To be fair, following my previous comment on that other 'poem', this one is good. There are some great internal rhymes and it flows properly. The ending didn't impact as much as it could've done, though. I would say the problem with this poem is that it lacked the force that it wanted to promise.
Mary Oliverâs poem feels like the older sister to so much of my own work. Insistence that leaving can be holy, that saving your life is not selfish but necessary. In my poems, I often circle the body as threshold and weather, but this reminds me that sometimes the bravest act is simply walking, even when the house trembles. The voice she finds at the end is the one Iâm always trying to hear in my own writing: steady, interior, unwilling to abandon itself.
Rubbish! Second rate prose arranged in lines on a page to look like poetry. I get so effing fed up with that sort of shite. I said as much once at a literary festival to a former poet laureate by the name of Andrew Motion and he didn't get it. Or pretended not to.
No poetry in Motion ha ha.
Poetry should be poetry. Not prose!
Oh? Want me to prove it? Ok.
Rubbish. trash. In the mess of my mind
it's second rate poetry
arranged in lines
on a page
to look like poetry
I said as much
once
at a literary festival
former poet laureate
poetry in motion and
he didn't get it
or
pretended not to
poetry should be poesie
like faeries in the firelight
when autumn falls and the Goddess warms us all
still in the embers
no one listens and no soul
glistens or covets this will
time to sleep, she says
time to sleep.
centuries are nights to her
and she will wait
instil when love when
you are ready once again
like you, human,
used to be
loved...
in the darker past they've lost all sense of where
we all loved each other in Africa once
and now they only
no,
not ready, not ready for the Goddess again
but centuries are like nights to her.
briar?
rose?
Centuries are like Knights to her...
[see what I mean?! Obviously I just typed all that immediately without editing but the point is, for a finalised, published poem 'surely you can do better!' - to paraphrase Robin Williams, you are either a poet, or you are not a poet. The trick is to find out which you are, and stick to it.]
The poem reads like someone remembering the exact moment they finally chose their own life, even with every voice around them pulling them back. It captures that deeply human struggle of trying to move forward while the world and sometimes the people you love beg you to stay where youâve always been. The storm imagery makes the resistance feel real: the trembling house, the wind clawing at you, the road full of debris. But what makes the poem so touching is how the shift happens slowly, almost quietly, as the old voices fade and your own begins to rise. The stars breaking through the clouds feel like the first signs of selfâtrust returning. Itâs a reminder that listening to yourself can feel lonely at first, but itâs the only way to truly step into your own life. In the end, the poem becomes a gentle but firm truth: you can only save the life that is yours to live.
How can I take part/submit?
I had this poem on an English exam once âšī¸đ
To be fair, following my previous comment on that other 'poem', this one is good. There are some great internal rhymes and it flows properly. The ending didn't impact as much as it could've done, though. I would say the problem with this poem is that it lacked the force that it wanted to promise.
A good effort, however. 7/10 from me.
Notice the postmodern alter, btw...
Mary Oliverâs poem feels like the older sister to so much of my own work. Insistence that leaving can be holy, that saving your life is not selfish but necessary. In my poems, I often circle the body as threshold and weather, but this reminds me that sometimes the bravest act is simply walking, even when the house trembles. The voice she finds at the end is the one Iâm always trying to hear in my own writing: steady, interior, unwilling to abandon itself.
Rubbish! Second rate prose arranged in lines on a page to look like poetry. I get so effing fed up with that sort of shite. I said as much once at a literary festival to a former poet laureate by the name of Andrew Motion and he didn't get it. Or pretended not to.
No poetry in Motion ha ha.
Poetry should be poetry. Not prose!
Oh? Want me to prove it? Ok.
Rubbish. trash. In the mess of my mind
it's second rate poetry
arranged in lines
on a page
to look like poetry
I said as much
once
at a literary festival
former poet laureate
poetry in motion and
he didn't get it
or
pretended not to
poetry should be poesie
like faeries in the firelight
when autumn falls and the Goddess warms us all
still in the embers
no one listens and no soul
glistens or covets this will
time to sleep, she says
time to sleep.
centuries are nights to her
and she will wait
instil when love when
you are ready once again
like you, human,
used to be
loved...
in the darker past they've lost all sense of where
we all loved each other in Africa once
and now they only
no,
not ready, not ready for the Goddess again
but centuries are like nights to her.
briar?
rose?
Centuries are like Knights to her...
[see what I mean?! Obviously I just typed all that immediately without editing but the point is, for a finalised, published poem 'surely you can do better!' - to paraphrase Robin Williams, you are either a poet, or you are not a poet. The trick is to find out which you are, and stick to it.]
Wow, how uplifting and inspirational. I couldn't have said it better myself. "Mend my life". That really hits deep.
The poem reads like someone remembering the exact moment they finally chose their own life, even with every voice around them pulling them back. It captures that deeply human struggle of trying to move forward while the world and sometimes the people you love beg you to stay where youâve always been. The storm imagery makes the resistance feel real: the trembling house, the wind clawing at you, the road full of debris. But what makes the poem so touching is how the shift happens slowly, almost quietly, as the old voices fade and your own begins to rise. The stars breaking through the clouds feel like the first signs of selfâtrust returning. Itâs a reminder that listening to yourself can feel lonely at first, but itâs the only way to truly step into your own life. In the end, the poem becomes a gentle but firm truth: you can only save the life that is yours to live.
Mary Oliver can never not amaze me. đ¤
When I am among Mary Oliver's poems,...
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I love this! Thank you.
This was the perfect poem for me this morning. Thanks for putting it out in the universe.
this was beautiful. thank you for sharing đđģ
Mary Oliver really never misses huh?? No one can turn people to inward reflection and outward attention (the perfect prayer) better than she can imo!
Sidenote, I wrote an analysis of it once âĻ wherever could one read that I wonder.. https://jeskehulst.substack.com/p/the-journey-of-becoming?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android&r=4220es