In Honor of Mary Oliver By Miriam R. Kramer “If I have any lasting worth, it will be because I have tried to make people remember what the Earth is meant to look like.” As this issue goes to press, the beloved poet Mary Oliver has passed away at age 83. Winner of the National Book Award in 1984 and the Pulitzer Prize in 1992, she quietly reigned as the best–selling living poet in the American pantheon. Her clear language and sense of the sublime in ordinary things touched devoted readers. Having grown up sexually abused in a dysfunctional family, she found stability and long-time happiness in both love and writing. Oliver cared passionately about the natural world and drew great pleasure from the beautiful flora and fauna she transfigured into words. She adored dogs in particular. In her honor and for Valentine’s Day, several poems from a recent collection, Felicity, are listed below. I dedicate this column to Genie Rosebrock, a long-time Old Town resident and English teacher who introduced me to Oliver’s works. “The First Day” After you left I jumped up and down, I clapped my hands, I stared into space. In those days I was starving for happiness So, say it was both silly and serious. Say it was the first warm sting of possibility Say I sensed the spreading warmth of joy. “What This Is Not” This is not just surprise and pleasure. This is not just beauty sometimes too hot to touch. This is not a blessing with a beginning and an end. This is not just a wild summer. This is not conditional. “Everything That Was Broken” Everything that was broken has forgotten its brokenness. I live now in a sky-house, through every window the sun. Also your presence….