Poetry isn't a profession, it's a way of life. It's an empty

Hear, O children of the spirit, the words of Mary Oliver, poet of the wild fields and quiet mornings: “Poetry isn’t a profession, it’s a way of life. It’s an empty basket; you put your life into it and make something out of that.” These are not words spoken lightly, but drawn from a life spent in the company of birds, rivers, and the still silence of dawn. Oliver teaches us that poetry is not merely written upon paper, but lived upon the breath, carried in the bones, and woven into the fabric of being.

To call poetry a way of life is to say that it is not confined to books, nor to the halls of learning, nor to the laurels of fame. Rather, it is found in the smallest gestures of attention: the way one pauses to notice a blade of grass trembling in the wind, the way one listens to the cry of a hawk, the way one honors a fleeting moment before it disappears. Poetry, in Oliver’s vision, is not crafted only with pen and ink, but with the choices we make in living.

And what of the empty basket? It is the symbol of possibility, the vessel waiting to be filled. We are born with this basket, and each of us must decide what to place within it. Some fill it with wealth, some with power, some with fleeting pleasures. But the poet—whether writer or not—fills it with experiences, with moments of awe, with sorrows endured and joys cherished. It is in the weaving together of these moments that something greater than survival is born: meaning, beauty, and depth.

History bears witness to this truth. Consider Rainer Maria Rilke, who wandered from place to place, never holding a secure post, never calling poetry a profession. He lived as one who placed his whole existence into the basket of words. His Letters to a Young Poet remain not manuals of technique, but guidance for the soul. He shows us, as Oliver does, that to live poetically is not to master form, but to master presence—to put one’s life itself into the act of creation.

Oliver’s words remind us that poetry is not reserved for the few. The fisherman who rises before dawn, the mother who hums a lullaby to her child, the old man who sits quietly beneath a tree—all of them, if they live with awareness, are already poets. For what is poetry but the art of being alive, the art of shaping raw existence into a vessel of meaning? When we pour ourselves into the basket of attention, reverence, and wonder, we are already participating in the eternal poem of the universe.

The lesson, O listeners, is clear: do not think that poetry is beyond you because you do not write. You are writing each day, in the choices you make, in the love you give, in the silences you honor. Your life itself is the ink, your days the parchment. The question is not whether you create, but what you choose to place in your basket. Will you fill it with trivialities, or with the raw stuff of the heart?

Practical is this wisdom: begin by noticing. When you walk, look not only with your eyes, but with your soul. Keep a journal, not to impress, but to pour your life into words. Take time for silence, for out of silence comes the truest lines. And when you create—whether a poem, a song, or a simple act of kindness—remember that you are weaving your life into something greater. This is the true art, the art Oliver calls us to.

Thus, let it be remembered: poetry is not a profession but a way of life, a constant act of filling the empty basket with the substance of existence. And when you look back upon your days, you will see not only the record of survival, but a living poem—made from laughter and tears, from work and rest, from love and loss—woven into a song that endures beyond the moment, into eternity.