Pulitzer prize winning poet Mary Oliver was born and went to college in Ohio, but lived most of her life near the sea on Cape Cod and in Florida. I don’t know of any poems she wrote about lighthouses that can accompany the images I took of three iconic lighthouses in Maine. However, her book House of Light was written when she lived on the Cape, and as with all her poetry, is filled with images of nature.
“Make of yourself a light,”
said the Buddha,
before he died.
I think of this every morning
as the east begins
to tear off its many clouds
of darkness, to send up the first
signal—a white fan
. . . .
From The Buddha’s Last Instruction, Mary Oliver, The House of Light, 1990
Cape Elizabeth, Portland Head Light
During the early years of Independence, General Washington directed that a light be established at Cape Elizabeth just south of Portland. It was still being constructed as the country was formed under the Constitution and the new Congress passed an infrastructure bill which included up to $1,500 to finish the building of the Portland Head Light. The Light stands today as the oldest on the Maine coast.
Cape Neddick Light, York, Maine
Nearly a century later, after the country was recovering from the Civil War, Congress authorized $15,000 for a Light on the south Maine Coast at Cape Neddick in York County. A century and a half later, more warning lights shine, and the country lacks ability to authorize essential infrastructure spending.
. . . . What kind of nonsense is this?
Everybody needs a job.
Yes, a person wants to stand in a happy place, in a poem.
But first we must watch her as she stares down at her labor,
which is dull enough.
. . . .
If the world were only pain and logic, who would want it?
Of course, it isn’t.
Neither do I mean anything miraculous, but only
the light that can shine out of a life. . . .
From Singapore. Mary Oliver, The House of Light, 1990
The Nubble
The Cape Neddick Light sits on a small island just a 100 yards off the coast—called a nubble. The Lighthouse has taken this name, so it is often just called “The Nubble.” Having seen probably hundreds of images of this iconic Light house, I was still surprised how very close it is, yet inaccessible since it is on its own little island. The clouds opened for one brief shaft of light on the light when we visited.
Cape Cod National Seashore, Massachusetts
A brief interlude away from Maine, south a bit to Cape Cod near where Mary Oliver lived when she wrote The House of Light. In one poem, she finds a hermit crab on the beach. After looking into its shell, she puts it back on the tideline to hurry “. . . toward the future . . .
and what a rebellion
to leap into it
and hold on,
connecting everything,
the past to the future—
which is of course the miracle—
which is the only argument there is
against the sea.
From, The Hermit Crab, Mary Oliver, The House of Light, 1990
Bass Rock Head Light, Acadia National Park
Farther up the coast—down east—in Acadia National Park, is another iconic lighthouse. Bass Rock Head faces south along this coast that runs east-west here, and the autumn sun is moving south, so it lights the light even mid-day.
Former U.S. Poet Laurette Billy Collins established a project he called Poetry 180, selecting 180 poems so high school students could read or listen to one poem a day. He selected Mary Oliver’s The Summer Day from The House of Light for number 133. It’s probably her most quoted poem. You can read the entire poem here, but for now, an excerpt:
I don’t know exact what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
From, The Summer Day, Mary Oliver, The House of Light, 1990
Ship Harbor, Acadia National Park
Just a bit east of Bass Rock Head is Ship Harbor. A trail leads to the rocky coast where we sat to watch the tide go out.
Her remarkable poem of a snowy owl as Death, ends:
and let ourselves be carried,
. . .
to the river
that is without the least dapple or shadow—
that is nothing but light—scalding aortal light—
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.
From, White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field, Mary Oliver, The House of Light, 1990