Mary Oliver. "Undoubtedly the most published and popular poet of this country"

Mary Oliver was born on September 10, 1935 in Ohio. Her father was a teacher of sociology, and also worked as an athletics coach in various schools in Cleveland. Mary began writing poetry at the age of 14. Her first book of poems was published in 1963, when Oliver was 28 years old. Since then, there have been many collections of her poems and prose. For some time in the mid-1950s, Mary attended classes at the University of Ohio, as well as in Vassarovsky College, but she did not receive a diploma anywhere. In the late 1950's Mary Oliver met a photographer Molly Malone Cook, who became her companion for more than forty years. M. Cook was a literary agent Oliver. They settled in Provincetown (a resort town with magnificent sandy beaches at Cape Cod, Massachusetts), where they lived until the death of Molly Cook in 2005. Mary Oliver recalled: "I too fell in love with this small town, in this wonderful merging of water and land, into this Mediterranean light; in these fishermen, who earn their living by hard and dangerous labor in their frighteningly tiny boats; and of course, to its residents and visitors, artists and writers. [...] Molly and I decided to stay here. " Later, Mary Oliver moved to Florida. Extremely anxious about his privacy and protecting privacy, Mary Oliver rarely gives interviews. Learn more in biography of Mary Oliver. She prefers her poems to speak for themselves. The New York Times called Mary Oliver "undoubtedly the most published and popular poet of this country". "The Chance To Love Everything" Mary Oliver All summer I made friendsrnwith the creatures nearby —rnthey flowed through the fieldsrnand under the tent walls,rnor padded through the door,rngrinning through their many teeth,rnlooking for seeds,rnsuet, sugar; muttering and humming,rnopening the breadbox, happiest whenrnthere was milk and music. But oncernin the night I heard a soundrnoutside the door, the canvasrnbulged slightly —somethingrnwas pressing inward at eye level.rnI watched, trembling, sure I had heardrnthe click of claws, the smack of lipsrnoutside my gauzy house —rnI imagined the red eyes,rnthe broad tongue, the enormous lap.rnWould it be friendly too?rnFear defeated me. And yet,rnnot in faith and not in madnessrnbut with the courage I thoughtrnmy dream deserved,rnI stepped outside. It was gone.rnThen I whirled at the sound of somernshambling tonnage.rnDid I see a black haunch slippingrnback through the trees? Did I seernthe moonlight shining on it?rnDid I actually reach out my armsrntoward it, toward paradise falling, likernthe fading of the dearest, wildest hope —rnthe dark heart of the story that is allrnthe reason for its telling?