In memory of Mary Oliver

The American poet Mary Oliver was no stranger to melancholy — but often her kind of melancholy seems to be of a more vital quality, than the kind of melancholia observed in Sebald’s univers. Listen to this: The Uses of Sorrow (In my sleep I dreamed this poem) Someone I loved once game mea box…

cloud~watching

All day I tried to paint the sky, clouds passing by. Every attempt a mistake stilted, awkward – – unreal Then I went out and looked up: And as for the first time I noticed;   the sky really doesn’t look real at all –  

Ars Poetica VII

From Mary Oliver: “My Friend Walt Whitman” … I learned from Whitman that the poem is a temple—or a green field—a place to enter, and in which to feel. Only in a secondary way is it an intellectual thing—an artifact, a moment of seemly and robust wordiness—wonderful as that part of it is. I learned…

Mary Oliver

I GO DOWN TO THE SHORE I go down to the shore in the morning and depending on the hour the waves are rolling in or moving out, and I say, oh, I am miserable, what shall— what should I do? And the sea says in its lovely voice: Excuse me, I have work to…

Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift. ― Mary Oliver

a patch of profound and unbroken solitude

Autumn is here, and I have started writing critiques again. After a sabbatical year of self-indulged writing, I’m going to my assignments with a stronger literary awareness, which hopefully also will profit my readers. A critic is not a poet, or need not be, but if you are a writer, writing is what you do,…

I want to listen to the enormous waterfalls of the sun

Today I read “Dogfish” by Mary Oliver in the light of my own ongoing preoccupation with meaninglessness, fear & creative excess. Here is a short excerpt from the original poem: (…) I wanted the past to go away, I wanted to leave it, like another country; I wanted my life to close, and open like a…

(creative?!???) MESS, or: a state of confusion and disorderliness

I’ve started working on a short essay on Maggie Nelson’s Bluets. the book keeps popping up in my imagination, so I’ve decided to try to write myself through my fascination. As for now I haven’t got any written stuff to show you, but this is what my desk looks like at the moment: in comparison…

For Kim

– who asked for pictures of my books/bookcases I do not think Mrs Woolf would have appreciated it, but it is the truth, and I’d better tell you: There is no door into my new study. Its an open attic, everyone can enter – whenever … At the moment I’m focusing on learning how to write…

Synchronicity

Yesterday I got worried when finding traces & hints of Samuel Beckett, a great favourite of mine, in my own writing. (Beckett really is a figure one wouldn’t try to imitate – bla – bla – bla). Today, a happy day of strange coincidences (Jung would probably call it synchronicity*), I read this in Mary Oliver’s A…