Mary Oliver's "Singapore"

I have so much I want to write about this evening (went to a great panel discussion this evening about Arab women in cyberspace and justice triumphed in Egypt today when two policemen were jailed for torture) - but it's already late and I have to get up to go to a conference on migrant workers. But I promised myself that I would make one posting before going to sleep this evening. I wanted to share a poem by Mary Oliver, one of my all-time favourite poets. This particular poem is not one I read with much frequency, but when I read it before going to sleep last night, I was struck by the way in which Oliver manages to capture the subtleties of human interaction. In just a few lines, she shows how we can all make immediate, alienating judgments about people and how we can also, with something as small as a smile, overcome those moments of alienation and judgment.

The poem is called "Singapore":
"In Singapore, in the airport, / a darkness was ripped from my eyes./ In the women's restroom, one compartment stood open./ A woman knelt there, washing something/ in the white bowl.
Disgust argued in my stomach / and I felt, in my pocket, for my ticket.
A poem should always have birds in it. / Kingfishers, say, with their bold eyes and gaudy wings./ Rivers are pleasant, and of course trees./ A waterfall, or if that's not possible, a fountain rising and falling./ A person wants to stand in a happy place, in a poem.
When the woman turned I could not answer her face./ Her beauty and embarassment struggled together, and neither could win./ She smiled and I smiled. What kind of nonsense is this?/ Everybody needs a job.
Yes, a person wants to stand in a happy place, in a poem./ But first we must watch her as she stares down at her labor, which is full enough./ She is washing the top of the airport ashtrays, as big as hubcaps, with a blue rag./ Her small hands turn the metal, scrubbing and rinsing./ She does not work slowly, or quickly, but like a river./ Her dark hair is like the wing of a bird.
I don't doubt for a moment that she loves her life./ And I want her to rise up from the crust and the slop and fly down to the river./ This probably won't happen./ But maybe it will./ If the world were only pain and logic, who would want it?
Of course, it isn't./ Neither do I mean anything miraculous, but only/ the light that can shine out of a life. I mean/ the way she unfolded and refolded the blue cloth,/ the way her smile was only for my sake; I mean/ the way this poem is filled with trees, and birds."