Robert Bly, Reading One Night
Hands conducting the rhythm of the words,
Tai chi with poetry, stabbing and caressing,
strokes into the cold March winter air, bringing
dance to the words of Neruda, Frost, and Stafford,
finishing the evening’s talk with
Rumi and the other Sufi poets,
old friends.
Islamic poetic forms, given life in a Minnesotan
Norwegian accent, white haired man with a bit of a slur
in his voice, fading at times, so one’s ears had to grab
the words as they sang from his lips.
He decries the war in Iraq, and the death of culture
and storytelling in our living rooms,
applauds those who shoot their TV
and read poetry to their sons, and teach their daughters
guitar.
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