...being by others hurried every day, Scarce in a yeare their naturall forme obey: Pleasure or businesse, so, our Soules admit For their first mover, and are whirld by it. JOHN DONNE

Surprised by Evening

© Robert Bly

There is unknown dust that is near us
Waves breaking on shores just over the hill
Trees full of birds that we have never seen
Nets drawn with dark fish.

Snowfall in the Afternoon

© Robert Bly

The grass is half-covered with snow.
It was the sort of snowfall that starts in late afternoon
And now the little houses of the grass are growing dark.

Poems in Three Parts

© Robert Bly

Oh on an early morning I think I shall live forever!
I am wrapped in my joyful flesh
As the grass is wrapped in its clouds of green.

Passing an Orchard by Train

© Robert Bly

Grass high under apple trees.
The bark of the trees rough and sexual
the grass growing heavy and uneven.

Looking into a Face

© Robert Bly

Conversation brings us so close! Opening
The surfs of the body
Bringing fish up near the sun
And stiffening the backbones of the sea!

Insect Heads

© Robert Bly

These insects golden
And Arabic sailing in the husks of galleons
Their octagonal heads also
Hold sand paintings of the next life.

In rainy September when leaves grow down to the dark
I put my forehead down to the damp seaweed-smelling sand.
What can we do but choose? The only way for human beings
is to choose. The fern has no choice but to live;
for this crime it receives earth water and night.

In a Train

© Robert Bly

There has been a light snow.
Dark car tracks move in out of the darkness.
I stare at the train window marked with soft dust.
I have awakened at Missoula Montana utterly happy.

For My Son Noah Ten Years Old

© Robert Bly

Nigh and day arrive and day after day goes by
And what is old remains old and what is young remains young and grows old.
The lumber pile does not grow younger nor the two-by-fours lose their darkness
but the old tree goes on the barn stands without help so many years;
the advocate of darkness and night is not lost.

The Faerie Queene, Book VI, Canto 10

THE SIXTE BOOKE OF THE FAERIE QUEENEContayningTHE LEGEND OF S. CALIDOREOR OF COURTESIE

Driving to Town Late to Mail a Letter

© Robert Bly

It is a cold and snowy night. The main street is deserted.
The only things moving are swirls of snow.
As I lift the mailbox door I feel its cold iron.
There is a privacy I love in this snowy night.
Driving around I will waste more time.