Poetry and/as prayer

 I don’t consider myself someone who prays. The language of prayer never did much for me with its patriarchy and relentless repeating of praising a God in whom/which I did not believe. But ever since I was a child, I always valued poetry. 

Poetry ticks a lot of the boxes for me that prayer ticks for others. I love the sacredness of special language in which each word is special and resonant. I love the rhythm and repetition. I love the imagery. I love the evocation of emotion. 

It’s nice that in the age of Instagram poetry is making a bit of a resurgence, with poets like Rupi Kaur creating a stir and causing many many youngsters to fall in love with the written (and spoken) word. 

There are some new-to-me poets I just love, and delight in having discovered recently (check out the poet Maya Stein who sends by email a new ten-line poem every Tuesday). 

And then there are the poets whose work I keep coming back to, again and again, always with a new resonance for the time and space we are in. Poets like Adrienne Rich, WB Yeats, Olive Senior, Raymond Carver, Mary Oliver. 

Many of you might know Mary Oliver, and many might know her famous poem “Wild Geese.” I returned to it recently and, oh, does it ever seem extra poignant given our current circumstances. 

It isn’t a prayer (or is it?) but it feels like one to me. And I’m grateful for these words and for my returning to them. I offer them to you, now: 

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.            

Mary Oliver

Wild Geese

Until next week,

Denise