Robert Bly Died Today

In May of 2006, I sent this email: Hello, I have no idea if this email will find its way into Mr. Bly's lap, but it is the only email link I can find at the moment. I was just perusing some of my early poems (I'm actually a published novelist, but dabbled, you know...) and came across a poem I wrote in honor of Robert Bly some years ago. I'd very much like to pass it on to him. Blessings, lisa ODE TO ROBERT BLY I heard him first in a small room in Sausalito I discovered poetry among beaded skirts, patchouli oil and fading peace signs, the sound of music boiling under water words sculpted by the dead and brought to life by Robert Bly. Plucking strings of a flat wooden dulcimer he tossed threads of silk to float across the still air in the room in front of me. He caught the words of Rainer Maria Rilke like a prized swordfish, iridescent and fighting he gutted and cleaned and wrapped and held them out to me, a dead poet’s catch and my feelings, like Rilke’s “my feeling sinks, as if standing on fishes." I followed him his talks always in San Francisco or close, a salty fog shifting like phantoms in the parking lots where he perched anew. Spring geese lay fresh eggs and now and then his own words took possession of the dulcimer lyrics. He shared his reflections and I snatched at them, his folk poems, anecdotes, stories of sea mammals and beaches, particularly that one I always read to potential lovers, I hoped they would think me deep and easily moved. I am when I watch his story beneath my elbows, The Dead Seal Near McClure’s Beach I cry as if a child again saddened by that lullaby of fallen babies and cradles and all. It’s so sad the dead seal He is so sad to find it there dead, dying, still alive it surprises him so he feels “as if a wall of my room had fallen away.” Geoducks grow large with priapism through the undulating sand—now large enough for soup and he had all but vanished from the horizon (The reading schedule was bare) but he surfaced like the far-off submarine periscope in war movies, clanging drums and moving men up mountains. Wild men taking back male impulses and banging them into shape like so many harriers, fitting the shoe tight. Nothing loose will do and the girls are better off plucking the strings of the dulcimer lapping the loins of Neruda and Lorca without his help as they whisper their delight into their hands alone. Robert Bly, what unnamed chorus or menagerie back up your words now? And have I yet thanked you for offering your arm and showing me the colors of the flame within the fire?

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Two days later he wrote me back: Dear Lisa, Thank you so much for writing me and sending me the poem, which brings up by itself many memories I have of reading  in California, presenting Rilke for the first time, plucking away at my out of tune dulcimer.  I like to remember the dead seal near McClure's Beach -- I mean the poem, not the dead seal.  You're wondering what unnamed chorus or menagerie back up my words now.  I'm being supported by the poetic form the Muslims developed, the ghazal.  I'm sending along a poem, the last one in a book of poems called MY SENTENCE WAS A THOUSAND YEARS OF JOY.

STEALING SUGAR FROM THE CASTLE

We are poor students who stay after school to study joy. We are like those birds in the India mountains. I am a widow whose child is her only joy. The only thing I hold in my ant-like head Is the builder's plan of the castle of sugar. Just to steal one grain of sugar is a joy! Like a bird, we fly out of darkness into the hall, Which is lit with singing, then fly out again. Being shut out of the warm hall is also a joy. I am a laggard, a loafer, and an idiot.  But I love To read about those who caught one glimpse Of the Face, and died twenty years later in joy. I don't mind your saying I will die soon. Even in the sound of the word soon, I hear The word you which begins every sentence of joy. "You're a thief!" the judge said.  "Let's see Your hands!"  I showed my callused hands in court. My sentence was a thousand years of joy. With good wishes, Robert

RIP Master Bly

. May your joyous words live on for a thousand years.