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A review by starrybooker
Wild Geese by Mary Oliver
5.0
There should be a word for the particular kind of sadness you feel when, a week after reading what you know will become your favourite poem, you find out the woman who wrote it just died.
I’ve never been a massive fan of traditional nature poetry (sorry Wordsworth), being more of a here’s-my-bleeding-heart-on-a-plate-poetry kind of girl. Mary Oliver, though, is the exception to my rule. I just, I don’t know how to describe her writing in a way that would do it justice. Her poetry isn’t complex but it’s beautiful, every description unique but utterly fitting. It’s the type of poetry that’s best appreciated while reading outdoors, but if you’re lazy like me then it can also be best read half leaning out your window, feet on the radiator, tea in hand.
I’ve never been a massive fan of traditional nature poetry (sorry Wordsworth), being more of a here’s-my-bleeding-heart-on-a-plate-poetry kind of girl. Mary Oliver, though, is the exception to my rule. I just, I don’t know how to describe her writing in a way that would do it justice. Her poetry isn’t complex but it’s beautiful, every description unique but utterly fitting. It’s the type of poetry that’s best appreciated while reading outdoors, but if you’re lazy like me then it can also be best read half leaning out your window, feet on the radiator, tea in hand.