Morning Poems
By Robert Bly
3.5/5
()
About this ebook
"Morning Poems is a sensational collection — Robert Bly's best in many years. Inspired by the example of William Stafford, Bly decided to embark on the project of writing a daily poem: Every morning he would stay in bed until he had completed the day's work. These 'little adventures/In Morning longing,' as he calls them, address classic poetic subjects (childhood, the seasons, death and heaven) in a way that capitalizes fully on the pun in the book's title. These are morning poems, full of the delight and mystery of waking in a new day, and they also do their share of mourning, elegizing the deceases and capturing the 'moment of sorror before creation.' Some of the poems are dialogues where unconventional speakers include mice, maple trees, bundles of grain, the body, the 'oldest mind' and the soul. A particularly moving sequence involves Bly's imaginative transactions with a great and unlikely precursor, Wallace Stevens. The whole is a fascinating and original book from one of our most fascinating authors."
— David Lehman
Robert Bly
ROBERT W. BLY is the Director of the Center for Technical Communication, a consulting firm that specializes in business communication and marketing. He has been a copywriter and consultant for more than twenty years, and is the author of more than forty-five books.
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Reviews for Morning Poems
23 ratings2 reviews
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Bly set a goal for himself to compose a poem every morning before he started his day and this generous selection of poems on a wide variety of topics using several different styles is the result. There are poems on life and death, childhood and aging, love and friendship, nature and everyday activities. Some are poignant or joyful, contemplative or humorous, straight forward or enigmatic. Most of the poems are relatively short and deserve to or three readings to really appreciate. I borrowed this from the library because of an LT recommendation and I plan to buy my own copy because I know I will want to read this again. Highly recommended. Reading in a BoatI was glad to be in that boat, floatingUnder oak leaves that had beenCarved by crafty light.How many times during the nightI laughed, because SheCame near, and stayed, or returned.The boat stopped, and I woke.But the pages kept turning. I jumpedBack in the book, and caught up.I was not in pain, not hungry,Friend, I was alive, sleeping,And all that time reading a book.
1 person found this helpful
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5A delightful volume by one of America's premier 20th century poets. While it may be short(just a few over 100 pages)and the poems are fairly short, they are meaty and marvelous.The title of the volume announces the theme of morning, freshness, awakening, and the promise we feel at a fresh beginning. I especially liked the first and last poems: "Early Morning in Your Room" and "A Conversation with a Mouse."Several thought-provoking pieces were set in Maine, and many had a farming theme. I think I'll be trying more of his poems in the future.
1 person found this helpful
Book preview
Morning Poems - Robert Bly
I
EARLY MORNING IN YOUR ROOM
It’s morning. The brown scoops of coffee, the wasplike
Coffee grinder, the neighbors still asleep.
The gray light as you pour gleaming water—
It seems you’ve travelled years to get here.
Finally you deserve a house. If not deserve
It, have it; no one can get you out. Misery
Had its way, poverty, no money at least;
Or maybe it was confusion. But that’s over.
Now you have a room. Those light-hearted books:
The Anatomy of Melancholy, Kafka’s Letter
To His Father, are all here. You can dance
With only one leg, and see the snowflake falling
With only one eye. Even the blind man
Can see. That’s what they say. If you had
A sad childhood, so what? When Robert Burton
Said he was melancholy, he meant he was home.
THE SHOCKS WE PUT OUR PITCHFORKS INTO
The shocks said that winter
Was coming. Each stood there,
Said, "I’ve given myself away.
Take me. It’s over."
And we did. With the shiny tips
Of our forks, their handles so
Healthy and elegant,
We slipped each bundle free,
Gave it to the load.
Each bundle was like
A soul, tucked back
Into the cloud of souls.
That’s how it will be
After death—such an abundance
Of souls, all together—
None tired, in the heavy wagon.
WHY WE DON’T DIE
In late September many voices
Tell you you will die.
That leaf says it. That coolness.
All of them are right.
Our many souls—what
Can they do about it?
Nothing. They’re already
Part of the invisible.
Our souls have been
Longing to go home
Anyway. It’s late,
they say.
Lock the door, let’s go.
The body doesn’t agree. It says,
"We buried a little iron
Ball under that tree.
Let’s go get it."
HAWTHORNE AND THE ELEPHANT
Hawthorne’s walking stick—very short—lay
Under glass at the Customs House. On the wharf,
A crab shell, emptied by a gull, lies alone.
His walking sticks lie near…but the crab is gone,
Like Hawthorne. Bedrooms were low;
You were taxed for high ceilings in those days.
Ships brought licorice and peppers. Hawthorne’s father
Died of a fever off the coast of Sumatra,
Guides say, and America, his ship, brought
The first elephant here in 1794.
Water got short on the way; to save the elephant
They gave her thirty bottles of beer a day.
She—Bette—died in Maine, an alcoholic.
How alert we were at the House of Seven Gables!
Clifford’s room is the little one up the secret stairs.
THE OLD WOMAN FRYING PERCH
Have you heard about the boy who walked by
The black water? I won’t say much more.
Let’s wait a few years. It wanted to be entered.
Sometimes a man walks by a pond, and a hand
Reaches out and pulls him in.
There was no
Malice, exactly. The pond was lonely, or needed
Calcium. Bones would do. What happened then?
It was a little like the night wind, which is soft,
And moves slowly, sighing like an old woman
In her kitchen late at night, moving pans
About, lighting a fire, frying some perch for the cat.
For Donald Hall
CONVERSATION WITH THE SOUL
The soul said, Give me something to look at.
So I gave her a farm. She said,
It’s too large.
So I gave her a field.
The two of us sat down.
Sometimes I would fall in love with a