three poems by Mary Oliver containing roses
& 3 paintings of fleetingly gorgeous flowers
May you inhale the scents of cinnamon and citrus. May what has pricked you before never prick you again. If you are scratched, may a Bandaid be forthcoming.
“Roses and Sparrow” by Utagawa Hiroshige, woodblock print on paper, Japanese, ca. 1833
When the Roses Speak, I Pay Attention
by Mary Oliver
“As long as we are able to
be extravagant we will be
hugely and damply
extravagant. Then we will drop
foil by foil to the ground. This
is our unalterable task, and we do it
joyfully.”
And they went on, “Listen,
the heart-shackles are not, as you think,
death, illness, pain,
unrequited hope, not loneliness, but
lassitude, rue, vainglory, fear, anxiety,
selfishness.”
Their fragrance all the while rising
from their blind bodies, making me
spin with joy.
Roses, Late Summer
by Mary Oliver
What happens
to the leaves after
they turn red and golden and fall
away? What happens
to the singing birds
when they can't sing
any longer? What happens
to their quick wings?
Do you think there is any
personal heaven
for any of us?
Do you think anyone,
the other side of that darkness,
will call to us, meaning us?
Beyond the trees
the foxes keep teaching their children
to live in the valley.
So they never seem to vanish, they are always there
in the blossom of light
that stands up every morning
in the dark sky.
And over one more set of hills,
along the sea,
the last roses have opened their factories of sweetness
and are giving it back to the world.
If I had another life
I would want to spend it all on some
unstinting happiness.
I would be a fox, or a tree
full of waving branches.
I wouldn't mind being a rose
in a field of roses.
Fear has not yet occurred to them, nor ambition.
Reason they have not yet thought of.
Neither do they ask how long they must be roses, and then what.
Or any other foolish question.
The Roses
by Mary Oliver
One day in summer
when everything
has already been more than enough
the wild beds start
exploding open along the berm
of the sea; day after day
you sit near them; day after day
the honey keeps on coming
in the red cups and the bees
like amber drops roll
in the petals: there is no end,
believe me! to the inventions of summer,
to the happiness your body
is willing to bear.
Creative Invitation
We are in deep midwinter when roses are scarce. We approach a precipice wherein our faculties of joy and persistence will be necessary for sustenance. Let us not forget thorns. And let us, daily, look for the flowers, or make them out of paper if we need to.
Where is your field of roses? Where is your singular, scrappy bush tended with scissors and compost tea? From what soil do you draw the kind of joy that you can remember in a snowstorm? Get it at the ready. Get ready to share. Meet us in the garden.
with thanks to Alicia for trying to remember a poem with roses in the title that she once read aloud to the plants in a medicine garden, which sent me looking.
“Roses in a Vase” by Mary Hiester Reid, oil on canvas, 1891
A Sheet of Studies of Flowers: A Rose, a Heartsease, a Sweet Pea, a Garden Pea, and a Lax-flowered Orchid by Jacques Le Moyne de Morgues, French, 16th century, watercolor and gouache over black chalk