Messages

Mary Oliver

Rain is easy. So is death—
Skin and bone
Break open like an old manuscript

And the news begins to travel.
Bull-beasts,
Not tribal but interloping,

Leap into the forest tough
And salty as dragons. And all night
Sex pulls

Like an iron magnet through the fields,
This way and that, wherever 
The does are waiting to wrestle us

Into their warm traps. And the marshes
Spice with their black fragrance
The wheaten miles. And somewhere one tree

Hovers, hollow,
Tall as a lighthouse: the secret
Castle of honey.


The Yale Review is committed to publishing pieces from its archive as they originally appeared, without alterations to spelling, content, or style. Occasionally, errors creep in due to the digitization process; we work to correct these errors as we find them. You can email [email protected] with any you find.
Mary Oliver was an American poet and essayist and the author of more than thirty books. Oliver won the 1984 Pulitzer Prize for poetry and the 1992 National Book Award for Poetry.
TAGS
April 1978
Originally published:
April 1, 1978

Featured

Searching for Seamus Heaney

What I found when I resolved to read him
Elisa Gonzalez

What Happened When I Began to Speak Welsh

By learning my family's language, I hoped to join their conversation.
Dan Fox

When Does a Divorce Begin?

Most people think of it as failure. For me it was an achievement.
Anahid Nersessian

You Might Also Like

Dogs

Elisabeth Frost



Newsletter

Sign up for The Yale Review newsletter to receive our latest articles in your inbox, as well as treasures from the archives, news, events, and more.