Winter at Jökulsárlón

About ten minutes from where we stayed on Iceland’s south coast is one of the country’s wonders. A tongue of the massive Vatnajökull glacier flows into Jökulsárlón Glacier Bay where icebergs break off and flow on Iceland’s shortest river into the Atlantic. Then waves break the bergs even more, and incoming tides push the broken ice unto the black sand, giving the place its name—Diamond Beach. Unfortunately, for our visit, no ice flowed back to the beach. Nonetheless, the mountains, glacier, bay, and beach were still wondrously beautiful.

Jökulsárlón Bay, Iceland

As we sat at the edge of the water, a school of fish fluttered and jumped in front of us, and soon seals were feeding. Far across the Atlantic, past Greenland, on Cape Cod, Mary Oliver watched seals and wrote a poem of memory.

Winter at Herring Cove

Years ago,

on the bottle-green light

of the cold January sea,

Breaker on Bagh Steinigidh

two seals

suddenly appeared together

in a single uplifting wave—

Seal on Jökulsárlón

each in exactly the same relaxed position—

each, like a large, black comma,

upright and staring;

it was like a painting

done twice

and, twice, tenderly.

Sunset seal

The wave hung, then it broke apart;

its lip was lightning;

its floor was the blow of sand

over which the seals rose and twirled and were gone.

Of all the reasons for gladness,

what could be foremost of this one,

Dawn Jökulsárlón beach

that the mind can seize both the instant and the memory!

Now the seals are no more than the salt of the sea.

If they live, they’re more distant than Greenland.

Over Greenland

But here’s the kingdom we call remembrance

with its thousand iron doors

through which I pass so easily,

Loch Ba golden ice

switching on the old lights as I go—

while the dead wind rises and the old rapture rewinds,

the stiff waters once more begin to kick and flow.

Herring Cove, Mary Oliver from What Do We Know? 2002

Dawn on Diamond Beach, Jökulsárlón, Iceland

The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac -- by Mary Oliver

Today starts National Poetry Month—no foolin’. I just listened to a rebroadcast of a 2015 podcast interview with poet Mary Oliver. I mentioned in an earlier post that I only learned about Oliver’s poetry after I read her obituary in 2019. Much of her imagery and metaphor come from her walks in nature and her incredible observation.

If you’d like, you can listen to the entire 49 minute podcast here or if you choose, the entire hour and a half unedited interview which is even better: On Being: About halfway through the interview, she reads her four-part poem The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac written after her encounter with lung cancer. Some excerpts of the poem accompany the images below.

Carlsbad Caverns National Park, New Mexico

The question is,
what will it be like
after the last day?
Will I float
into the sky
or will I fray
within the earth or a river—
remembering nothing?

from Part 2, The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac, Mary Oliver

The main reason to visit this park, of course, is the cavern. The second reason is to experience the whir of thousands of bats swarming out of the cave at dusk, some zooming a few feet over your head. An unexpected bonus of the park was walking through the Chihauhaun desert. In the image above, we were blessed with a striking setting sun over the Permian Basin.

Moonrise, White Sands National Park, New Mexico

I know, you never intended to be in this world.
But you’re in it all the same.

so why not get started immediately.

I mean, belonging to it.
There is so much to admire, to weep over.

And to write music or poems about.

Bless the feet that take you to and fro.

from Part 3, The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac, Mary Oliver

The fierce wind the evening pictured above at White Sands blew sand into your clothes. The wind began to settle a bit as the sun set. On a distant dune, three people sat to watch the moon rise in the sky.

Purple Sand Verbena, White Sands National Park

The Purple Sand Verbena is a desert member of the Four O’Clock family. Natives used it as a sedative to reduce nervousness, anxiety, and tension. I suppose that is from consuming it. Seems like just looking at it can have a similar effect.

Late yesterday afternoon, in the heat,
all the fragile blue flowers in bloom
in the shrubs in the yard next door had
tumbled from the shrubs and lay
wrinkled and fading in the grass. But
this morning the shrubs were full of
the blue flowers again. There wasn’t
a single one on the grass. How, I
wondered, did they roll back up to
the branches, that fiercely wanting,
as we all do, just a little more of
life?

Part 4, The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac, Mary Oliver

If you’d like to read the entire poem—and I encourage it—you can find it here at A Poem a Day. And an interpretive footnote—Keats was 29 when he died.

The Ocean From Which We Came

The Maine beaches were generally moody and overcast on our visit in October.

Wells Beach, Maine

The poet Mary Oliver frequently used shore imagery. She lived much of her life near the Massachusetts coast. Here’s her poem The Poet Compares Human Nature To The Ocean From Which We Came.

The sea can do craziness, it can do smooth,

it can lies down like silk breathing

. . .

Silky - Wells Beach, Maine

. . .

or toss havoc shoreward; it can give

. . .

Toss havoc - on The Marginal Way

. . .

gifts or withhold all; it can rise, ebb, froth

. . .

Sanderlings in flight - froth

. . .

like an incoming frenzy of fountains, or it can

. . .

Fountains — The Marginal Way, Ogunquit, Maine

. . .

sweet-talk entirely. As I can too,

. . .

Ring-billed Gull sweet talking

. . .

and so, no doubt, can you, and you.

Mary Oliver, The Poet Compares Human Nature To The Ocean From Which We Came, from A Thousand Mornings, 2012

On the Marginal Way, Ogunquit, Maine

House of Light -- or Lighthouse

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

The Waterfall -- Mary Oliver

I’ve shared some images from Obed Wild and Scenic River, a national park area in the Cumberland Plateau in Eastern Tennessee. With lots of opportunities for whitewater sports and rock climbing, the hiking trails are limited. A ranger suggested nearby Frozen Head State Park for hiking. We were off to find some waterfalls.

It was a warm, humid, sunny afternoon, and contrasty light is not favorable for photographing waterfalls. However, the forecast called for some storms and rain, so we headed out hopeful that conditions would change. We past a couple small falls on the way, but the light was too bright, so perhaps a visit on the way back.

We got to a nice twin fall with a big pool as clouds were moving in. About ten young kids were playing around the fall as parents watched nearby. Chance and I took a seat to watch when thunder echoed between the mountains. And — no kids and nice light.

Debord Falls

Few poets can imbue a poem with nature imagery as Mary Oliver. In 1991, Poetry published Oliver’s The Waterfall — For May Swenson. When Poetry received a massive endowment many years ago, all it’s prior publications went online so we can mine this treasure.

For all they said

I could not see the waterfall

until I came and saw the water falling,

its lace legs and its womanly arms sheeting down,

while something howled like thunder,

over the rocks,

all day and night—

unspooling

like ribbons made of snow,

or god’s white hair.

At any distance

it fell without a break or seam, and slowly, a simple

preponderance—

a fall of flowers—and truly it seemed

surprised by the unexpected kindness of the air and

light-hearted to be

flying at last.

Gravity is a fact everybody

knows about.

It is always underfoot,

like a summons,

gravel-backed and mossy,

in every beetled basin—

and imagination—

that striver,

that third eye—

can do a lot but

hardly everything. The white, scrolled

wings of the tumbling water

I never could have

imagined. And maybe there will be,

after all,

some slack and perfectly balanced

blind and rough peace, finally,

in the deep and green and utterly motionless pools after all that

falling?

Mary Oliver, The Waterfall, Poetry, January 1991