Neither do they ask how long they must be roses, and then what.Description A New York Times Bestseller, chosen as Oprah's 'Books That Help Me Through' for Oprah's Book Club The last roses have opened their factories of sweetnessįear has not yet occurred to them, nor ambition. So they never seem to vanish, they are always there

no matter the uncertainty of life or what comes after.

it was as if each poem was a warm hug, enveloping you in the beauty of life no matter the suffering or the complications. here the art form i am so fond of masterfully sat in front of me with a beautiful use of language and techniques to convey the poet’s wonders, feelings, and messages. New and selected poems, volume one is a rather remarkable collection of poetry by mary oliver. This is my first review here, and I wanted it to be for someone very very special,I read her back in those days when the idealism was just beginning to seep out,so here's to the memory of the 16 year old me and the trembling mass of inconsolable longing I have been thereafter,in memory of Mary the sensational lover,the ever faithful bride married to amazement, who always had room in her heart for the unimaginable,the soul born out of pure attentiveness,I don't want to know what path my life would have tread if you hadn't occurred to me. Eliot said the natural language of drama is poetry, I say the natural language of all manner of sentience is music, or anything that evokes it thereby reversing the normal psycho-epistemological process and reaching that raw core in us directly and irrevocably. Its been a long time since I read her last.yesterday my little sister asked me what 'ineffable' means, and as I was explaining its meaning to her somewhere inside someplace a tiny voice kept insisting,just say 'its rather like a Mary Oliver poem'.I do not feel like addressing her with a commonplace Miss Oliver.not when I know her like that and she me.Mary strips me of all my desperate strength, all the futile hard earned evolution and adornments I managed to soil myself with on the way, and as I now sit back, softly murmuring the wise words of her love letters to life, I feel that natural nakedness again, all the excruciating otherness washed and anointed with tender images of the ridiculously simple,my hands are trembling as I type this,I cannot even begin to explain the kind of ancient guttural reflexes she elicits from me.

New and selected poems by mary oliver