Nothing in me wasted,
           a use for grief, even.
I wore it on my left hand.
                       I was married to it.
       I planted myself
in the dirt:
          alphabets grew up
from the bones of my feet.
                    I drowned my heart
      in the lake.
Robin Ekiss, from “The Bones of August,” The Mansion of Happiness (University of Georgia Press, 2009)

cosmicroots asked:

Hi Alec, after your Wallace Stevens recommendations I purchased a collection of all the works you mentioned and could not be more satisfied. Thank you again. I am here to ask - have you read any of Mary Oliver's poetry? If so, what would you recommend? Best, Jamie.

likeafieldmouse answered:

Thank you, I’m so glad you’re enjoying Stevens.

I’m not a fan of Oliver’s poetry. To put it bluntly, I couldn’t hate it more. 


I believe in kindness. Also in mischief. Also in singing, especially when singing is not necessarily prescribed.”


"I want to think again of dangerous and noble things.
I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbable, beautiful and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings.”


Still, what I want in my life
is to be willing
to be dazzled—
to cast aside the weight of facts

and maybe even
to float a little
above this difficult world.”


This kind of gag-worthy, trite stuff is just not for me; I’m in enough pain. So, needless to say, since you’re asking me, I recommend none of it.

Mary Oliver is a poet pretending to be wise. She isn’t wise at all. 

Go with Dickinson instead. Go with Whitman or Hart Crane or, Hell, anyone else. 

           [The future] is a tango. It is a waterfall between

two countries, the river that tried to drown you.
            It is a city where men speak a language

you can fake if you must. It’s the hands of children
            thieving your empty pockets. It’s bicycles

with bells ringing through the streets at midnight.
            Come up from the basement. It’s not over.
Traci Brimhall, from Through a Glass Darkly” (via weissewiese)