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Post by Nalkarj on Nov 23, 2021 4:02:48 GMT
Robert Bly, a fascinating and often spellbinding poet, died Sunday at the age of 94. The NPR obit is decent. At his best, Bly achieved a beautiful mix of the quotidian and the numinous that touches me deeply. Here, in tribute, is one of his finest pieces: 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.
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Post by politicidal on Nov 24, 2021 19:45:43 GMT
R.I.P.
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Post by nutsberryfarm ๐ on Nov 29, 2021 21:20:37 GMT
Waking on the Farm by Robert Bly
I can remember the early morningsโhow the stubble, A little proud with frost, snapped as we walked.
How the John Deere tractor hood pulled heat Away from our hands when we filled it with gas.
And the way the sun brought light right out of the ground. It turned on a whole hill of stubble as easily as a single stone.
Breathing seemed frail and daring in the morning. To pull in air was like reading a whole novel.
The angleworms, turned up by the plow, looked Uneasy like shy people trying to avoid praise.
For a while we had goats. They were like turkeys Only more reckless. One butted a red Chevrolet.
When we washed up at noon, we were more ordinary. But the water kept something in it of the early morning.
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