|
|
Indlæser... A Thousand Mornings: Poems (original 2012; udgave 2013)| 886 | 29 | 24,186 | 
(4.22) | 83 | 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. In these pages, Oliver shares the wonder of dawn, the grace of animals, and the transformative power of attention. Whether studying the leaves of a tree or mourning her adored dog, Percy, she is ever patient in her observations and open to the teachings contained in the smallest of moments.… (mere) |
▾Bogoplysninger ▾LibraryThing Anbefalinger ▾Vil du synes om den?
Indlæser...
 Bliv medlem af LibraryThing for at finde ud af, om du vil kunne lide denne bog. ▾Samtaler (Om links) Der er ingen diskussionstråde på Snak om denne bog. » Se også 83 omtaler ▾Medlemmernes anmeldelser
▾Offentliggjorte anmeldelser ▾Series and work relationships
|
|
| Kanonisk titel |
Oplysninger fra den engelske Almen Viden Redigér teksten, så den bliver dansk. | |
|
| Originaltitel |
|
| Alternative titler |
Oplysninger fra den engelske Almen Viden Redigér teksten, så den bliver dansk. | |
|
| Oprindelig udgivelsesdato |
|
| Personer/Figurer |
|
| Vigtige steder |
|
| Vigtige begivenheder |
|
| Beslægtede film |
|
| Indskrift |
Oplysninger fra den engelske Almen Viden Redigér teksten, så den bliver dansk. The life that I could still live, I should
live, and the thoughts that I could still
think, I should think.
—C. G. Jung, The Red Book  Anything worth thinking about is worth
singing about.
—Bob Dylan, The Essential Interviews | |
|
| Tilegnelse |
Oplysninger fra den engelske Almen Viden Redigér teksten, så den bliver dansk. For
Anne Taylor | |
|
| Første ord |
|
| Citater |
Oplysninger fra den engelske Almen Viden Redigér teksten, så den bliver dansk. POEM OF THE ONE WORLD
This morning
the beautiful white heron
was floating along above the water
and then into the sky of this
the one world
we all belong to
where everything
sooner or later
is a part of everything else
which thought made me feel
for a little while
quite beautiful myself. THE MOTH, THE MOUNTAINS, THE RIVERS
Who can guess the luna's sadness who lives so
briefly? Who can guess the impatience of stone
longing to be ground down, to be part again of
something livelier? Who can imagine in what
heaviness the rivers remember their original clarity?
Strange questions, yet I have spent worthwhile
time with them. And I suggest them to you also,
that your spirit grow in curiosity, that your life
be richer than it is, that you bow to the earth as
you feel how it actually is, that we—so clever, and
ambitious, and selfish, and unrestrained—are only
one design of the moving, the vivacious many. 4. OF THE FATHER
He wanted a body
so he took mine.
Some wounds never vanish. Oh the house of denial has thick walls
and very small windows
and whoever lives there, little by little,
will turn to stone. I HAVE DECIDED
I have decided to find myself a home
in the mountains, somewhere high up
where one learns to live peacefully in
the cold and the silence. It's said that
in such a place certain revelations may
be discovered. That what the spirit
reaches for may be eventually felt, if not
exactly understood. Slowly, no doubt. I'm
not talking about a vacation.
Of course at the same time I mean to
stay exactly where I am.
Are you following me? WAS IT NECESSARY TO DO IT?
I tell you that ant is very alive!
Look at how he fusses at being stepped on. GREEN, GREEN IS MY SISTER'S HOUSE
Don't you dare climb that tree
or even try, they said, or you will be
sent away to the hospital of the
very foolish, if not the other one.
And I suppose, considering my age,
it was fair advice.
But the tree is a sister to me, she
lives alone in a green cottage
high in the air and I know what
would happen, she'd clap her green hands,
she'd shake her green hair, she'd
welcome me. Truly
I try to be good but sometimes
a person just has to break out and
act like the wild and springy thing
one used to be. It's impossible not
to remember wild and want it back. So
if someday you can't find me you might
look into that tree or—of course
it's possible—under it. THE WAY OF THE WORLD
The chickens ate all the crickets.
The foxes ate all the chickens.
This morning a friend hauled his
boat to shore and gave me the most
wondrous fish. In its silver scales
it seemed dressed for a wedding.
The gills were pulsing, just above
where shoulders would be, if it had
had shoulders. The eyes were still
looking around, I don't know what
they were thinking.
The chickens ate all the crickets.
The foxes ate all the chickens.
I ate the fish. | |
|
| Sidste ord |
Oplysninger fra den engelske Almen Viden Redigér teksten, så den bliver dansk. | |
|
| Oplysning om flertydighed |
|
| Forlagets redaktører |
|
| Bagsidecitater |
|
| Originalsprog |
Oplysninger fra den engelske Almen Viden Redigér teksten, så den bliver dansk. | |
|
| Canonical DDC/MDS |
|
| Canonical LCC |
|
▾Referencer Henvisninger til dette værk andre steder.  Wikipedia på engelsk (1)
▾Bogbeskrivelser 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. In these pages, Oliver shares the wonder of dawn, the grace of animals, and the transformative power of attention. Whether studying the leaves of a tree or mourning her adored dog, Percy, she is ever patient in her observations and open to the teachings contained in the smallest of moments. ▾Biblioteksbeskrivelser af bogens indhold No library descriptions found. ▾LibraryThingmedlemmers beskrivelse af bogens indhold |
Current DiscussionsIngen Google Books — Indlæser... Byt (104 ønsker) |
)
3
the beautiful white heron
was floating along above the water
and then into the sky of this
the one world
we all belong to
where everything
sooner or later
is a part of everything else
which thought made me feel
for a little while
quite beautiful myself. (