Friday
A Mary Oliver poem has been making the rounds on twitter and it’s easy to see why. The poet’s image in “Don’t Hesitate” of “whole towns destroyed” brings to mind Russia’s wanton shelling of Ukrainian civilians, leaving us to wonder if any joy is possible. To which fear Oliver defiantly replies, “Still, life has some possibility left.”
On Tuesday I shared an Oliver poem that ended on an unexpectedly dark note so I bookend the week with a poem that ends on a light one. Oliver’s poems tend to veer between depression and ecstasy, but when she speaks of joy, she gives herself into it fully. In “Humpbacks,” for instance, she writes,
Listen, whatever it is you try
to do with your life, nothing will ever dazzle you
like the dreams of your body…
And in “The Plum Trees”:
Such richness flowing
through the branches of summer and into
the body, carried inward on the five
rivers! Disorder and astonishment
rattle your thoughts and your heart
cries for rest but don’t
succumb, there’s nothing
so sensible as sensual inundation.
But back to “Don’t Hesitate,” our poem for today. While she must acknowledge that “we are not wise, and not very often kind” and that “much can never be redeemed,” she nevertheless counters with the possibility of love and light. So whenever you “unexpectedly feel joy,” don’t hold back, hoarding it the way that one perhaps hoards crumbs, hoping in this way to make the dinner last longer. Instead, dive into the feast, fully and without holding back.
Don’t Hesitate
By Mary Oliver
If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy,
don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty
of lives and whole towns destroyed or about
to be. We are not wise, and not very often
kind. And much can never be redeemed.
Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this
is its way of fighting back, that sometimes
something happens better than all the riches
or power in the world. It could be anything,
but very likely you notice it in the instant
when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the
case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid
of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.