Robert Bly
author profile
born
December 23, 1926
place of birth
Madison, Minnesota, The United States
website
genre
Poetry
about this author
Robert Bly is an American poet, author, activist and leader of the Mythopoetic Men's Movement in the United States.
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avg rating: 3.99
| 1,572 ratings
| 165 reviews
| 111 distinct works
More books by Robert Bly…
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Iron John: A Book About Men by Robert Bly avg rating 3.61 — 288 ratings — published 1990 15 editions |
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The Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart: A Poetry Anthology by Robert Bly , James Hillman Michael Meade avg rating 4.22 — 99 ratings — published 1992 2 editions |
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A Little Book on the Human Shadow by Robert Bly avg rating 4.16 — 87 ratings — published 1988 2 editions |
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Neruda and Vallejo: Selected Poems by Robert Bly avg rating 4.25 — 72 ratings — published 1970 3 editions |
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Morning Poems by Robert Bly avg rating 3.85 — 66 ratings — published 1997 3 editions |
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News of the Universe: Poems of Twofold Consciousness (Sierra Club Books Publication) by Robert Bly avg rating 4.36 — 55 ratings — published 1982 3 editions |
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Soul Is Here For Its Own Joy by Robert Bly avg rating 4.33 — 52 ratings — published 1999 |
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Silence in the Snowy Fields: Poems by Robert Bly avg rating 4.29 — 45 ratings — published 1962 |
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Leaping Poetry: An Idea With Poems and Translations by Robert Bly avg rating 4.30 — 44 ratings — published 1975 2 editions |
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Lorca & Jimenez: Selected Poems by Robert Bly avg rating 4.45 — 40 ratings — published 1997 |
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"They wrote to me and said something about it, and I said that if it doesn't involve any work, I'll do it.
(On being named Minnesota's first Poet Laureate)"
— Robert Bly
(On being named Minnesota's first Poet Laureate)"
— Robert Bly
tags:
apathy
1 person liked it
"His large ears
Hear everything
A hermit wakes
And sleeps in a hut
Underneath
His gaunt cheeks.
His eyes blue, alert,
Disappointed,
And suspicious,
Complain I
Do not bring him
The same sort of
Jokes the nurses
Do. He is a bird
Waiting to be fed,—
Mostly beak— an eagle
Or a vulture, or
The Pharoah's servant
Just before death.
My arm on the bedrail
Rests there, relaxed,
With new love. All
I know of the Troubadours
I bring to this bed.
I do not want
Or need to be shamed
By him any longer.
The general of shame
Has discharged
Him, and left him
In this small provincial
Egyptian town.
If I do not wish
To shame him, then
Why not love him?
His long hands,
Large, veined,
Capable, can still
Retain hold of what
He wanted. But
Is that what he
Desireed? Some
Powerful engine
Of desire goes on
Turning inside his body.
He never phrased
What he desired,
And I am
his son."
— Robert Bly (Selected Poems)
Hear everything
A hermit wakes
And sleeps in a hut
Underneath
His gaunt cheeks.
His eyes blue, alert,
Disappointed,
And suspicious,
Complain I
Do not bring him
The same sort of
Jokes the nurses
Do. He is a bird
Waiting to be fed,—
Mostly beak— an eagle
Or a vulture, or
The Pharoah's servant
Just before death.
My arm on the bedrail
Rests there, relaxed,
With new love. All
I know of the Troubadours
I bring to this bed.
I do not want
Or need to be shamed
By him any longer.
The general of shame
Has discharged
Him, and left him
In this small provincial
Egyptian town.
If I do not wish
To shame him, then
Why not love him?
His long hands,
Large, veined,
Capable, can still
Retain hold of what
He wanted. But
Is that what he
Desireed? Some
Powerful engine
Of desire goes on
Turning inside his body.
He never phrased
What he desired,
And I am
his son."
— Robert Bly (Selected Poems)
