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#Mary Oliver
Mary Oliver, excerpt of “Black Oaks”, in West Wind
For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees.

And to tell the truth I don’t want to let go of the wrists
of idleness, I don’t want to sell my life for money,
I don’t even want to come in out of the rain.
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26 may 20 - 

dogfish by mary oliver 

this week my internship was confirmed! I am starting my two months of work next week :-) I am so thankful because the company was so gracious to honour my appointment (a lot of friends’ internships/jobs have been cancelled) and I only hope that I will be able to do good work over this time. 


I posted about dogfish before, but somehow it keeps coming back to me. with all the hopes and expectations for my own life I wish to truly want only one thing - moving always, countering whatever temporal occurent persists, holding closer and closer the hope that my God is here; seeing the dogfish for what they are, seeing my God for who He is: my first Love, larger than life. 

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i record myself reading mary oliver’s poem “heavy” from “thirst” 💛

That time
I thought I could not
go any closer to grief
without dying
I went closer,
and I did not die.
Surely God
had his hand in this,
as well as friends.
Still, I was bent,
and my laughter,
as the poet said,
was nowhere to be found.
Then said my friend Daniel,
(brave even among lions),
“It’s not the weight you carry
but how you carry it –
books, bricks, grief –
it’s all in the way
you embrace it, balance it, carry it
when you cannot, and would not,
put it down.”
So I went practicing.

Have you noticed?
Have you heard
the laughter
that comes, now and again,
out of my startled mouth?
How I linger
to admire, admire, admire
the things of this world
that are kind, and maybe
also troubled –
roses in the wind,
the sea geese on the steep waves,
a love
to which there is no reply?

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So I Locked Myself Inside a Star for Twenty Years, Jeremy Radin // Waste, Oh Wonder // Winter Hours: Prose, Prose Poems, and Poems, Mary Oliver // Quiet Light, The National // Warsan Shire // I Wanna Get Better, Bleachers // Litany in Which Certain Things are Crossed Out, Richard Siken // Shiva, The Antlers // Someday I’ll Love Ocean Vuong, Ocean Vuong // Nobody, Mitski

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“…the blue of the sky falls over me like silk, the flowers burn, and I want to live my life all over again, to begin again, to be utterly wild.”

-Mary Oliver

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Atsushi: Kunikida-san, why are Mary-san and Dazai-san colliding into each other like that?

Kunikida: they just discovered that bees say “whoops” when they collide.

Atsushi: …so they’re imitating them?

Dazai & Mary: *collide* WHOOPS!

Kunikida: I hate my life so much.

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by Mary Oliver


Something came up
out of the dark.
It wasn’t anything I had ever seen before.
It wasn’t an animal
or a flower,
unless it was both.

Something came up out of the water,
a head the size of a cat
but muddy and without ears.
I don’t know what God is.
I don’t know what death is.

But I believe they have between them
some fervent and necessary arrangement.


melancholy leaves me breathless…


Water from the heavens! Electricity from the source!
Both of them mad to create something!

The lighting brighter than any flower.
The thunder without a drowsy bone in its body.


Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.


Two or three times in my life I discovered love.
Each time it seemed to solve everything.
Each time it solved a great many things
but not everything.
Yet left me as grateful as if it had indeed, and
thoroughly, solved everything.


God, rest in my heart
and fortify me,
take away my hunger for answers,
let the hours play upon my body

like the hands of my beloved.
Let the cathead appear again—
the smallest of your mysteries,
some wild cousin of my own blood probably—
some cousin of my own wild blood probably,
in the black dinner-bowl of the pond.


Death waits for me, I know it, around
one corner or another.
This doesn’t amuse me.
Neither does it frighten me.

After the rain, I went back into the field of sunflowers.
It was cool, and I was anything but drowsy.
I walked slowly, and listened

to the crazy roots, in the drenched earth, laughing and growing.

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i record myself reading mary oliver’s “the buddha’s last instruction” from “house of light"🕯️

“Make of yourself a light,”
said the Buddha,
before he died.
I think of this every morning
as the east begins
to tear off its many clouds
of darkness, to send up the first
signal — a white fan
streaked with pink and violet,
even green.
An old man, he lay down
between two sala trees,
and he might have said anything,
knowing it was his final hour.
The light burns upward,
it thickens and settles over the fields.
Around him, the villagers gathered
and stretched forward to listen.
Even before the sun itself
hangs, disattached, in the blue air,
I am touched everywhere
by its ocean of yellow waves.
No doubt he thought of everything
that had happened in his difficult life.
And then I feel the sun itself
as it blazes over the hills,
like a million flowers on fire —
clearly I’m not needed,
yet I feel myself turning
into something of inexplicable value.
Slowly, beneath the branches,
he raised his head.
He looked into the faces of that frightened crowd.

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“How blue is the sea, how blue is the sky,

how blue and tiny and redeemable everything is, even you,

even your eyes, even your imagination.”

                                           —-Mary Oliver

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