Mary Oliver’s Owl and Other Fantasies

While browsing the poetry section at my local bookstore recently I found Mary Oliver’s Owl and Other Fantasies. Not surprisingly, considering my recent obsession with birds, I bought it. After all, I doubt it would suddenly appear at the appropriate moment like that if I wasn’t intended to have it, now would it?

Although I wasn’t particularly fond of a few of the early poems, ones that seemed a little too sentimental to suit my own view of nature, I was, perhaps ironically, attracted to:


It was spring
and finally I heard him
among the first leaves –
then I saw him clutching the limb
in an island of shade
with his red-brown feathers
all trim and neat for the new year.
First, I stood still
and thought of nothing.
Then I began to listen.
Then I was filled with gladness –
and that’s when it happened,
when I seemed to float,
to be, myself, a wing or a tree –
and I began to understand
what the bird was saying,
and the sands in the glass
for a pure white moment
while gravity sprinkled upward
like rain, rising,
and in fact
it became difficult to tell just what it was that was singing –
it was the thrush for sure, but it seemed
not a single thrush, but himself, and all his brothers,
and also the trees around them,
as well as the gliding, long-tailed clouds
in the perfectly blue sky – all, all of them
were singing.
And, of course, yes, so it seemed,
so was I.
Such soft and solemn and perfect music doesn’t last
for more than a few moments.
It’s one of those magical places wise people
like to talk about.
One of the things they say about it, that is true,
is that, once you’ve been there,
you’re there forever.
Listen, everyone has a chance.
Is it spring, is it morning?
Are there trees near you,
and does your own soul need comforting?
Quick, then – open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song
may already be drifting away.

At first, I was a little put off by the anthropomorphic “all trim and neat for the new year, ” and I’m sure most people would see this as a “very sentimental” view of nature, but the poem celebrates precisely the kind of moment I’ve felt once or twice in the last year. My first such experience followed a Buddhist meditation on listening. The next morning I took that focus with me on my daily hike through Pt. Defiance Park and was amazed at all the sounds I could not remember ever hearing before. For a few moments, I felt like I had been transported to an entirely new place, a more beautiful place than I had been before, and there are few places in the world more beautiful than an old-growth forest.

This walk actually inspired my current interest in birding because I wanted to know where those magical sounds were coming from. Strangely enough, the more I found out about where they were coming from, the more I enjoyed them. Although I seldom experience the kind of joy I felt that first day, I’ve never entered the woods again without being aware of the sounds of birds, birds so small that they are seldom seen.

Owl and Other Fantasies is a short book, only 65 pages and some of those pages are blank, so I won’t quote another poem, but if I were going to do so it would a be a very different kind of poem, possibly one called “Hawk” that focuses on the swiftness of death and ends in the powerful lines “and then it/ turned into a white blade, which fell.” The title poems on owls focus on this theme, and the book is infinitely richer because of that dual focus. Oliver doesn’t reduce nature to some Walt Disney version of reality. If she had done so, I would have found it much harder to accept the optimism found in this poem.

7 thoughts on “Mary Oliver’s Owl and Other Fantasies

  1. I’ve never heard of this writer, but this one poem, at least, seemed quite elegant and powerful. Thanks for pushing it in my face so I’d see it! I’ll share it with some others (non-blog readers).

  2. Ron,

    Check out Loren’s analysis of Mary Oliver poems on his front page (off to the left when your not in this comments section). She and he are brilliant.


  3. I believe I misled Jon and perhaps others when I accidentally put the permalink for your comments at my site, Loren, rather than the permalink for your post. As far as I know I didn’t miss reading what you wrote about Mary Oliver. I create all sorts of miscommunications, though, even spreading them to other people’s sites! If Jon’s still reading, he ought to send me an email address so I can comment to him when I get to read the other two Oliver poems he recommended. Thanks for the loan of your soapbox, Loren.

  4. Funny, Jon’s commented here before so somehow I didn’t even notice the “Ron” as the address. I did find the comment unusually confusing, though.

    Now that I know you were involved it doesn’t seem nearly as confusing, though. I think he’s referring to my previous comments on Mary Oliver, which are linked in the left hand column under, surprisingly, Poets, “Mary Oliver”

  5. Okay, I’m slow, but I finally caught on and will read the other article. I just copied it so I can look at my leisure. Even water can eventually wear away a hardhead.

Comments are closed.