For Mary Oliver, the act of writing is at once a means of experiencing most fully her interbeing with the observable world and of rehearsing the provisional distance between self and other upon which this sensation of merging depends. At stake in this effort is Oliver's self-proclaimed “work” of “loving the world,” a profound ambition that turns not upon the twin gestures of assimilation or exclusion but rather a rigorous, dynamic curiosity, what she calls “an attitude of noticing” (Swann xiv). Such writing-as-mindfulness is hard-earned, as it exchanges the individual ego and its attendant parsing of experience into tidy oppositions for a capaciousness of being that forms the bedrock of compassion—one's ability to “love the world.” Integrative at its core, Oliver's poetry facilitates neither self-realization nor self-abdication but the paradoxically selfless practice of full presence. As such, the transformative power of Oliver's work resides less in its occasional voice of outcry or admonition (witnessed, most recently, in Redbird) than in its resistance to precisely those actions we often think of as prerequisites for making change: repudiation of that which we consider wrong or unjust buoyed by judgment and will. In contrast, Oliver's devotion to “loving the world” is achieved primarily via acute attention and its spawn, awareness. Consequently, Oliver's work cannot be accounted for by critical narratives that privilege poetic “breakthroughs” or the “remaking” of style as evidence of creative or even moral maturation—a partial explanation, surely, for the notable dearth of scholarly attention paid to this major American poet.1
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