An 'antidote for the excesses of civiliation'

Hey. Today's poem is "Poppies," by Mary Oliver.

It was recommended me by friend, and after reading it I think I'm in love with this lady. It is quite obvious we were meant to be. Surely, there must have been some sort of cosmic mishap, a mistake which caused me to be born in '86 and she '35. Life can be so cruel.

Oliver attended Ohio State University and Vasser College, dropping out of both, then making it as a poet in the world, publishing more than a dozen books of poems.

She has won a whole slew of awards, including the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Award. You can read more about all her shenanigans here.

It's hard to say why I like "Poppies" so much. Usually nature poems cause me to point up my nose, sneering. But it isn't spoiled by the cheesiness of trancendentalists, and then it isn't really about nature—or poppies—for that matter, is it?

Once in English we read Frost's "Fireflies in the Garden," and the good teacher Allen said, "Poems are never about what they say they're about. Poems are always about people." Or something similar to that.

The poem's chock full of life and death, of thumbing the nose at death, giving it the bird and sitting in warm suns and all that stuff. Like Royal Tenenbaum, "Scrapping and yelling. Mixing it up. Loving every minute with this damn crew."

"Of course nothing stops the cold, / black, curved blade" and but for now we live, and "what can you do about it— / deep blue night?"