Mary Oliver wrote poetry with a clarity and a sentience that whiplashed me into an awareness I often missed. Her work is a direct arrow of energy. Her death also.
Last week I wrote a post called “What would Mary Oliver do?” I wrote about a dream I had after she died where I was sent up to the attic to plug the holes where the mice lived and stood there looking at them. I wondered what Mary Oliver would do. I invited people to send me poems. What she’d do. What they’d do. Some poems responded to the question, while most came from that arrow of energy that she was, the essential ephemeral nature of everything as it hits you and moves through.
Here are poems by Robbie Chesick, Dominique Davies, Bill Gaynor, and Jill Jorgenson.