![]() They’re pretty good words to be remembered by, if you ask me. ![]() “I think this is / the prettiest world - so long as you don't mind / a little dying, how could there be a day in your whole life / that doesn't have its splash of happiness?” “The kingfisher rises out of the black wave / like a blue flower, in his beak / he carries a silver leaf,” wrote Oliver. Of course, in Oliver’s telling, it’s magic. ![]() In the scope of a lifelong poetic career - one made up of poems focused on the quiet but constant motion of the natural world, on the simple gestures of eating and drinking and living - anyone even remotely familiar with Mary Oliver seems to remember a high school writing exercise or a college essay question about a poem that is, basically, a couple dozen lines about a bird eating a fish. ![]() If you know Mary Oliver’s writing, you probably know "The Kingfisher." I don’t know what it is, exactly, about this particular poem. National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize-winning poet, Mary Oliver died Thursday, at age 83. ![]()
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