West Wind by Mary Oliver Page A

of mildness and meditation
tapping the careful words against each other
    and I thought—
as though I were suddenly spinning, like a bar of silver
as though I had shaken my arms and lo! they were wings—
    of the Buddha
when he rose from his green garden
when he rose in his powerful ivory body
    when he turned to the long dusty road without end
when he covered his hair with ribbons and the petals of flowers
when he opened his hands to the world.

Stars
    Here in my head, language
keeps making its tiny noises.
    How can I hope to be friends
with the hard white stars
    whose flaring and hissing are not speech
but a pure radiance?
    How can I hope to be friends
with the yawning spaces between them
    where nothing, ever, is spoken?
Tonight, at the edge of the field,
    I stood very still, and looked up,
and tried to be empty of words.
    What joy was it, that almost found me?
What amiable peace?
    Then it was over, the wind
roused up in the oak trees behind me
    and I fell back, easily.
Earth has a hundred thousand pure contraltos—
    even the distant night bird
as it talks threat, as it talks love
    over the cold, black fields.
Once, deep in the woods,
    I found the white skull of a bear
and it was utterly silent—
    and once a river otter, in a steel trap,
and it too was utterly silent.
    What can we do
but keep on breathing in and out,
    modest and willing, and in our places?
Listen, listen,
I'm forever saying,
    Listen to the river, to the hawk, to the hoof,

to the mockingbird, to the jack-in-the-pulpit—
    then I come up with a few words, like a gift.
Even as now.
    Even as the darkness has remained the pure, deep darkness.
Even as the stars have twirled a little, while I stood here,
    looking up,
one hot sentence after another.

Three Songs
1
    A band of wild turkeys is coming down the hill. They are coming slowly—as they walk along they look under the leaves for things to eat, and besides it must be a pleasure to step alternately through the pale sunlight, then patches of slightly golden shade. They are all hens and they lift their thick toes delicately. With such toes they could march up one side of the state and down the other, or skate on water, or dance the tango. But not this morning. As they get closer the sound of their feet in the leaves is like the patter of rain, then rapid rain. My dogs perk their ears, and bound from the path. Instead of opening their dark wings the hens swirl and rush away under the trees, like little ostriches.
2
    The meadowlark, with his yellow breast and a sort of limping flight, sings into the morning which, in this case, is perfectly blue, lucid, measureless, and without the least bump of wind. The meadowlark is a spirit, and an epiphany, if I so desire it. I need only to hear him to make something fine, even advisory, of the occasion.
    And have you made inquiry yet as to what the poetry of this world is about? For what purpose do we seek it, and ponder it, and give it such value?
    And also this is true—that if I consider the golden whistler and the song that pours from his narrow throat in the context of evolution, of reptiles, of Cambrian waters, of the body's wish to change, of the body's incredible crafts and efforts, of life's multitudes, of the winners and the losers, I lose nothing of the original occasion, and its infinite sweetness. For this is my skill—I am capable of pondering the most detailed knowledge, and the most fastened-up, impenetrable mystery, at the same time.
3
    There is so much communication and understanding beneath and apart from the substantiations of language spoken out or written down that language is almost no more than a compression, or elaboration—an exactitude, declared emphasis, emotion-in-syntax—not at all essential to the message. And therefore, as an elegance, as something almost superfluous, it is likely (because it is
free
to be so used) to be carefully shaped, to take risks, to begin and even prolong adventures that may turn out