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Mary Oliver ?

Un des aspects les plus étonnants de la poésie de Mary Oliver est la continuité de ton, à travers une période d’écriture étonnamment longue. Ce qui change néanmoins, c’est une insistance plus marquée sur la nature et une plus grande précision dans l’écriture, au point qu’elle est devenue un de nos meilleurs poètes… Pas de plaintes dans les poèmes de Madame Oliver, pas de pleurnicheries, mais d’aucune manière l’impression que la vie soit facile… Ces poèmes nous soutiennent, plutôt que de nous divertir. Même si peu de poètes ont aussi peu d’êtres humains dans leurs poèmes que Mary Oliver, il faut constater que peu de poètes sont aussi efficaces pour nous aider à avancer.

Stephen Dobyns, New York Times Book Review (trad. P. Thonart)

[d’après BUSTLE.COM, 17 janvier 2019] La poétesse américaine Mary Oliver (1935-2019) vient de décéder à l’âge de 83 ans. Elle s’était vu décerner le Prix Pulitzer ainsi que le National Book Award. Sur le site du San Francisco Chronicle, on peut lire que Bill Reichblum, son exécuteur littéraire, précise que Mary Oliver était décédée le 17 janvier, des suites d’un lymphome, à son domicile de Hobe Sound, en Floride.

Mary Oliver était l’auteure de plus de 15 recueils de poésie et d’essais. Elle était réputée pour son amour de la nature et des animaux, ainsi que pour sa manière joyeuse d’appréhender la vie et le monde. Son oeuvre est reconnaissable par sa simplicité : Mary Oliver estimait que “La poésie, pour être comprise, doit être claire.” Selon la National Public Radio, la poétesse a un jour déclaré : “Il ne s’agit pas de faire chic. J’ai le sentiment que beaucoup de poètes d’aujourd’hui sont un peu comme des danseurs de claquettes. Je trouve que tout ce qui n’est pas nécessaire est superflu et ne doit pas être dans le poème.”

Mary Oliver est née à Maple Heights, dans l’Ohio, le 10 septembre 1935. Son enfance a été marquée par un père abuseur sexuel et une mère négligente : Mary s’est réfugiée dans la poésie et la nature. Jeune poète, on la disait fortement inspirée par une autre poétesse, Edna St. Vincent Millay. Elle a d’ailleurs brièvement habité chez cette dernière, aidant ses proches à trier les archives de l’auteure après son décès, en 1950. Au milieu des années 50, Mary Oliver a suivi les cours de la Ohio State University et du Vassar College, sans obtenir de diplôme néanmoins.

Paru en 1963, son premier recueil, No Voyage, and Other Poems, a marqué le début d’une carrière prolifique, couronnée par un Prix Pulitzer, un National Book Award, un American Academy of Arts & Letters Award, un Lannan Literary Award, le Poetry Society of America’s Shelley Memorial Prize et l’Alice Fay di Castagnola Award, sans compter des bourses accordées, entre autres, par la Guggenheim Foundation et le National Endowment for the Arts. Mary Oliver était également détentrice de la Catharine Osgood Foster Chair for Distinguished Teaching au Bennington College jusqu’en 2001.

Dans son poème de 2006 intitulé When Death Comes (Quand la mort viendra), Mary Oliver écrit :

Quand ce sera fini, je veux pouvoir dire que, toute ma vie, je suis restée l’épouse de l’étonnement. Et j’ai été le marié qui prend le monde entier dans ses bras.
Quand ce sera fini, je ne veux pas me demander si j’ai fait de ma vie quelque chose de particulier, et de réel.
Je ne veux pas me retrouver soupirant, effrayée ou pleine de justifications.
Je ne veux pas finir après n’avoir fait que visiter ce monde.

En lisant ceci, une chose est certaine : au cours de sa “vie sauvage, qui est unique et si précieuse“, Mary Oliver a développé une oeuvre qui aura certainement un impact sur les lecteurs -et les auteurs- des générations à venir.

Kerri Jarema, bustle.com (trad. P. Thonart)

Devotions: The Selected Poems of Mary Oliver (2017)

[PENGUINRANDOMHOUSE.COM] A New York Times Bestseller, chosen as Oprah’s “Books That Help Me Through” for Oprah’s Book Club

“No matter where one starts reading, Devotions offers much to love, from Oliver’s exuberant dog poems to selections from the Pulitzer Prize-winning American Primitive, and Dream Work, one of her exceptional collections. Perhaps more important, the luminous writing provides respite from our crazy world and demonstrates how mindfulness can define and transform a life, moment by moment, poem by poem.” —The Washington Post

“It’s as if the poet herself has sidled beside the reader and pointed us to the poems she considers most worthy of deep consideration.” —Chicago Tribune

Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Mary Oliver presents a personal selection of her best work in this definitive collection spanning more than five decades of her esteemed literary career.

Throughout her celebrated career, Mary Oliver has touched countless readers with her brilliantly crafted verse, expounding on her love for the physical world and the powerful bonds between all living things. Identified as “far and away, this country’s best selling poet” by Dwight Garner, she now returns with a stunning and definitive collection of her writing from the last fifty years.

Carefully curated, these 200 plus poems feature Oliver’s work from her very first book of poetry, No Voyage and Other Poems, published in 1963 at the age of 28, through her most recent collection, Felicity, published in 2015. This timeless volume, arranged by Oliver herself, showcases the beloved poet at her edifying best. Within these pages, she provides us with an extraordinary and invaluable collection of her passionate, perceptive, and much-treasured observations of the natural world.

Don’t hesitate

If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy,
don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty
of lives and whole towns destroyed or about
to be. We are not wise, and not very often
kind. And much can never be redeemed.
Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this
is its way of fighting back, that sometimes
something happens better than all the riches
or power in the world. It could be anything,
but very likely you notice it in the instant
when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case.
Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid
of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.

– N’hésite pas

Si, soudainement, tu es pris d’une joie inattendue,
N’hésite pas. Abandonne-toi. Il y a plein
de vies et de villes entières détruites ou en passe
de l’être. Nous ne sommes pas sages, et pas si souvent
gentils. Et beaucoup ne pourra être pardonné.
Pourtant, la vie a de la ressource. C’est peut-être
sa manière à elle de rendre les coups, qui fait que parfois
quelque chose se passe qui est plus grand que toutes les richesses
ou tous les pouvoirs du monde. Ça peut être n’importe quoi,
mais tu le ressens certainement à l’instant précis
où l’amour commence. De toute façon, c’est souvent le cas.
De toute façon, quoi que ce soit, n’aie pas peur
de son abondance. La joie n’est pas faite pour être une miette.

When I am Among the Trees

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”

– Quand je suis parmi les arbres

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”

A Thousand Mornings (2012)

[PENGUINRANDOMHOUSE.COM] The New York Times-bestselling collection of poems from celebrated poet Mary Oliver. In A Thousand Mornings, Mary Oliver returns to the imagery that has come to define her life’s work, transporting us to the marshland and coastline of her beloved home, Provincetown, Massachusetts. Whether studying the leaves of a tree or mourning her treasured dog Percy, Oliver is open to the teachings contained in the smallest of moments and explores with startling clarity, humor, and kindness the mysteries of our daily experience.

I Go Down To The Shore

I go down to the shore in the morning
and depending on the hour the waves
are rolling in or moving out,
and I say, oh, I am miserable,
what shall–
what should I do? And the sea says
in its lovely voice:
Excuse me, I have work to do.

– Le matin, je descends sur la plage

Le matin, je descends sur la plage
où, selon l’heure, les vagues
montent ou descendent,
et je leur dis, oh, comme je suis triste,
que vais-je–
que dois-je faire ? Et la mer me dit,
de sa jolie voix :
Excuse-moi, j’ai à faire.

Thirst : Poems (2007)

[GOODREADS.COM] Thirst, a collection of forty-three new poems from the Pulitzer Prize-winner Mary Oliver, introduces two new directions in the poet’s work. Grappling with grief at the death of the love of her life and partner of over forty years, the remarkable photographer Molly Malone Cook, she strives to experience sorrow as a path to spiritual progress, grief as part of loving and not its end. And within these pages she chronicles for the first time her discovery of faith, without abandoning the love of the physical world that has been a hallmark of her work for four decades. In three stunning long poems, Oliver explores the dimensions and tests the parameters of religious doctrine, asking of being good, for example, “To what purpose? / Hope of Heaven? Not that. But to enter / the other kingdom: grace, and imagination, / and the multiple sympathies: to be as a leaf, a rose,/ a dolphin.”

The Uses of Sorrow

(In my sleep I dreamed this poem)

Someone I loved once gave me
a box full of darkness.

It took me years to understand
that this, too, was a gift.

– Des usages du chagrin

(J’ai rêvé ce poème dans mon sommeil)

Quelqu’un que j’aimais, un jour, m’a donné
une boîte pleine d’ombres.

J’ai mis des années à comprendre
que, cela aussi, était un cadeau.

New and Selected Poems, Volume Two (1992)

Mary Oliver has been writing poetry for nearly five decades, and in that time she has become America’s foremost poetic voice on our experience of the physical world. This collection presents forty-two new poems-an entire volume in itself-along with works chosen by Oliver from six of the books she has published since New and Selected Poems, Volume One.

In Praise of Craziness of a Certain Kind

On cold evenings
my grandmother,
with ownership of half her mind-
the other half having flown back to Bohemia-

spread newspapers over the porch floor
so, she said, the garden ants could crawl beneath,
as under a blanket, and keep warm,

and what shall I wish for, for myself,
but, being so struck by the lightning of years,
to be like her with what is left, that loving.

– En hommage à une certaine folie

Les soirs d’hiver,
ma grand’mère,
qui n’avait plus toute sa tête
(une partie s’en était retournée vers la Bohème),

étalait des journaux sur le sol de la véranda
pour que les fourmis, disait-elle, puissent s’y glisser,
comme sous une couverture, et rester au chaud,

et moi, que pourrais-je me souhaiter,
si ce n’est, une fois frappée par l’éclair des années,
d’être comme elle, avec ce qui lui restait, tout cet amour.

New and Selected Poems, Volume One (1992)

[BEACON.ORG] Winner of the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize.

When New and Selected Poems, Volume One was originally published in 1992, Mary Oliver was awarded the National Book Award. In the fourteen years since its initial appearance it has become one of the best-selling volumes of poetry in the country. This collection features thirty poems published only in this volume as well as selections from the poet’s first eight books.

Mary Oliver’s perceptive, brilliantly crafted poems about the natural landscape and the fundamental questions of life and death have won high praise from critics and readers alike. “Do you love this world?” she interrupts a poem about peonies to ask the reader. “Do you cherish your humble and silky life?” She makes us see the extraordinary in our everyday lives, how something as common as light can be “an invitation/to happiness,/and that happiness,/when it’s done right,/is a kind of holiness,/palpable and redemptive.” She illuminates how a near miss with an alligator can be the catalyst for seeing the world “as if for the second time/the way it really is.” Oliver’s passionate demonstrations of delight are powerful reminders of the bond between every individual, all living things, and the natural world. Contains the beloved poems “The Journey” and “Wild Geese.”

Rain

1

All afternoon it rained, then
such power came down from the couds
on a yellow thread,
as authoritative as God is supposed to be.
When it hit the tree, her body
opened forever.

2 The Swamp

Last night, in the rain, some of the men climbed over
the barbed-wire fence of the detention center.
ln the darkness they wondered if they could do it, and knew
they had to try to do it.
ln the darkness they climbed the wire, handful after handful
of barbed wire.
Even in the darkness most of them were caught and sent back
to the camp inside.
But a few are still climbing the barbed wire, or wading through the blue swamp on the other side.

What does barbed wire feel like when you grip it, as though
it were a loaf of bread, or a pair of shoes?
What does barbed wire feel like when you grip it, as though
it were a plate and a fork, or a handful of flowers?
What does barbed wire feel like when you grip it, as though
it were the handle of a door, working papers, a clean sheet
you want to draw over your body?

3

Or this one: on a rainy day, my uncle
lying in the flower bed,
cold and broken,
dragged from the idling car
with its plug of rags, and its gleaming
length of hose. My father
shouted,
then the ambulance came,
then we all looked at death,
then the ambulance took him away.
From the porch of the house
I turned back once again
looking for my father, who had lingered,
who was still standing in the flowers,
who was that motionless muddy man,
who was that tiny figure in the rain.

4 Early Morning, My Birthday

The snails on the pink sleds of their bodies are moving
among the morning glories.
The spider is asleep among the red thumbs
of the raspberries.
What shall I do, what shall I do?

The rain is slow.
The little birds are alive in it.
Even the beetles.
The green leaves lap it up.
What shall I do, what shall I do?

The wasp sits on the porch of her paper castle.
The blue heron floats out of the clouds.
The fish leap, all rainbow and mouth, from the dark water.

This morning the water lilies are no less lovely, I think,
than the lilies of Monet.
And I do not want anymore to be useful, to be docile, to lead
children out of the fields into the text
of civility, to teach them that they are (they are not) better
than the grass.

5 At the Edge of the Ocean

I have heard this music before,
saith the body.

6 The Garden

The kale’s
puckered sleeve,
the pepper’s
hollow bell,
the lacquered onion.

Beets, borage, tomatoes.
Green beans.

I came in and I put everything
on the counter: chives, parsley, dill,
the squash like a pale moon,
peas in their silky shoes, the dazzling
rain-drenched corn.

7 The Forest

At night
under the trees
the black snake
jellies forward
rubbing
roughly
the stems of the bloodroot,
the yellow leaves,
little boulders of bark,
to take off
the old life.
I don’t know
if he knows
what is happening.
I don’t know
if he knows
it will work.
In the distance
the moon and the stars
give a little light.
In the distance
the owl cries out.

In the distance
the owl cries out.
The snake knows
these are the owl’s woods,
these are the woods of death,
these are the woods of hardship
where you crawl and crawl,
where you live in the husks of trees,
where you lie on the wild twigs
and they cannot bear your weight,
where life has no purpose
and is neither civil nor intelligent.

Where life has no purpose,
and is neither civil nor intelligent,
it begins
to rain,
it begins
to smell like the bodies
of flowers.
At the back of the neck
the old skin splits.
The snake shivers
but does not hesitate.
He inches forward.
He begins to bleed through
like satin.

When Death Comes

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox;

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it’s over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

– Quand la mort viendra

Quand la mort viendra
avide comme l’ours en automne ;
quand la mort viendra et sortira toutes les pièces brillantes de sa bourse

pour m’acheter, puis que, d’un geste, elle la refermera ;
quand la mort viendra
comme la rougeole ;

quand la mort viendra
comme un iceberg entre les omoplates,

je veux passer la porte pleine de curiosité, en me demandant :
mais comment sera-t-elle, cette cabane de ténèbres ?

Pour ça, je regarde tout
comme un frère et une sœur,
et le temps, je le vois comme une simple idée,
et l’éternité comme une autre possibilité,

et je vois chaque vie comme une fleur, aussi commune
qu’une pâquerette, et aussi singulière,

et chaque nom est une musique douce à ma bouche,
tendant, comme toute les musiques, vers le silence,

et chaque corps est un lion plein de courage, et quelque chose
de précieux pour la terre.

Quand ce sera fini, je veux pouvoir dire que, toute ma vie,
je suis restée l’épouse de l’étonnement.
Et j’ai été le marié qui prend le monde entier dans ses bras.

Quand ce sera fini, je ne veux pas me demander
si j’ai fait de ma vie quelque chose de particulier, et de réel.
Je ne veux pas me retrouver soupirant, effrayée
ou pleine de justifications.

Je ne veux pas finir après n’avoir fait que visiter ce monde.

House of light (1990)

This collection of poems by Mary Oliver once again invites the reader to step across the threshold of ordinary life into a world of natural and spiritual luminosity.

The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly 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?

– Jour d’été

Qui a créé le monde ?
Qui a créé le cygne, et l’ours noir ?
Qui a créé la sauterelle ?
Je veux dire – cette sauterelle-là,
celle qui a surgi de ces herbes-là,
celle qui croque du sucre au creux de ma main,
elle dont les mandibules vont d’avant en arrière, pas de haut en bas,
elle qui regarde autour d’elle avec ses yeux énormes et très compliqués.
La voilà qui lève ses pâles pattes avant et se nettoie consciencieusement la face.
La voilà qui ouvre ses ailes et s’envole en flottant dans l’air.
Je ne sais pas exactement ce qu’est une prière.
Mais je sais comment faire attention, comment rouler
dans l’herbe, comment tomber à genoux dans l’herbe,
comment flâner et me sentir bénie, me promener dans les champs ;
c’est ce que j’ai fait le jour durant.
Dis-moi, qu’aurais-je dû faire d’autre ?
Est-ce que tout ne meurt pas un jour, toujours trop tôt ?
Dis-moi, toi, que veux-tu faire
de ta vie sauvage, qui est unique et si précieuse ?

Roses, Late Summer

What happens
to the leaves after
they turn red and golden and fall
away? What happens

to the singing birds
when they can’t sing
any longer? What happens
to their quick wings?

Do you think there is any
personal heaven
for any of us?
Do you think anyone,

the other side of that darkness,
will call to us, meaning us?
Beyond the trees
the foxes keep teaching their children

to live in the valley.
so they never seem to vanish, they are always there
in the blossom of light
that stands up every morning

in the dark sky.
And over one more set of hills,
along the sea,
the last roses have opened their factories of sweetness

and are giving it back to the world.
If I had another life
I would want to spend it all on some
unstinting happiness.

I would be a fox, or a tree
full of waving branches.
I wouldn’t mind being a rose
in a field full of roses.

Fear has not yet occurred to them, nor ambition.
Reason they have not yet thought of.
Neither do they ask how long they must be roses, and then what.
Or any other foolish question.

– Roses, Fin d’été

What happens
to the leaves after
they turn red and golden and fall
away? What happens

to the singing birds
when they can’t sing
any longer? What happens
to their quick wings?

Do you think there is any
personal heaven
for any of us?
Do you think anyone,

the other side of that darkness,
will call to us, meaning us?
Beyond the trees
the foxes keep teaching their children

to live in the valley.
so they never seem to vanish, they are always there
in the blossom of light
that stands up every morning

in the dark sky.
And over one more set of hills,
along the sea,
the last roses have opened their factories of sweetness

and are giving it back to the world.
If I had another life
I would want to spend it all on some
unstinting happiness.

I would be a fox, or a tree
full of waving branches.
I wouldn’t mind being a rose
in a field full of roses.

Fear has not yet occurred to them, nor ambition.
Reason they have not yet thought of.
Neither do they ask how long they must be roses, and then what.
Or any other foolish question.

Spring

Somewhere
a black bear
has just risen from sleep
and is staring

down the mountain.
All night
in the brisk and shallow restlessness
of early spring

I think of her,
her four black fists
flicking the gravel,
her tongue

like a red fire
touching the grass,
the cold water.
There is only one question:

how to love this world.
I think of her
rising
like a black and leafy ledge

to sharpen her claws against
the silence
of the trees.
Whatever else

my life is
with its poems
and its music
and its glass cities,

it is also this dazzling darkness
coming
down the mountain,
breathing and tasting;

all day I think of her—
her white teeth,
her wordlessness,
her perfect love.

– Printemps

Quelque part,
une ourse noire
vient de se réveiller
et regarde

vers la vallée.
La nuit durant,
dans le frémissement et l’agitation
du printemps naissant,

je pense à elle,
à ses quatre poings
foulant le gravier,
à sa langue rouge

comme le feu
qui frôle l’herbe
et l’eau fraîche.
Il n’y a qu’une question :

comment aimer ce monde.
Je pense à elle
qui se dresse
comme une corniche noire de feuilles

et qui carde de ses griffes
le silence
des arbres.
Quelle que soit

ma vie par ailleurs,
avec ses poèmes
et sa musique
et ses cités de verre,

elle est aussi cette ombre éclatante
qui descend
les flancs de la montagne,
soufflant et goûtant ;

le jour durant je pense à elle –
à ses crocs blancs,
à son silence,
à son amour parfait.

Dream Work (1986)

Dream Work, a collection of forty-five poems, follows both chronologically and logically Mary Oliver’s American Primitive, which won for her the Pulitzer Prize for the finest book of poetry published in 1983 by an American poet. The depth and diversity of perceptual awareness-so steadfast and radiant in American Primitive-continue in Dream Work. Additionally, she has turned her attention in these poems to the solitary and difficult labors of the spirit-to accepting the truth about one’s personal world, and to valuing the triumphs while transcending the failures of human relationships. Whether by way of inheritance-as in her poem about the Holocaust-or through a painful glimpse into the present-as in “Acid,” a poem about an injured boy begging in the streets of Indonesia-the events and tendencies of history take on a new importance also. More deeply than in her previous volumes, the sensibility behind these poems has merged with the world. Mary Oliver’s willingness to be joyful continues, deepened by self-awareness, by experience, and by choice.

Consequences

Afterward,
I found under my left shoulder
the most curious wound.
As though I had leaned against
some whirring thing,
it bleeds secretly.
Nobody knows its name.

Afterward,
for a reason more right than rational,
I thought of that fat German
in his ill-fitting overcoat
in the woods near Vienna, realizing
that the birds were going farther and farther away, and
no matter how fast he walked
he couldn’t keep up.

How does any of us live in this world?
One thing compensates for another, I suppose.
Sometimes what’s wrong does not hurt at all, but rather
shines like a new moon.

I often think of Beethoven
rising, when he couldn’t sleep,
stumbling through the dust and crumpled papers,
yawning, settling at the piano,
inking in rapidly note after note after note.

– Conséquences

Par après,
J’ai senti sous mon épaule gauche
la plus curieuse des blessures.
Comme si je m’étais appuyée
sur un objet vibrant trop fort,
elle saignait secrètement.
Personne ne connaît son nom.

Par après,
par droiture plutôt que par raison,
j’ai repensé à ce gros Allemand
dans son pardessus mal ajusté,
dans les bois, près de Vienne, réalisant
que les oiseaux s’éloignaient encore et encore, et
que même en marchant plus vite
il ne les rattraperait jamais.

Comment vivons-nous chacun dans ce monde ?
Chaque chose en compense une autre, je suppose.
Quelquefois un malheur ne fait pas de tort du tout, mais au contraire
brille comme la lune nouvelle.

Je pense souvent à Beethoven
se levant, quand il ne pouvait dormir,
trébuchant dans la poussière et les partitions froissées,
baillant, s’asseyant au piano,
traçant rapidement note après note après note.

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

– Les oies sauvages

Pourquoi dois-tu faire le bien ?
Pourquoi veux-tu faire pénitence
Et traverser des déserts à genoux ?
Laisse plutôt le doux animal dans ton corps
Aimer ce qu’il aime.
Parle-moi du désespoir, du tien, et je te parlerai du mien,
Pendant que le monde continue de tourner.
Pendant que le soleil et les perles claires de la pluie
Balaient les paysages,
Les prairies, les arbres bien enracinés,
Les montagnes et les rivières.
Pendant que les oies sauvages, dans le ciel ouvert,
S’en retournent encore, comme chaque fois.
Qui que tu sois et quelle que soit ta solitude,
Le monde s’offre à ton imagination,
Il t’appelle du cri des oies sauvages, âpre et attirant.
Sans cesse, il te répète que ta place
Est là, dans la grande famille des choses qui sont.

American Primitive (1983)

Winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry Mary Oliver’s most acclaimed volume of poetry, American Primitive contains fifty visionary poems about nature, the humanity in love, and the wilderness of America, both within our bodies and outside. American Primitive enchants me with the purity of its lyric voice, the loving freshness of its perceptions, and the singular glow of a spiritual life brightening the pages. — Stanley Kunitz These poems are natural growths out of a loam of perception and feeling, and instinctive skill with language makes them seem effortless. Reading them is a sensual delight.

May Swenson

In Blackwater Woods

Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars

of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,

the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders

of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is

nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned

in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side

is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

– Dans les bois marécageux

Regarde, les arbres
transforment
leurs propres corps
en colonnes

de lumière,
dégagent de riches
effluves de cannelle
et de plénitude,

les longs cierges
des roseaux
éclosent et voguent au large sur
les épaules bleues

des étangs,
et chaque étang,
quel que soit
son nom, est

sans nom désormais.
Chaque année
tout ce que j’ai
pu apprendre

dans ma vie
me ramène à cela: les incendies
et la rivière noire de la perte
dont l’autre rive

est le salut
et dont le sens
nous échappera à jamais.
Pour vivre dans ce monde

il faut savoir
faire trois choses:
aimer ce qui est mortel,
le serrer

contre ses os en sachant
que notre vie en dépend,
puis, lorsque le temps est venu de le laisser
le laisser partir.

(traduction Mandoline Whittlesey en écho à la traduction de Elise Argaud)

Twelve Moons (1979)

In her fourth volume of poetry, Twelve Moons, Pulitzer Prize-winning Mary Oliver continues to explore the alluring, yet well-nigh inaccessible kingdoms of nature and human relationships, and man’s profound, persistent desire for a joyous union with them. These vibrant, magical poems pulse with an aching awareness of nature’s unaffected beauty. Her absorbing intimate vision leads us into the natural and human kingdoms we only fleetingly grasp.

Sleeping in the Forest

I thought the earth
remembered me, she
took me back so tenderly, arranging
her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds. I slept
as never before, a stone
on the riverbed, nothing
between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated
light as moths among the branches
of the perfect trees. All night
I heard the small kingdoms breathing
around me, the insects, and the birds
who do their work in the darkness. All night
I rose and fell, as if in water, grappling
with a luminous doom. By morning
I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.

– Dormir dans la forêt

Je pensais que la terre
se souvenait de moi, elle
me reprenait si tendrement, arrangeant
ses jupes sombres, les poches
pleines de lichens et de graines. J’ai dormi
comme jamais auparavant, comme un galet
sur le lit de la rivière, rien
entre moi et le feu blanc des étoiles,
rien que mes pensées, et elle flottaient,
aussi légères que des papillons de nuit, dans les branches
des arbres parfaits. Toute la nuit,
j’ai entendu respirer les petits royaumes
tout autour de moi, les insectes, et les oiseaux
qui besognent dans l’obscurité. Toute la nuit,
je me relevais, je replongeais, comme dans l’eau, aux prises
avec un lumineux halo. Au matin,
j’avais disparu au moins une douzaine de fois
dans quelque chose de meilleur.

No Voyage and Other Poems (1963)

A private person by nature, Mary Oliver has given very few interviews over the years. Instead, she prefers to let her work speak for itself. And speak it has, for the past five decades, to countless readers. The New York Times recently acknowledged Mary Oliver as “far and away, this country’s best-selling poet.” Born in a small town in Ohio, Oliver published her first book of poetry in 1963 at the age of 28; No Voyage and Other Poems, originally printed in the UK by Dent Press, was reissued in the United States in 1965 by Houghton Mifflin. Oliver has since published many works of poetry and prose. As a young woman, Oliver studied at Ohio State University and Vassar College, but took no degree. She lived for several years at the home of Edna St. Vincent Millay in upper New York state, companion to the poet’s sister Norma Millay. It was there, in the late ’50s, that she met photographer Molly Malone Cook. For more than forty years, Cook and Oliver made their home together, largely in Provincetown, Massachusetts, where they lived until Cook’s death in 2005. Over the course of her long and illustrious career, Oliver has received numerous awards. Her fourth book, American Primitive, won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1984. She has also received the Shelley Memorial Award; a Guggenheim Fellowship; an American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters Achievement Award; the Christopher Award and the L.L. Winship/PEN New England Award for House of Light; the National Book Award for New and Selected Poems; a Lannan Foundation Literary Award; and the New England Booksellers Association Award for Literary Excellence. Oliver’s essays have appeared in Best American Essays 1996, 1998, 2001; the Anchor Essay Annual 1998, as well as Orion, Onearth and other periodicals. Oliver was editor of Best American Essays 2009. Oliver’s books on the craft of poetry, A Poetry Handbook and Rules for the Dance, are used widely in writing programs. She is an acclaimed reader and has read in practically every state as well as other countries. She has led workshops at various colleges and universities, and held residencies at Case Western Reserve University, Bucknell University, University of Cincinnati, and Sweet Briar College. From 1995, for five years, she held the Catharine Osgood Foster Chair for Distinguished Teaching at Bennington College. She has been awarded Honorary Doctorates from The Art Institute of Boston (1998), Dartmouth College (2007) and Tufts University (2008). Oliver currently lives in Provincetown, Massachusetts, the inspiration for much of her work.

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice —
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voice behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do —
determined to save
the only life that you could save.

– Le voyage

***Un jour tu as finalement su
Ce que tu avais à faire et à commencer,
Bien que les voix autour de toi
te hurlaient encore
Leurs mauvais conseils-
Bien que tout la maison
avait commencé à trembler
et que tu avais encore
le boulet à tes chevilles.
« Répare ma Vie ! »
pleurait chaque voix.
Mais tu ne t’es pas arrêtée.
Tu savais ce que tu avais à faire,
bien que le vent attaquait
de ses doigts obstinés
Les fondations les plus intimes,
bien que leur mélancolie
était atroce.
C’était déjà assez tard,
et une nuit violente,
et la route pleine de branches tombées
et de pierres.
Mais petit à petit,
comme tu laissais les voix derrière,
des étoiles ont commencé à briller
à travers le manteau de nuages,
et il y a eu une voix nouvelle
que tu as lentement
reconnue comme étant la tienne,
qui t’a tenu compagnie
tandis que tu arpentais à grands pas
le monde de plus en plus loin,
déterminée à faire
la seule chose que tu pouvais faire-
déterminée à sauver la seule vie que tu pouvais sauver.

Traduction : Patrick Thonart

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