It’s good if you can accept your life—you’ll noticeYour face has become deranged trying to adjustTo it. Your face thought your life would lookLike your bedroom mirror when you were ten.That was a clear river touched by mountain wind.Even your parents can’t believe how much you’vechanged.

It’s good if you can accept your life—you’ll noticeYour face has become deranged trying to adjustTo it. Your face thought your life would lookLike your bedroom mirror when you were ten.That was a clear river touched by mountain wind.Even your parents can’t believe how much you’vechanged.

Robert Bly
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When a father, absent during the day, returns home at six, his children receive only his temperament, not his teaching.

Robert Bly
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I have daughters and I have sons.When one of them lays a handOn my shoulder, shining fishTurn suddenly in the deep sea.

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It is not our job to remain whole.We came to lose our leavesLike the trees, and be born again,Drawing up from the great roots.

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Reclaiming the sacred in our lives naturally brings us close once more to the wellsprings of poetry.

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I'd park myself in the bookstore and read with one eye on everyone coming in. I remember reading a Robert Bly book of poetry.

Sally Mann
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It’s good if you can accept your life—you’ll noticeYour face has become deranged trying to adjustTo it. Your face thought your life would lookLike your bedroom mirror when you were ten.That was a clear river touched by mountain wind.Even your parents can’t believe how much you’vechanged.

Robert Bly, Morning Poems
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The human face shines as it speaks of thingsNear itself, thoughts full of dreams.The human face shines like a dark skyAs it speaks of those things that oppress the living

Robert Bly, Silence in the Snowy Fields
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It's all right if people think we are idiots.It's all right if we lie face down on the earth.It's all right if we open the coffin and climb in.

Robert Bly, Talking into the Ear of a Donkey: Poems
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We have never understood how birds manage to fly,Nor who the genius is who makes up dreams,Now how heaven and earth can appear in a poem.

Robert Bly, Talking into the Ear of a Donkey: Poems
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We are bees then

our honey is language.
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