Mary Mary

I'm glad you mentioned repetition. It's one of the recurring devices in Oliver's work that I find really effective. I think there's sometimes an aversion to repetition on the grounds that it's simplistic, when in fact it can be used (as in Oliver) in a very specific, sophisticated way. Life is, after all, repetitive, and so it makes sense that this should be mirrored in the language of a poem. There's also something soothing about it that sometimes does sooth and other times (as in "The Swamp," as in "When Death Comes") proves quite disturbing in the contrast between this lullaby-like rhythm and the poem's stark reality.

Sections 2 and 3 of "Rain" I found especially powerful. Maybe I hadn't read enough Oliver before now, because I was really surprised by their bleakness. Pleasantly surprised. 2 is another great example of repetition proving powerful. I hear in it the falling rain and the trudging men. An atmosphere is evoked, as well as an emotion.

As for the question of looking closely at detail or "glossing over," to reduce Frost's proposition to rather trite terms, I think I understand both desires, but I value the examination of detail far more. The other seems escapist. Escape is sometimes necessary, but I don't know that it should be condoned. Oliver is great because she often manages to combine a resolute look at what is with a broader sense of the whole.

A last note for now: "Hawk" is great. I'd never encountered it, but...wow. The way it ends just before the moment of the kill! I can't help thinking of Gerard Manley Hopkins' "The Windhover," with the twin images of a raptor in the morning. Oliver is of course less flowery than GMH, but I think they're actually similar in the sense that they're both writing with a reverence for the might of the bird they're seeing. Of course, GMH believes god to be responsible, while Oliver doesn't posit a greater force. Still, I think, religion is present, perhaps even in the attention to detail. This honest looking-at is a sort of faith: that the uncovered will have some meaning, some significance. And, of course, it does. To observe! And to then record! No small feats.

Mary Oliver

The introduction to Mary Oliver's work in VBCAP remarks on American nature poets being naturalists trying to get to the root of things- to come to a comprehensive understanding of natural and/or worldly phenomena, to understand, to "know". Kate, I'm fairly sure you made reference to Mark Strand's fearless attention to detail in a conversation we had earlier this week, and I'm just thinking of that phrase as well suited towards the naturalist mission. In order to know something, this kind of paying attention is what pays off. One of my favorite bits of wisdom from Oliver is that, "to pay attention, this is our endless and proper work." To pay attention, to relinquish our fear of detail. . . and suddenly I am brought back to the famous opening lines of Robert Frost's "Directive", "Back out of all this now too much for us, back in a time made simple by the loss of detail". What significance do these lines carry in the context of this naturalist notion of a kind of ultimate knowledge arising from the close attention to the world around us? Frost's lines convey a longing to escape this kind of paying attention. In my own life, I understand why one might want to get back to a simplicity that does not require the perspicacity that fearless attention of details asks of us. . . a place of rest and restoration rather than duty and action, making out the connections between everything.
I love the image of the tree being eternally opened by lightning in "Rain", the way it is described as a "yellow thread" descending from the sky. Although this short poem only captures a moment, without paying attention, the careful verbal construction of this moment would be lost. The idea of lightning as thread evokes a sense of the sky and the earth, which we typically see as disparate, coming together as two pieces of fabric held together by a single golden thread.
One of my favorite themes in Oliver's work is that of acceptance. Her work also embodies the idea of letting go rather than giving up and is evidenced by her meditative way of asking questions that don't require urgent answers, as in "The Swamp 2", her visions of stillness in the face of death in the third section of the poem, and the delightful scarcity of words inherent to "At the Edge of the Ocean" and "The Garden". This exploration of the natural ebbs and flows in rhythm nicely demonstrates that there is no single way to write poetry or explore the world. I also love that she often repeats phrases and questions multiple times. For me, it continues to demonstrate an acceptance that being present in the world does not mean going at the same pace all the time. We may never receive answers to many of the questions we ask, but there is a great deal to be learned simply by the asking.