Selected Poems

The March Buds

They lie on the bed, hearing music.
The perfumed pillow, the lake, a woman’s laughter.
Wind blows faintly, touches the March buds.
The young trees sway back and forth.

No Mountain Peak Without Its Rolling Foothills

A man and a woman linger under a tree,
soberly, standing near his horse.
The low muttering speech instinct makes
to instinct remains hearable and unhearable.
The canoe shoots down the narrow channel,
the climber goes rock to rock up the mountainside.
The yaks, hair blowing, disappear into the storm.

Two People At Dawn

The sun orange and rose
lights up covers and clouds.
Her head lies in his lap.
And his hand curves around
the bone box of her head.
Odor of candles
floats in the room.

He says, “Our river flows
on a black mud bottom.
Are we walking there?
Are we under water?”
“We are under the ocean.”
“Ah well,” he says, “the ocean
is only a slow river.”

His hand remains firm.
Her courage shines
the whole length of her body.
The man joins her
in that briny place
where cattle graze
on grass below the water.

These poems are from Robert Bly’s newest book, Loving a Woman in Two Worlds (Dial Press, Garden City, New York, 1985), and are reprinted with the author’s permission.