Pulitzer Prize-winning lesbian poet
Mary Oliver’s newest collection of poems, ‘Thirst,’ is an honest, vulnerable and aching account of her recovering from the death of her partner. (Photo by Barbara Savage Cheresh)
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KATHI WOLFE
Friday, November 24, 2006
Only an exceptionally skilled poet can handle the delicate balance of emotionalism and finely crafted turns of phrase needed to address the deep pain of losing a loved one. Fortunately, Pulitzer Prize-winning lesbian writer Mary Oliver is such a poet.
Her newest collection, “Thirst,” is a moving, wise and elegantly written work. Oliver wrote “Thirst” after the 2005 death of her long-time partner, muse and literary agent Molly Malone Cook.
Grief is a punch in the gut. It compels people to find love and wrestle with questions of faith in the absence of a loved one, and Oliver’s poems in “Thirst” reflect this struggle.
“From the complications of loving you/I think there is no end or return. No answer, no coming out of it./Which is the only way to love, isn’t it?” Oliver writes in “A Pretty Song.”
Oliver, born in 1935 in Cleveland, combines images and observation of nature in her poetry. Her work, often compared to that of Whitman and Thoreau, conjures the walks and beaches of Provincetown, Mass., where she lives. Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Maxine Kumin has called Oliver “an indefatigable guide to the natural world.”
Oliver won the Pulitzer for her 1984 book “American Primitive,” whose elegiac, lyric poems celebrate nature in America. In “Thirst,” in the aftermath of her loss, Oliver still turns to nature.
“Don’t flowers put on their/prettiness each spring and/go to it with/everything they’ve got? Who/ would criticize the bed of tulips...?” Oliver asks in “The Poet Comments on Yet Another Approaching Spring.”
Facing her grief, Oliver looks not only to nature but to the faith in God that is growing within her.
“That time/I thought I could not/go closer to grief/without dying/I went closer,/And I did not die./Surely God had his hand in this,” Oliver writes in “Heavy.” Without knowing why or how, she finds moments of happiness in the midst of her despair. “Have you heard/the laughter/that comes, now and again,/out of my startled mouth?” Oliver wonders in the same poem.
IN THE HANDS of a lesser poet, these themes could easily become sentimental or didactic. But Oliver’s precision with language, lyrical imagery and flashes of wit ensure that her work in “Thirst” isn’t preachy. She knows that none of us are saintly and that faith and healing don’t come easily.
“Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?/Am I no longer younger, and still not half perfect?” Oliver asks in “Messenger.” Still, she knows that “My work is loving the world” and that she must “keep my mind on what matters,/which is my work.”
Despite her lyricism, Oliver doesn’t have her head in the clouds. She remains grounded in the midst of wrestling with personal tragedy that feels epic in scale.
“It doesn’t have to be/the blue iris, it could be/weeds in a vacant lot, or a few/small stones,” she says in “Praying,” “... patch/a few words together/and don’t try/to make them elaborate, this isn’t/a contest ...” The poet has no pretensions in her spiritual quest. “Dear Lord ... Under the sink ... is an/uproar of mice,” Oliver writes in “Making the House Ready for the Lord.”
“Thirst,” Oliver’s 16th volume of poetry isn’t all about prayer and death. There are several poems to her dog Percy. “And now Percy is getting brazen./ Let’s down the beach, baby, he says./Let’s shake it with a little barking,” Oliver writes in “Percy (Seven).”
“Doesn’t Every Poet Write a Poem about Unrequited Love” is a great riff on romance. “The flowers/I wanted to bring to you,/ ... would have been/so handsome/in your hands–/ ... yet your smile/would have been nowhere/and maybe you would have tossed them/onto the ground,” Oliver muses.
There are no explicit images of lesbian love in “Thirst.” Yet, Oliver’s love for her deceased partner shines in the vibrant, lyrical volume.
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