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Collected Poems

Page 31

by Robert Bly


  Of Ruth gleaning barley stalks in the dusk.

  LISTENING TO THE SITAR BEFORE DAWN

  It is not yet dawn, and the sitar is playing.

  Where are the footsteps that were so clear yesterday?

  Sometimes stones have no weight at all, and clouds are heavy.

  To those who want me to change, I say, “I will

  Never stop traveling that road which connects

  Socrates to the turtle, and Falstaff to the Baal Shem.”

  Every sitar note strikes a bargain with the one

  Who arranges things. One note says, “A year in heaven.”

  The turgid silence says, “Two years under the earth.”

  The sitar players are already pulling heaven down,

  While we have hardly learned to carry earth.

  Perhaps they remember all their errors in loving.

  Some say that Ganesha and Catherine do the work

  For us all, but I see a great deal of faithfulness

  In the dragonfly with her long, skinny body.

  It was still dark when the fingers began to play.

  Now we who have listened so hard have nothing to say.

  The wavering sitar note is the early dawn.

  For David Whetstone

  LOAFING WITH FRIENDS AT OJO CALIENTE

  Mineral pools remember a lot about history.

  Here we are at Ojo Caliente, sitting together,

  Soaking up the rumble of earth’s forgetfulness.

  Why should we worry if Anna Karenina ends badly?

  The world is reborn each time a mouse

  Puts her foot down on the dusty barn floor.

  Sometimes ohs and ahs bring us joy. When

  You place your life inside the vowels, the music

  Opens the doors to a hundred closed nights.

  People say that even in the highest heaven

  If you managed to keep your ears open

  You would hear angels weeping night and day.

  The culture of the Etruscans has disappeared.

  So many things are over. A thousand hopes

  F. Scott Fitzgerald had for himself are gone.

  No one is as lucky as those who live on earth.

  Even the Pope finds himself longing for darkness.

  The sun catches on fire in the lonely heavens.

  For Hanna and Martín

  WHEN I AM WITH YOU

  When I am with you, two notes of the sarod

  Carry me into a place where I am not.

  All the farms have disappeared into air.

  Those wooden fenceposts I loved as a boy—

  I can see my father’s face through their wood,

  And through his face the sky as threshing ends.

  It is such a blessing to hear that we will die.

  Ten thousand barks become a hundred thousand;

  I knew this friendship with myself couldn’t last forever.

  Touch the sarod’s string once more, so that the finger

  That touched my skin a moment ago

  Can become a lightning bolt that closes the door.

  Now I know why I keep hinting at the word you—

  The sound of you carries me over the border.

  We disappear the same way a baby is born.

  Some foolish boy with my name has been trying

  To peer all afternoon between the thick boards

  Of the fence. Tell that boy it isn’t time.

  THERE ARE SO MANY PLATOS

  The mourning dove insists there is only one morning.

  The nail remains faithful to its first board.

  The hoarse crow cries out to a thousand planets.

  The sun goes down through ghettos of clouds.

  There is one Burning Mind and so many Platos.

  The Morning Star rises over a flutter of wings.

  To those who make up music, and write poems,

  I say: Our task is to become a moist tongue

  By which subtle ideas slip into the world.

  Probably we were born too near the potato bin.

  Like the potato, we have many closed eyes.

  A touch on the thigh displaces all the heavens.

  There are more planets than have ever been found.

  They rise and set again. Some people say

  A painting is a pitcher full of the invisible.

  Robert, some images in this poem are just right.

  It is probably as good as anyone can do

  Who is still living in the old inn of desire.

  BACH’S B MINOR MASS

  The old Germans step inside Trinity Church.

  The tenors, and sopranos, and altos and the horns

  Say: “Do not be troubled. Death will come.”

  The basses reach down into their long coats

  And give bits of dark bread to the poor, saying,

  “Eat, eat, in the shadow of Jethro’s garden.”

  We all know about the old promise

  That the orphans will be fed. The oboes say,

  “Oh, that promise is too wonderful for us!”

  Don’t worry about the sea. The tidal wave that

  Wipes out whole cities is merely the wood thrush

  Lifting her wings to catch the morning sun.

  We know that God gobbles up the Faithful.

  The Harvesters on the sea floor are feeding

  All of those ruined by the depth of the sea.

  Our oak will break and fall. Even after their tree

  Has splintered and fallen in the night, once

  Dawn has come, the birds can do nothing but sing.

  THE BLIND TOBIT

  Why does the prophet climb on the same ship so many times?

  Why does the sleeper visit other continents by night?

  The ship breaks up, and Kafka is lost so many times.

  The high school teacher’s ghost waits by the stone wall.

  Why does the ear always stretch toward the storm?

  The Pharaoh imprisons and releases Joseph so many times.

  Tobit! Tobit! Your eyes are milky white! Every

  Father is blind when his son knocks on the door.

  The blind Tobit fumbles for the door so many times.

  Why do those who died by the stone wall at Gettysburg

  Throw themselves against the Germans at Stalingrad?

  The novelist writes and rewrites his novel so many times.

  The general fights the same war again and again.

  The violinist plays the same toccata over and over.

  The conductor conducts the same piece so many times.

  Why do some love affairs resemble a blow of lightning?

  Are you surprised how often Zoroaster is reborn?

  The snow blocks the country roads so many times.

  THE GREEK SHIPS

  When the waterholes go, and the fish flop about

  In the mud, they can moisten each other faintly,

  But it’s best if they lose themselves in the river.

  You know how many Greek ships went down

  With their cargoes of wine. If we can’t get

  To port, perhaps it’s best to head for the bottom.

  I’ve heard that the mourning dove never says

  What she means. Those of us who make up poems

  Have agreed not to say what the pain is.

  Eliot wrote his poems for years standing under

  A bare lightbulb. He knew he was a murderer,

  And he accepted his punishment at birth.

  The sitar player is searching: now in the backyard,

  Now in the old dishes left behind on the table,

  Now for the suffering on the underside of a leaf.

  Go ahead, throw your good name into the water.

  All those who have ruined their lives for love

  Are calling to us from a hundred sunken ships.

  VISITING THE TEACHER

  I am the grandchild of Norwegian forgetters.

  I am a nephew
of those who stole the onions.

  We are all guests at the criminal’s wedding.

  Each time we pick up a fallen wren’s nest,

  We sense despair and injustice, but we love to feel

  The little crackling of the abandoned eggshells.

  To drink a drop of water increases our thirst.

  Black-and-white movies intensify our longing

  That night will come and simply take over from day.

  The shadowy cave we live in extends far out

  Over the world. It’s dark there. Even Amundsen

  And all his dogs couldn’t find the end of it.

  Stars have set so often in the woods without

  Bringing the Magi, that the badger drinks

  Sadness each time his nose touches the water.

  Last night I brought my grief to my teacher.

  I asked him what he could do about it.

  He said, “I thought you came because you liked me!”

  For Dr. Nurbakhsh

  II

  GROWING WINGS

  It’s all right if Cézanne goes on painting the same picture.

  It’s all right if juice tastes bitter in our mouths.

  It’s all right if the old man drags one useless foot.

  The apple on the Tree of Paradise hangs there for months.

  We wait for years and years on the lip of the falls;

  The blue-gray mountain keeps rising behind the black trees.

  It’s all right if I feel this same pain until I die.

  A pain that we have earned gives more nourishment

  Than the joy we won at the lottery last night.

  It’s all right if the partridge’s nest fills with snow.

  Why should the hunter complain if his bag is empty

  At dusk? It only means the bird will live another night.

  It’s all right if we turn in all our keys tonight.

  It’s all right if we give up our longing for the spiral.

  It’s all right if the boat I love never reaches shore.

  If we’re already so close to death, why should we complain?

  Robert, you’ve climbed so many trees to reach the nests.

  It’s all right if you grow your wings on the way down.

  TIGHTENING THE CINCH

  Hurry, for the horses are galloping along the road.

  Our death is being saddled now. They are tightening the cinch.

  Just keep shouting, “My heart is never bitter!”

  Come, only a moment is left, the sun is touching

  The sea at Point Lobos; those waves that Jeffers knew

  Will soon wear the Lincolnish coats of night!

  You’ve waited so long for me. And where was I?

  Whatever pleases the greedy soul is like a drop

  Of burning oil to the heart. What shall we do?

  While they saddle the horses, just keep shouting,

  “My grief is a horse; I am the missing rider!”

  The grief of absence is the only bread I eat.

  Whatever pleases the heart is like a drop of burning

  Oil to the greedy soul, which can’t bear one moment

  When men and women are tender with each other.

  You know the writer of this poem has a thin

  Hold on the reins, and is about to fall off.

  Hold on. The horses are galloping toward the night.

  CALL AND ANSWER

  AUGUST 2002

  Tell me why it is we don’t lift our voices these days

  And cry over what is happening. Have you noticed

  The plans are made for Iraq and the ice cap is melting?

  I say to myself: “Go on, cry. What’s the sense

  Of being an adult and having no voice? Cry out!

  See who will answer! This is Call and Answer!”

  We will have to call especially loud to reach

  Our angels, who are hard of hearing; they are hiding

  In the jugs of silence filled during our wars.

  Have we agreed to so many wars that we can’t

  Escape from silence? If we don’t lift our voices, we allow

  Others (who are ourselves) to rob the house.

  How come we’ve listened to the great criers—Neruda,

  Akhmatova, Thoreau, Frederick Douglass—and now

  We’re silent as sparrows in the little bushes?

  Some masters say our life lasts only seven days.

  Where are we in the week? Is it Thursday yet?

  Hurry, cry now! Soon Sunday night will come.

  ADVICE FROM THE GEESE

  Hurry! The world is not going to get better!

  Do what you want to do now. The prologue is over.

  Soon actors will come on stage carrying the coffin.

  I don’t want to frighten you, but not a stitch can be taken

  On your quilt unless you study. The geese will tell you—

  A lot of crying goes on before dawn comes.

  Do you have a friend who has studied prisons?

  Does a friend say: “I love the twelve houses”?

  The word “houses” suggests prison all by itself.

  So much suffering goes on among prisoners.

  There is so much grief in the cells. So many bolts

  Of lightning keep coming down from the unborn.

  Please don’t expect that the next President

  Will be better than this one. Four o’clock

  In the morning is the time to read Basilides.

  Every seed spends many nights in the earth.

  Robert, you’ve always been too cheerful; you too

  Will not be forgiven if you refuse to study.

  THE BLINDING OF SAMSON

  Don’t you see them? They are coming to blind Samson!

  But some of us don’t want the day to end!

  If Samson goes blind, what will happen to the sea?

  Isn’t it bad enough that the sun goes down

  Each night, while children throw shoes at the moon?

  I remember my mother’s grief at sunset.

  Now I remember my father. I remember

  Every father when he is wrestling with his son.

  Oh Lord of the Four Quarters—he is destined to lose!

  You gypsy singers, make some raw cries!

  Call in the crows to fly over the plowed fields.

  I want the beating palms to cry out for Samson.

  I want rough voices and shouting women

  To cry out against the blinding of Samson.

  I will always cry—take away those knives!

  Isn’t it enough that the Evening Star sets every night

  And lovemaking ends at dawn? Please, God, help

  The human beings, for men are coming to blind Samson.

  THE NEST IN WHICH WE WERE BORN

  Have we forgotten the nest in which we were born?

  Have we forgotten the scrawny heads and the stickly floor?

  Have we forgotten the cries and the wide-open beaks?

  How old were we before we forgave those

  Other ones in the nest? Probably it is our own

  Necks that should be swinging in the wind.

  Last night I dreamt my brother drowned. His body

  Did not come in, and he had a wife and children.

  Waves kept arriving. At last I saw his shirt.

  We are in a rowboat halfway over the ocean

  With the oars broken. Water is coming in through cracks.

  A blind old man is guiding our route by the stars.

  What shall we do with the stories old men tell?

  Some say a shaggy being older than Adam

  Established a prison inside the grain of rice.

  One hair left on the goat’s chin will be enough

  To bring down lightning on a stormy night

  If we have forgotten the nest in which we were born.

  REMBRANDT’S BROWN INK

  The sorrow of an old horse standing in the rain
/>   Goes on and on. The plane that crashes in the desert

  Holds shadows under its wings for thirty years.

  Each time Rembrandt touches his pen to the page,

  So many barns and fences fly up. Perhaps that happens

  Because earth has pulled so many nights down.

  When we hear a Drupad singer with his low voice

  Patiently waiting for the next breath, we know

  The universe can easily get along without us.

 

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