Three Poems by Mary Oliver / by Brielle DuFlon

out of her book "Blue Horses" because who knows who they might inspire :) 


I would want a boat, if I wanted a
boat, that bounded hard on the waves, 
that didn't know starboard from port
and wouldn't learn, that welcomed
dolphins and headed straight for the
whales, that, when rocks were close, 
would slide in for a touch or two, 
that wouldn't keep land in sight and
went fast, that leaped into the spray. 
What kind of life is it always to plan
and do, to promise and finish, to wish
for the near and the safe? Yes, by the
heavens, if I wanted a boat I would want
a boat I couldn't steer. 



Angels are wonderful but they are so, well, aloof.
It's what I see in the mud and the roots of the
trees, or the well, or the barn, or the rock with
its citron map of lichen that halts my feet and
makes my eyes flare, feeling the presence of some
spirit, some small god, who abides there. 

If I were a perfect person, I would be bowing
I'm not, though I pause wherever I feel this
holiness, which is why I'm often so late coming
back from wherever I went. 

Forgive me. 



I do not know what gorgeous thing
the bluebird keeps saying, 
his voice easing out of his throat, 
beak, body into the pink air
of the early morning. I like it
whatever it is. Sometimes
it seems the only thing in the world
that is without dark thoughts. 
Sometimes it seems the only thing
in the world that is without
questions that can't and probably
never will be answered, the
only thing that is entirely content
with the pink, then clear white
morning and, gratefully, says so.