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.

— Mary Oliver

At this moment in April, as the Vermont winter drags on, I await more urgently than ever, signs of spring on my morning walk. At this moment in April, with the political precariousness of fall’s elections resolving into today’s shocking realities, I ache for relief from the news and for remedies for the realities themselves. At this moment in April, which is National Poetry Month, I need poetry more than ever. In the midst of such malice, madness and absence of compassion, poetry can help.

On a recent gray morning as I sat at my writing table, Mary Oliver invited me to stand with her at the edge of the ocean. Guided by her keen discernment of meaning in the ebb or flow of the waves, she shared with me her grasp of the sea’s message: That in nature — and in the rest of life too — there should be little time for ruminating only on despair. It is right for the sea, in its majesty, to dismiss my petulance. The ocean has work to do. By implication, so do I.

Oliver has been a continuing influence on me and on my work. In the face of present-day distress and alarm, I turn to her often. She has her critics — those who find her simplistic or old fashioned — but it is her commitment both to seeing the natural world and to writing about it with understanding and imagination that I admire most. Oliver is accessible, and that too is admirable.

My early connections to poetry precede Oliver. As a student, I loved the historic verses of an early Brit Lit class. It is here that I first encountered Wordsworth’s “host, of golden daffodils,” a phrase from a poem I still read aloud nearly every spring. My life’s work in education has always had a lot to do with poetry. I read it, occasionally take a stab at writing it, and have often taught poetry courses for both high school students and within my various communities. I am a determined advocate for the absolutely crucial place poetry can have in our lives, in navigating changes and ushering us across life’s thresholds.

All of our communities — in Vermont or elsewhere — can benefit from drawing people together when times are hard. Enhancing connections and finding sources of mutual engagement and enjoyment are critical. On April 1, the start of National Poetry Month, I joined in facilitating a local program titled “Poetry Power.” In the event, 12 community members volunteering as readers and a large, eager audience turned up. Several readers chose selections from their own work.

One poet’s reflections stood out, as she shared with the audience lines she had written about a beloved neighbor who had just died. Other readers brought well-known favorites. The woman who stood up to read Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116, “Let me not to the marriage of true minds/Admit impediments…,” was in reality speaking to her husband, in honor of their wedding anniversary that day. He was surprised and very pleased.

The audience was engaged throughout the event, but smiles of recognition preceded real laughter when the final reader began Lewis Carroll’s “Jabberwocky.” How delightfully nonsensical are those first lines!

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

For some of us, reading poetry is a sustaining, ritualistic practice that offers, ultimately, consolation. Michael Ignatieff, the author of “On Consolation,” explains that this word, consolation, is from the Latin consolor, “to find solace together.” Yes, today’s realities are troubling, and right now, they appear to be without remedy in the near future. But poetry, especially when it is read in the company of others, reminds us that we are not alone.

I am still waiting for spring, and still desperate for reason and common sense regarding the state of our country. In the meantime, however, poetry provides perspective. In his joyful poem “The Gift,” Polish-American writer Czeslaw Milosz reminds me to be hopeful:

A day so happy.

Fog lifted early, I worked in the garden.

Hummingbirds were stopping over honeysuckle flowers.

There was no thing on earth I wanted to possess.

I knew no one worth my envying him.

Whatever evil I had suffered, I forgot.

To think that once I was the same man did not embarrass me.

In my body I felt no pain.

When straightening up, I saw the blue sea and sails.

Mary K. Otto, formerly of Norwich, lives in Shelburne, Vt. Readers may email her at maryotto13@gmail.com.