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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.

Search for the best famous Robert Bly poems, articles about Robert Bly poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Robert Bly poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

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Poems are below...


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Written by Robert Bly | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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.
Written by Robert Bly | Create an image from this poem

For My Son Noah Ten Years Old

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 horse steps up swings on one leg turns its body the chicken flapping claws onto the roost its wings whelping and walloping but what is primitive is not to be shot out into the night and the dark.
And slowly the kind man comes closer loses his rage sits down at table.
So I am proud only of those days that pass in undivided tenderness when you sit drawing or making books stapled with messages to the world or coloring a man with fire coming out of his hair.
Or we sit at a table with small tea carefully poured.
So we pass our time together calm and delighted.
Written by Robert Bly | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

In Rainy September

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.
we close the door.
"I have no claim on you.
" Dusk comes.
"The love I have had with you is enough.
" We know we could live apart from the flock.
The sheldrake floats apart from the flock.
The oaktree puts out leaves alone on the lonely hillside.
Men and women before us have accomplished this.
I would see you and you me once a year.
We would be two kernels and not be planted.
We stay in the room door closed lights out.
I weep with you without shame and without honor.
Written by Robert Bly | Create an image from this poem

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 Antonio Machado | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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.
Written by Robert Bly | Create an image from this poem

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.
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