Whispers
by Mary Oliver
Have you ever
tried to
slide into
the heaven of sensation and met
You know not what
resistance but it
held you back? have you ever
turned on your shoulder
helplessly, facing
the white moon, crying
let me in? have you dared to count
the months as they pass and the years
while you imagined pleasure,
shining like honey, locked in some
secret tree? have you dared to feel
the isolation gathering
intolerably and recognized
what kinds of explosions can follow
from an intolerable condition? have you walked out in the mornings
wherever you are in the world to consider
all those gleaming and reasonless lives
that flow outward, and outward, easily,
to the last
moment the bulbs of their lungs
their bones and their appetites
can carry them? oh, have you
looked wistfully into
the flushed bodies of the flowers?
have you stood
staring out over the swamps, the swelling rivers
where the birds, like tossing fires
flash through the trees, their bodies
exchanging a certain happiness
in the sleek, amazing
humdrum of natures design-
blood's heaven, spirit's haven to which
you can not belong?
Some recent springtime ago, I was camping on the edge of a desert, where the remnants of a different ecosystem had survived due to a valiant spring, forming a pool.
Here, the Night Hawk preformed his display of arching spins and dives which caused his feathers to whistle. It was mesmerizing. It was joyful to watch as twilight fell.
Words are so useless in conveying experiences. I can only supply you with a suggestion, which your own experience will dictate in the end.
In the same way, Mary Oliver has chosen words that may or may not remind you of sometime in your life. Maybe it is a time you will wish to turn from anyway, to forget rather than gouge up the unfiltered emotion for.
We human-kind prefer to feel pleasure, that is how we are made. We seek life, pleasure, and continuance over it’s opposite. So here is the possible purpose of poetry, of fairy tales, and even science fiction; it provides the shield from what is here and disturbing, while allowing us to still see.
For the last few weeks I have been reading:
“The World Without Us” by Alan Weisman.
I can only read it in small segments, as I have a very active imagination, which I try to protect for the sake of sleep. His premise, revealed in an interview some years ago, was that he could discuss very difficult environmental issues, and not lose the attention of his audience, by placing his discussion in a world where mankind no longer lives. We have been erased, no reason given. Why are we more comfortable with this than, say, the many dystopian stories where we struggle to survive, or the very useful factual, scientific articles? Hmmm.
He begins the book with a quote, (in german and in english) from the Chinese poet Li Tai Po, “The Chinese Flute: Drinking Song of the Sorrow of the Earth”.
Das Firmament blaut ewig, und die Erde
Wird longe fest steh'n und aufblüh'n im Lenz.
Du aber, Mensch, wie lange lebst denn du?
The firmament is blue forever, and the Earth
Will long stand firm and bloom in spring.
But, man, how long will you live?
This begins his book with the reminder, that in earth’s own history, many have come and many departed. For some reason, the concept goes down easier with a poem.
Chapter one is located in the Polish primeval forest (Bialowieza Puszcza). A place of huge and nearly unsullied trees. For now. Mr. Weisman describes the changing laws that will eventually destroy this last wilderness, like all the rest.
Throughout the remainder of the book, we get to see what will happen to all our productions, our creations, the bones and poisons of our civilization. Given enough time, the world recovers from us, and given enough distance we can all discuss it.
Have you ever walked in a forest and known that your very foot steps heralded its end?
Could you hear it listening to you, to your foot strike, your breath, and knew it would
embrace you with love to the bitter end?
Have you ever wandered a forest and felt the beat of only the one heart?
Let's go for a walk, shall we?
The Myth of Trees 