It has been a year since Mary Oliver passed away, which is the sort of occasion that would lead one straight to her poetry for an opportunity to reflect. And one of the things about the American poet — who died of lymphoma on January 17 last year — worth reflecting on is her legacy and the way in which it was routinely dismissed by critics. It is easy to see why she was rarely considered a poet who could ‘challenge’ readers or ‘inspire’ change: her works had no discernible political edge, did nothing innovative in terms of form and never shied away from sentimental expressions of wonder at the natural world. The ‘In memoriam’ section of a newspaper could not resist a snide jab even while ostensibly honouring her in death; while mentioning her “wide popularity”, it commented on her “plain language” and the “mixed” critical reaction her poems elicited.

This is, of course, unsurprising: in literary cultures where feelings, sensitivity and kindness are associated with women and, therefore, regularly undervalued, emotionally open styles of writing such as Oliver’s will routinely attract derision. Work that is accessible is not necessarily unintelligent, but for women artists, popular success is frequently held up as evidence of the mediocrity of their thought and vision.

However, to read Oliver is to realize that she would not have cared. Criticism of her emotional approach or subject matter would have rolled like water off a duck’s back. One learns many things from her — how attention is a sort of love (“Attention is the beginning of devotion”), how shining your mind’s torch on anything — bears, birds, trees, grasshoppers — can be a sign of gratitude, how poems do not need to be ‘difficult’ in order to be intelligent, investigative and inspirational.

The comfort that many found in Oliver’s poems is on account of her capacity to make them experience the joy of connectedness, of being a part of something bigger than themselves. “When Death Comes”, published years before her own demise, reveals how often and deeply she thought about it, and how she envisioned leaving the world as she walked through the woods. “I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:/ what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?”

Because Oliver examined mortality so closely, her vision extended far beyond personal suffering — she was abused as a child — to include deep gratitude. “When it’s over, I want to say all my life/ I was a bride married to amazement./ ... I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.” With such clear intent, what naysayers thought of her choice to write about flowers and animals ceased to matter. Maybe she was not even listening; maybe she was too busy going on another long stroll in the forest: “Look, I want to love this world/ as though it’s the last chance I’m ever going to get/ to be alive/ and know it.”