On the Death of Robert Bly

I wanted him to live to be one hundred even though his readings had stopped years ago. Who am I to judge how long a man should live? Or how his living, his writing, his teaching helped my life. I was just a woman in his workshop at Centrum learning as much as I could.

He would take his class on writing walks. One day on a beach hike, we stood together and watched a fish die in the sand. Another day, we sat with an old stump that had once held up something magnificent. We translated Francis Ponge, “the poet of things”, and looked deeply into an orange.

seasons come and go

left alone to find my way

sad hearing the rain

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dVerse prompt to write a haibun on something or someone to be thankful for

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In Robert Bly’s Hometown

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remember the sound of your voice

reading my poem to the class

here something happens

poetry is making something happen

don’t be content with just words

make them leap off the page

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dVerse prompt to write about or to a favorite poet. I visited Madison, Minnesota a few weeks ago and went to the little house where Robert Bly wrote and it contains much of his library.

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