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| Genre/Form: | Poetry |
|---|---|
| Additional Physical Format: | Online version: Oliver, Mary, 1935- West wind. Boston : Houghton Mifflin, 1997 (OCoLC)643811100 |
| Document Type: | Book |
| All Authors / Contributors: |
Mary Oliver |
| ISBN: | 0395850827 9780395850824 |
| OCLC Number: | 36446775 |
| Description: | x, 63 pages ; 22 cm |
| Contents: | Seven white butterflies -- At Round Pond -- Black oaks -- The dog has run off again -- Am I not among the early risers -- Pilot snake -- So -- Spring -- Stars -- Three songs -- Shelley -- Maples -- The osprey -- That sweet flute John Clare -- Sand dabs, three -- Forty years -- Black snake this time -- Morning walk -- Rain, tree, thunder and lightning -- The rapture -- Fox -- Gratitude -- Little summer poem touching the subject of faith -- Dogs -- At the shore -- At Great Pond. If there is life after the earth-life, will you come with me? -- You are young. So you know everything. -- And the speck of my heart ... -- But how did you come burning down ... -- There are night birds, in the garden ... -- When the sun goes down ... -- We see Bill only occasionally ... -- The young, tall English poet -- And what did you think love would be like? -- Dark is as dark does. -- Now only the humorous shadows ... -- The cricket did not actually seek ... -- It is midnight, or almost. -- Have you ever tried to enter the long black branches. |
| Responsibility: | Mary Oliver. |
| More information: |
Abstract:
The New York Times has called Mary Oliver's poems "thoroughly convincing - as genuine, moving, and implausible as the first caressing breeze of spring." In this stunning collection of forty poems - nineteen previously unpublished - she writes of nature and love, of the way they transform over time. And the way they remain constant. And what did you think love would be like? A summer day? The brambles in their places, and the long stretches of mud? Flowers in every field, in every garden, with their soft beaks and their pastel shoulders? On one street after another, the litter ticks in the gutter. In one room after another, the lovers meet, quarrel, sicken, break apart, cry out. One or two leap from windows. Most simply lean, exhausted, their thin arms on the sill. They have done all they could. The golden eagle, that lives not far from here, has perhaps a thousand tiny feathers flowing from the back of its head, each one shaped like an infinitely small but perfect spear.--
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