A Poet Reflects

White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field

Coming down
out of the freezing sky
with its depths of light,
like and angel,
or a buddha with wings,
it was beautiful
and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings—
five feet apart—and the grabbing
thrust of its feet,
and the indentation of what had been running
through the white valleys
of the snow—

and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes,
to lurk there,
like a little lighthouse
in the blue shadows—
so I thought:
maybe death
isn’t darkness, after all,
but so much light
wrapping itself around us—

as soft as feathers—
of looking, and looking, and shut our eyes,
not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river
that is without the least dapple or shadow—
that is nothing but light—scalding, aortal light—
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.

—Mary Oliver, from House of Light (Beacon Press, 1990)

Note: Form altered slightly by using common left margin for each line.

Itself Now

They will say it is feeling or mood, or the world, or the sound
The world makes on summer nights while everyone sleeps—
Trees awash with wind, something like that, something
As imprecise.  But don’t be fooled.  The world
Is only a mirror returning its image.  They will say
It is about particulars, making a case for this or that,
But it tries only to be itself.  The low hills, the freshets,
The long dresses, even the lyre and dulcimer mean nothing,
The music it makes is mainly its own.  So far
From what it might be, it always turns into longing,
Spinning itself out for desire’s sake, desire for its own end,
One word after another erasing the world and leaving instead
The invisible lines of its calling: Out there, out there.

—Mark Strand, from The Continuous Life: Poems (Alfred A. Knopf, 1992)