But I also won’t say that it is complex, as though one needs to apologize for the spare nonpyrotechnics of the piece. It would be stupid to call it simple in that way that suggests that simplicity is a moral good or an aesthetically preferable state. It’s a poem of arresting lucidity and wisdom. “Wild Geese” is one of those telegraphic poems that announces its meaning without flourish from the very outset: You do not have to be good. It’s a boring discussion: I enjoyed this, but is it art? I won’t stoop to take the bait of it here. I first read Mary Oliver’s “Wild Geese” on Twitter, which explains something of why her work is both beloved and dismissed. Just before her death, Brandon Taylor wrote: Known for her simple phrasing and her odes to the natural world-and also, if less so, for her eroticism-she was the rare kind of poet whose work sold, and it seems to have filtered down to just about everyone (i.e. She won the Pulitzer Prize in 1984 for her collection American Primitive, and a National Book Award in 1992 for her New and Selected Poems. Prolific and widely loved poet Mary Oliver died early this year at the age of 83. As if the year wasn’t bad enough, in 2019 we were obliged to say goodbye to far too many members of the worldwide literary community-from the universally beloved to the highly controversial, from the mega-famous to those who worked tirelessly behind the scenes. So before we break for the holiday, consider this a final farewell to some of the writers, editors, and booksellers we lost this year-though it is certain that for most, this tribute will not be their last.
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