“As soon as the Master is untied, the bird soars.”

 

 

Reflecting on his selection as Minnesota’s first poet laureate, Robert Bly offered “They wrote to me and said something about it, and I said that if it doesn't involve any work, I'll do it.” Modesty and a passive commitment to leisure aside, his appointment was a tribute to an exhaustive catalog of literary work spanning six decades. No voice was as inescapable or influential in poetic criticism as Robert Bly in the second half of the 20th century.

 

Robert Bly was a poet, essayist, and translator born December 23, 1926, on a farm near Madison, Minnesota. He found acclaim in the literary world during the 1960s and 1970s as a leading figure in the "Deep Image" movement, which emphasized the use of  vivid, often surreal, personal imagery to express emotions and experiences. His early works focused on the pastoral elements of humanity, typically short vignettes that sought to reconcile the English language with our intrinsic connection to nature. Against the backdrop of the Vietnam War his poetry assumed a more political feature, and he became a prominent voice in postwar social politics, culminating in the publication of his best known work, Iron John (1990).

 

Bly's contributions extend beyond his own poetry; he was also a translator and advocate for other poets. His translations of Rainier Marie Rilke, Pablo Neruda, and Rumi helped introduce these writers to a broader English-language audience. Throughout his life, he remained active in social and political issues, promoting the environmentalism and peace that he saw as intrensic to the poetry he advanced. Bly's work and perspectives left an unavoidable impact on both modern literature and identity discourse. He passed away on November 21, 2021, in Minneapolis. His notable works include "Silence in the Snowy Fields" (1962), "The Light Around the Body" (1967), and “A Little Book on th Human Shadow” (1986).

​

 

Driving toward the Lac Qui Parle River

 

    I

I am driving; it is dusk; Minnesota.

The stubble field catches the last growth of sun.   

The soybeans are breathing on all sides.

Old men are sitting before their houses on car seats   

In the small towns. I am happy,

The moon rising above the turkey sheds.

 

    II

The small world of the car

Plunges through the deep fields of the night,   

On the road from Willmar to Milan.   

This solitude covered with iron

Moves through the fields of night

Penetrated by the noise of crickets.

 

    III

Nearly to Milan, suddenly a small bridge,

And water kneeling in the moonlight.

In small towns the houses are built right on the ground;   

The lamplight falls on all fours on the grass.

When I reach the river, the full moon covers it.   

A few people are talking, low, in a boat.

 

​

The Teeth Mother Naked At Last

 

Massive engines lift beautifully from the deck.

Wings appear over the trees, wings with eight

hundred rivets.

 

Engines burning a thousand gallons of gasoline a minute

sweep over the huts with dirt floors.

 

The chickens feel the new fear deep in the pits of

their beaks.

Buddha with Padma Sambhava.

 

Meanwhile, out on the China Sea,

immense gray bodies are floating,

born in Roanoke,

the ocean on both sides expanding, “buoyed on the

dense marine.”

 

Helicopters flutter overhead. The death-

bee is coming. Super Sabres

like knots of neurotic energy sweep

around and return.

This is Hamilton’s triumph.

This is the advantage of a centralized bank.

B-52s come from Guam. All the teachers

die in flames. The hopes of Tolstoy fall asleep in the

ant heap.

Do not ask for mercy.

 

Now the time comes to look into the past-tunnels,

the hours given and taken in school,

the scuffles in coatrooms,

foam leaps from his nostrils,

now we come to the scum you take from the mouths of

the dead,

now we sit beside the dying, and hold their hands, there

is hardly time for good-bye,

the staff sergeant from North Carolina is dying—you

hold his hand,

he knows the mansions of the dead are empty, he has an

empty place

inside him, created one night when his parents came

home drunk,

he uses half his skin to cover it,

as you try to protect a balloon from sharp objects… .

 

Artillery shells explode. Napalm canisters roll end

over end.

800 steel pellets fly through the vegetable walls.

The six-hour infant puts his fists instinctively

to his eyes to keep out the light.

But the room explodes,

the children explode.

Blood leaps on the vegetable walls.

 

Yes, I know, blood leaps on the walls—

Don’t cry at that—

Do you cry at the wind pouring out of Canada?

Do you cry at the reeds shaken at the edge of

the sloughs?

The Marine battalion enters.

This happens when the seasons change,

This happens when the leaves begin to drop from the

trees too early

“Kill them: I don’t want to see anything moving.”

This happens when the ice begins to show its teeth in

the ponds

This happens when the heavy layers of lake water press

down on the fish’s head, and send him deeper, where

his tail swirls slowly, and his brain passes him

pictures of heavy reeds, of vegetation fallen

on vegetation… .

Hamilton saw all this in detail:

“Every banana tree slashed, every cooking utensil smashed,

every mattress cut."

 

Now the Marine knives sweep around like sharp-edged

jets; how beautifully they slash open the rice bags,

the mattresses… .

ducks are killed with $150 shotguns.

 

Old women watch the soldiers as they move.

​

 

Waking In The Middle Of The Night

 

I want to be true to what I have heard.

It was so sweet to hear music last night.

There is so much joy in being afraid

of the world together.

 

The snow in the branches,

the sadness in your hands,

The foot tracks in the mud,

the old Inca faces,

The trout who wait all year

for the acorns

to descend.

 

The sitar player is so much

like the crow, who rises

Each morning in the sky above

the black branches

And cries six cries with no memory

of the light.

Every musician wants his fingers

to play faster

So that he can go deeper into

the next kingdom of pain.

Each note on the string calls

for one note more.

 

The hand that has written

all these sounds down

Is like a bird who wakes in the middle

of the night

And starts out toward its old nest

on the mountain.

 

Robert, I don’t know why you

would have such Good luck today.

Those few lines about the crows

Crying are better than a whole night

of sleep.