let grief be your sister, she will whether or no.
Rise up from the stump of sorrow, and be green also,
like the diligent leaves.

A lifetime isn’t long enough for the beauty of this world
and the responsibilities of your life.

Scatter your flowers over the graves, and walk away.
Be good-natured and untidy in your exuberance.

In the glare of your mind, be modest.
And beholden to what is tactile, and thrilling.

Live with the beetle, and the wind.

This is the dark bread of the poem.
This is the dark and nourishing bread of the poem.

In a twelve month period where I have let go of my formal poetry therapy work at a major mental health facility on Vancouver Island, where poetry often feels less like a nourishing bread but some tasteless fast food and when I am not sure I will ever lead another generative poetry retreat, I am consoled by the reminder of the light that comes out of the earth of some of Mary’s darker poetry. Brings a nourishing taste of poetry back into my mouth. Gives me the energy to write my first poetry blog post since April 7th, 2022.

 

        Flare


       1.

Welcome to the silly, comforting poem.

It is not the sunrise,
which is a red rinse,
which is flaring all over the eastern sky;

it is not the rain falling out of the purse of God;

it is not the blue helmet of the sky afterward,

or the trees, or the beetle burrowing into the earth;

it is not the mockingbird who, in his own cadence,
will go on sizzling and clapping
from the branches of the catalpa that are thick with blossoms,
that are billowing and shining,
that are shaking in the wind.

       2.

       You still recall, sometimes, the old barn on your great-grandfather's 
farm, a place you visited once, and went into, all alone, while the grownups
sat and talked in the house.

        It was empty, or almost. Wisps of hay covered the floor, and some 
wasps sang at the windows, and maybe there was a strange fluttering bird
high above, disturbed, hoo-ing a little and staring down from a messy ledge 
with wild, binocular eyes.
  
       Mostly, though, it smelled of milk, and the patience of animals; the 
give-offs of the body were still in the air, a vague ammonia, not unpleasant.

       Mostly, though, it was restful and secret, the roof high up and arched, 
the boards unpainted and plain.

       You could have stayed there forever, a small child in a corner, on the
last raft of hay, dazzled by so much space that seemed empty, but wasn't.

       Then--you still remember—you felt the rap of hunger--it was noon—
and you turned from that twilight dream and hurried back to the house, 
where the table was set, where an uncle patted you on the shoulder for
welcome, and there was your place at the table.

       3.

Nothing lasts.
There is a graveyard where everything I am talking about is,
now.

I stood there once, on the green grass, scattering flowers.

       4.

Nothing is so delicate or so finely hinged as the wings
of the green moth
against the lantern
against its heat
against the beak of the crow
in the early morning.

Yet the moth has trim, and feistiness, and not a drop
of self-pity.

Not in this world.

       5.

My mother
was the blue wisteria,
my mother
was the mossy stream out behind the house,
my mother, alas, alas,
did not always love her life,
heavier than iron it was
as she carried it in her arms, from room to room,
oh, unforgettable!

I bury her
in a box
in the earth
and turn away.
My father
was a demon of frustrated dreams,
was a breaker of trust,
was a poor, thin boy with bad luck.
He followed God, there being no one else
he could talk to;
he swaggered before God, there being no one else
who would listen.
Listen,
this was his life.
I bury it in the earth.
I sweep the closets.
I leave the house.

       6.

I mention them now,
I will not mention them again.

It is not lack of love
nor lack of sorrow.
But the iron thing they carried, I will not carry.

I give them--one, two, three, four--the kiss of courtesy,
of sweet thanks,
of anger, of good luck in the deep earth.
May they sleep well. May they soften.

But I will not give them the kiss of complicity.
I will not give them the responsibility for my life.

      7.

Did you know that the ant has a tongue
with which to gather in all that it can
of sweetness?

Did you know that?

       8.

The poem is not the world.
It isn't even the first page of the world.

But the poem wants to flower, like a flower.
It knows that much.

It wants to open itself,
like the door of a little temple,
so that you might step inside and be cooled and refreshed,
and less yourself than part of everything.

       9.

The voice of the child crying out of the mouth of the
   grown woman
is a misery and a disappointment.
The voice of the child howling out of the tall, bearded,
   muscular man
is a misery, and a terror.

       10.

Therefore, tell me:
what will engage you?
What will open the dark fields of your mind,
    like a lover
         at first touching?

       11.

Anyway,
there was no barn.
No child in the barn.

No uncle no table no kitchen.

Only a long lovely field full of bobolinks.

       12.

When loneliness comes stalking, go into the fields, consider
the orderliness of the world. Notice
something you have never noticed before,

like the tambourine sound of the snow-cricket
whose pale green body is no longer than your thumb.

Stare hard at the hummingbird, in the summer rain,
shaking the water-sparks from its wings.

Let grief be your sister, she will whether or no.
Rise up from the stump of sorrow, and be green also,
like the diligent leaves.

A lifetime isn't long enough for the beauty of this world
and the responsibilities of your life.

Scatter your flowers over the graves, and walk away.
Be good-natured and untidy in your exuberance.

In the glare of your mind, be modest.
And beholden to what is tactile, and thrilling.

Live with the beetle, and the wind.

This is the dark bread of the poem.
This is the dark and nourishing bread of the poem.

Mary Oliver from THE LEAF AND THE CLOUD, Da Capo Press, 2000

4 Comments

  1. Allan Briesmaster
    Posted July 13, 2022 at 3:37 pm | Permalink

    Thank you very much, Richard, for posting “Flare” and for your commentary. This remarkable poem is new to me. I’m really glad you have resumed the blog. I’ve always enjoyed reading your entries and look forward to more.

  2. Richard Osler
    Posted July 17, 2022 at 9:05 pm | Permalink

    Allan: So lovely to hear from you this way. I look forward to meeting in person someday soon! All best! Huge thanks for all your support over the years. Especially publishing Hyaena Season!

  3. Heidi Garnett
    Posted July 14, 2022 at 12:59 am | Permalink

    How breathtaking, yet I wish she’d used the word life in place of poem.

  4. Richard Osler
    Posted July 17, 2022 at 9:03 pm | Permalink

    Bless you again Heidi for being such an encouragement to me!

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