Reckless Poem by Mary Oliver
I think I’m going crazy. I haven’t had proper coffee for days now and I feel like crawling out of my skin. Have you ever felt that?
A few weeks ago, my father and I had coffee. I told him how much I loved him by putting sugar in his cup. I didn’t think he noticed.
Once, I was not myself. I was so angry, and I couldn’t find the words. I open my mouth, close it, open it again. That was the point I understood what being speechless meant. My heart has robbed me from all thought, all language. I felt helpless. I threw things (mostly pencils). My sister told my father, “She’s not feeling very human right now.”
I am starting to write again. The door is open.
Today again I am hardly myself.
It happens over and over.
It is heaven-sent.
It flows through me
like the blue wave.
Green leaves — you may believe this or not —
have once or twice
emerged from the tips of my fingers
deep in the woods,
in the reckless seizure of spring.
Though, of course, I also know that other song,
the sweet passion of one-ness.
Just yesterday I watched an ant crossing a path, through the
tumbled pine needles she toiled.
And I thought: she will never live another life but this one.
And I thought: if she lives her life with all her strength
is she not wonderful and wise?
And I continued this up the miraculous pyramid of everything
until I came to myself.
And still, even in these northern woods, on these hills of sand,
I have flown from the other window of myself
to become white heron, blue whale,
red fox, hedgehog.
Oh, sometimes already my body has felt like the body of a flower!
Sometimes already my heart is a red parrot, perched
among strange, dark trees, flapping and screaming.
Michelle in NYC
Happy to hear the door is open….and thank you for this one from Mary Oliver. Michelle
That is just how I felt when I woke up. I wrote a poem in response and it seems to have gotten lost in the reply. How perfect!