Poem: The Return by Mary Oliver

[dragonyphoenix]

 

 

1.

When I went back to the sea

it wasn't waiting.

Neither had it gone away.

All its musics were safe and sound; the circling gulls

were still a commonplace, the fluted shells

rolled on the shore

more beautiful than money –

oh, yes, more beautiful than money!

The thick-necked seals

stood in the salted waves with their soft, untroubled faces

gazing shoreward –

 

oh bed of silk,

lie back now on your prairies of blackness your fields of sunlight

that I may look at you.

 

I am happy to be home.

 

 

2.

I do not want to be frisky, and theatrical.

I do not want to go forward in the parade of names.

I do not want to be diligent or necessary or in any way

heavy.

From my mouth to God's ear, I swear it; I want only

to be a song.

 

To wander around in the fields like a little reed bird.

 

To be a song.

 

 

3.

Two eggs rolled from the goose nest

down to the water and halfway into the water.

What good is hoping?

I went there softly, and gathered them

and put them back into the nest

 

of the goose who bit me hard with her

lovely long wings

and beat my face with her

lovely long wings

what good is trying?

She hissed horribly, wanting me to be frightened.

I wasn't frightened.

I just knew it was over,

those cold white eggs would never hatch,

 

the birds would forget, soon, and go back,

to the light-soaked pond,

what good is remembering?

 

But I wasn't frightened.

 

 

4.

Sometimes I really believe it, that I am going to

save my life

 

a little.

 

 

5.

When I found the seal pup alone on the far beach,

not sleeping but looking all around, I didn't

reason it out, for reason would have sent me away,

I just

went close but not too close, and lay down on the sand

with my back toward it, and

pretty soon it rolled over, and rolled over

until the length of its body lay along

the length of my body, and so we touched, and maybe

our breathing together was some kind of heavenly conversation

in God's delicate and magnifying language, the one

we don't dare speak out loud,

not yet.

 

 

6.

Rumi the poet was a scholar also,

But Shams, his friend, was an angel.

By which I don't mean anything patient and sweet,

When I read how he took Rumi's books and threw them

into the duck pond,

I shouted for joy. Time to live now,

Shams meant.

I see him, turning away

casually toward the road, Rumi following, the books

floating and sinking among the screeching ducs,

 

oh, beautiful book-eating pond!

 

 

7.

The country of the mockingbird is where I now want to be,

thank you, yes.

 

The days when the snow-white swans might pass over the dunes

are the days I want to eat now, slowly and carefully

and with gratitude. Thank you.

 

The hours fresh and tidal are the hours I want to hold

in the palm of my hand, thank you, yes.

 

Such grace, thank you!

 

The gate I want to open now is the one that leads into

the flower-bed of my mind, thank you, yes.

 

Every day the slow, fresh wind, thank you, yes.

 

The wing, in the dark, that touches me.

 

Thank you.

 

Yes.