Sunday Sessions: "For Blackwater Woods"
Available from Dec. 18- Dec. 25
The sentiment that got 'For Blackwater Woods' started came from a late-night frisbee toss in the freezing cold. One of the things that got it finished was revisiting a favorite poem -- Mary Oliver's "In Blackwater Woods." I've included the full poem below.
The Sunday Sessions have worn through the callouses on my fingertips -- I had to cover my index finger with super glue to get this one finished (which worked surprisingly well, guitarists). Next week's might just be a cappella.
Thanks for your support as I get some momentum going for these recordings. Every forward, like, share, tweet, stumble, post, etc. etc. etc. is huge.
Happy holidays,
Max
In Blackwater Woods
by Mary Oliver
1. Woodshed
For weeks
the center of the universe
is the woodshed
which I keep filling,
which I keep
emptying and filling,
working
every morning
in the light-soaked yard
among the heaps of pink oak,
yellow birch,
red pine.
Sometimes I rest a little.
Then I gaze out from the yard
into the world, or I gaze
into myself.
But mostly I give attention
to what I'm doing--
cutting, chopping, stacking.
I have a good time.
This is how it is,
year after year--
everything put by,
nothing kept,
everything used up.
And that, as much as anything,
is the wonder of it,
I say philosophically--
how it all
gathers and vanishes
how it all goes up in smoke.
2.
But there's this, too:
the little words
leaping up like hairs!
3. Teeth
Out of my desire to be
related to my sleek young dog, I ate
her puppy teeth, all of them I could find, white and
crisp, each one rolled in a
pad of bread. I was not, consequently,
related to her. But I say this:
in any life some failures are nevertheless
achievements, and this one, in mine, is by no means
the least. God help us if
we make this world only out of bone, and not the greater weight
of admiration, whimsy,
fierce and unspeakable love.
4.
Goodbye, goodbye,
to the black oaks.
5. Summer Morning, in the Dunes
This morning the mockingbird
halfway up the pale dune, and only
a pitchpine for pulpit, offered
with infrangible exactitude:
phoebe,
robin, blue jay, flicker,
towhee, goldfinch, overbird, titmouse,
linnets, grackle, bobwhite, cardinal,
carolina wren, chickadee, nuthatch, english
sparrow, crested flycatcher, then he
flung his body into the air.
6.
May I also bring to each blue and cloudy morning a
suitable exuberance, a few exact
words, bowing and snapping.
7. Submitting to Tests
It is late summer, and the pond is not what it was. The sun has
drawn away most of the water, so that here and there nothing
remains but the spongy green base. It is a little Dismal. It ticks
and pulses faintly. Somewhere the frogs, in the last wet inches,
leap, or they do not leap, I merely hear their silvery whinnies.
There is a green heron with a yellow eye. I remember him, in the
shimmering wheel of spring; with red legs he flew past, busy with
his life. But, as everywhere, the changes have come. The heron is
tired. The pond, rusty and slick, is tired. Frayed, full of nets and
shadows. Still vital, still interesting. But tired.
I lie down on the high cold table, and they begin.
8. The Garden
What I want to know, please, is
what is possible, and what is not.
If it is not, then I am for it.
My heart is out of its flesh-phase.
I am done with all of it, the habits, the patience.
Whoever I was, it is growing hazy and forgettable.
Whoever I am, it is for mere appearance's sake.
It is for coin, and foolishness,
and I am thinking of something better.
All morning it has been raining.
In the language of the garden, this is happiness.
The tissues perk and shine.
Truly this is the poem worth keeping.
A mossy house anyone with any sense would enter
as soon as the soul begins
to desire the impossible.
I have never felt so young.
9.
Still, listen, I swear, I have not set one word down
on top of another without
breathing into it!
10. The Hottest Day
On the hottest day of summer
I thought of a place
on a knoll
and under some pines
where a breeze might come
flowing out of the bog
so I went there
but a beautiful woman
who had thought of it first
was lying casually
just where I'd thought to lie down
don't move I said
but she rose up
on her pretty hooves
at the sound of my voice
and heavily
and with sorry and with panic
she vanished
into the trees.
11.
Each moment has been so slow and so full
and so drenched in sweetness and my life
has gone by so fast
12. The Swans
I saw
hundreds of swans
they came
out of the sky
like an orchard
getting married
to the dark lake
no one knew
they were coming
we heard them we looked up we began shouting
they skidded down
into the water
which broke and swirled
in excitement
embracing their white breasts
their black feet
in the morning we returned early they were waking
they were rising up
their wings creaking and whistling
then they flew away
my life in Ohio
went on
everything was changed
do you know what I'm saying
everything
everything was changed
13.
Goodbye goodbye
to the blue iris
14. In a Dark Wood: Wood Thrushes
This is not song, this is not singing, this is not thoughtful, it comes
from no idea, it is only heat and good cheer, or even less, ner-
vousness, the grim melodious anxiety of the beast, the announce-
ment that something more than inertia is present and recognizes
the fact of evening, a click in the brain; or sees, and nothing to do
about it, black snake twining up trunk and branches toward nest,
and still the bead of the heart must make
a noise about it, its one noise, a waterfall of noise--no thought,
no idea, simply noise, call it noise, which rises through the leaves,
not out of them but through them; all creatures are
beneath us, ah yes, in the order of things.
But, listen. Listen.
Each voice shimmers; yet it is one voice: the damp and sonorous
exaltation of the dead, or the not-yet-born, who still know
everything.
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From Mary Oliver's "White Pine," available here:
www.betterworldbooks.com/White-Pine-id-9780156001205.aspx?
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