you cannot even
remember the questions that
weigh so in your mind

Don’t think just now of the trudging forward of thought,
but of the wing-drive of unquestioning affirmation.

It’s summer, you never saw such a blue sky,
and here they are, those white birds with quick wings,

sweeping over the waves,
chattering and plunging,

their thin beaks snapping, their hard eyes
happy as little nails.

The years to come — this is a promise —
will grant you ample time

to try the difficult steps in the empire of thought
where you seek for the shining proofs you think you must have.

But nothing you ever understand will be sweeter, or more binding,
than this deepest affinity between your eyes and the world.

The flock thickens
over the roiling, salt brightness. Listen,

maybe such devotion, in which one holds the world
in the clasp of attention, isn’t the perfect prayer,

but it must be close, for the sorrow, whose name is doubt,
is thus subdued, and not through the weaponry of reason,

but of pure submission. Tell me, what else
could beauty be for? And now the tide

is at its very crown,
the white birds sprinkle down,

gathering up the loose silver, rising
as if weightless. It isn’t instruction, or a parable.

It isn’t for any vanity or ambition
except for the one allowed, to stay alive.

It’s only a nimble frolic
over the waves. And you find, for hours,

you cannot even remember the questions
that weigh so in your mind.

Terns as published in Devotions: The selected poems of Mary Oliver by Mary Oliver, (New York : Penguin Press, 2017).

I am often asked how many times can I go to the beach?

I reply how many times do I get?

Working on the coast I know a lot of people who live and work here and yet, do not go to the beach.

And I ask them why do they live here, put up with the crowds and humidity (ever had the ignition on your car go bad … due to salt air?) and the hurricanes if you don’t like the beach?

Never really get a good answer.

But I love the beach.

In the sunshine.

In the gray clouds.

In the winter.

In the spring.

Just sit there.

Listen,

Maybe such devotion, in which one holds the world in the clasp of attention, isn’t the perfect prayer, but it must be close.

Tell me, what else could beauty be for?

It’s only a nimble frolic over the waves.

And you find, for hours you cannot even remember the questions that weigh so in your mind.

Yes sir and Boy! Howdy but I love the beach.

slash blue, sweep of gray
scarlet patches – on the way
compose evening sky

A slash of Blue!
A sweep of Gray!
A slash of Blue! A sweep of Gray!
Some scarlet patches – on the way –
Compose an evening sky –

A little purple – slipped between –
Some Ruby Trousers – hurried on –
A Wave of Gold – A Bank of Day –
This just makes out the Morning Sky!

By Emily Dickinson as published in The Complete poems of Emily Dickinson, edited by Thomas H. Johnson (Little, Brown and Company, Boston, 1960).