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Best Famous Robert Bly Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Robert Bly poems. This is a select list of the best famous Robert Bly poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Robert Bly poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Robert Bly poems.

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Written by Antonio Machado | |

The Wind One Brilliant Day

 The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.
"In return for the odor of my jasmine, I'd like all the odor of your roses.
" "I have no roses; all the flowers in my garden are dead.
" "Well then, I'll take the withered petals and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain.
" the wind left.
And I wept.
And I said to myself: "What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?" Translated by Robert Bly


Written by Robert Bly | |

Surprised by Evening

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.
The evening arrives; we look up and it is there It has come through the nets of the stars Through the tissues of the grass Walking quietly over the asylums of the waters.
The day shall never end we think: We have hair that seemed born for the daylight; But at last the quiet waters of the night will rise And our skin shall see far off as it does under water.


Written by Robert Bly | |

Waking from Sleep

Inside the veins there are navies setting forth 
Tiny explosions at the water lines 
And seagulls weaving in the wind of the salty blood.
It is the morning.
The country has slept the whole winter.
Window seats were covered with fur skins the yard was full Of stiff dogs and hands that clumsily held heavy books.
Now we wake and rise from bed and eat breakfast!- Shouts rise from the harbor of the blood Mist and masts rising the knock of wooden tackle in the sunlight.
Now we sing and do tiny dances on the kitchen floor.
Our whole body is like a harbor at dawn; We know that our master has left us for the day.


More great poems below...

Written by Robert Bly | |

Poems in Three Parts

1

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.
2 Rising from a bed where I dreamt Of long rides past castles and hot coals The sun lies happily on my knees; I have suffered and survived the night Bathed in dark water like any blade of grass.
3 The strong leaves of the box-elder tree Plunging in the wind call us to disappear Into the wilds of the universe Where we shall sit at the foot of a plant And live forever like the dust.


Written by Robert Bly | |

Snowfall in the Afternoon

1

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.
2 If I reached my hands down near the earth I could take handfuls of darkness! A darkness was always there which we never noticed.
3 As the snow grows heavier the cornstalks fade farther away And the barn moves nearer to the house.
The barn moves all alone in the growing storm.
4 The barn is full of corn and moves toward us now Like a hulk blown toward us in a storm at sea; All the sailors on deck have been blind for many years.


Written by Robert Bly | |

In a Train

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.


Written by Robert Bly | |

Driving to Town Late to Mail a Letter

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.


Written by Robert Bly | |

Watering the Horse

How strange to think of giving up all ambition!
Suddenly I see with such clear eyes
The white flake of snow
That has just fallen in the horse's mane!


Written by Robert Bly | |

After Long Busyness

I start out for a walk at last after weeks at the desk.
Moon gone plowing underfoot no stars; not a trace of light! Suppose a horse were galloping toward me in this open field? Every day I did not spend in solitude was wasted.


Written by Robert Bly | |

Counting Small-boned Bodies

Let's count the bodies over again.
If we could only make the bodies smaller The size of skulls We could make a whole plain white with skulls in the moonlight! If we could only make the bodies smaller Maybe we could get A whole year's kill in front of us on a desk! If we could only make the bodies smaller We could fit A body into a finger-ring for a keepsake forever.


Written by Robert Bly | |

Looking into a Face

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

I have wandered in a face for hours 
Passing through dark fires.
I have risen to a body Not yet born Existing like a light around the body Through which the body moves like a sliding moon.


Written by Robert Bly | |

The Hermit

Darkness is falling through darkness 
Falling from ledge
To ledge.
There is a man whose body is perfectly whole.
He stands the storm behind him And the grass blades are leaping in the wind.
Darkness is gathered in folds About his feet.
He is no one.
When we see Him we grow calm And sail on into the tunnels of joyful death.


Written by Robert Bly | |

Insect Heads

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


Written by Robert Bly | |

Passing an Orchard by Train

Grass high under apple trees.
The bark of the trees rough and sexual the grass growing heavy and uneven.
We cannot bear disaster like the rocks- swaying nakedly in open fields.
One slight bruise and we die! I know no one on this train.
A man comes walking down the aisle.
I want to tell him that I forgive him that I want him to forgive me.


Written by Robert Bly | |

Driving my Parents Home at Christmas

As I drive my parents home through the snow 
their frailty hesitates on the edge of a mountainside.
I call over the cliff only snow answers.
They talk quietly of hauling water of eating an orange of a grandchild's photograph left behind last night.
When they open the door of their house they disappear.
And the oak when it falls in the forest who hears it through miles and miles of silence? They sit so close to each other¡­as if pressed together by the snow.