On Monday night, I was one of 1300 people at the Mary Oliver reading at Plymouth Congregational Church in Minneapolis. In the sanctuary, we were seated shoulder to shoulder. Two other rooms (also packed) piped Oliver in via video feed. Seriously, 1300 people paid to see a poet read her work. I kept saying to my friend Marge, “I can’t believe this. Look at all these people. I can’t believe this.” I’m sure I sounded like my 98-year old grandfather. (Every Wednesday, Stella and I take him for errands, and every Wednesday when we pass the full parking lots of Target and Baker’s Square, he says, “Look at all those cars. Where do all the people come from?” He harrumphs, then adds, “Well, that’s good. Business is good.”)
Business is obviously good for Oliver—1300 people!—but how many other poets could sell out a place this large? Some, certainly, and I would love it if the packed house were a reflection on poetry in general as the recent Star Tribune article seemed to assert, but I think that it’s more likely just evidence of Mary Oliver’s appeal.
And she is appealing. It was hard for me to see her because the people sitting in the rows in front of me were positioned in such a way that I could only see Oliver through a small triangle of hair if I closed one eye. (I looked ridiculous, but no one seemed to notice.)
Mostly, I didn’t need to see; Oliver’s gravely voice filled the sanctuary. I understand why her poetry is used so frequently in church services; her language and imagery are so calming. I felt myself settle into the pew. I’m not a calm person (something I’m sure you’ve guessed about me by now), and I love those rare moments when I am fully in my body and am open to the world, to possibility (without allowing my mind to sprint ahead).
I love this line: “nobody owns the hearts of birds.”
Oliver was also very funny. She read a couple of poems about her dog, Percy, and I was struck by this. I wondered what would happen if I wrote a poem about a dog. I’m pretty sure that people would laugh at me. This would partly be because I’m not a poet and the poem would be very bad. But I also think that it would, in part, be due to the fact that I’m not a known writer. Is writing about one’s dog something you can do only after you have proved yourself, after you have an established loyal readership? Does anyone out there know of a newly published poet writing about his/her dog?
I must leave you with Oliver’s advice to new writers. She said, “Pay attention and cultivate astonishment.” Hmmm, yes. I couldn’t agree more.