ç¾å½èåè¯äººç½ä¼¯ç¹Â·åè±ï¼Robert Bly, 1926.12.23â2021.11.21ï¼ä»¥94å²é«é¾å¨å®¶ä¸å»ä¸ï¼åªä½è¿æ²¡æéé²ä»çæ»å ï¼ä¸è¿ä»æ·¡åºå ¬ä¼è§é乿åå¤å¹´äºãåè±æ©å¹´å¨ç¾å½ä¸æµ·å²¸çåä½å¤§å¦æ±å¦ï¼è¯æåæåå æ¬åå纳德·éå°ï¼å¥³æ§ä¸»ä¹è¯äººè¾å¾·ç³Â·çå¥ï¼çº½çº¦æ´¾ä»£è¡¨äººç©å¼å °å ·奥åæï¼çº¦ç¿°Â·é¿ä»è´éç人ãä¸è¿ï¼ä»ä¸åæ¬¢ä¸æµ·å²¸ç大åå¸çæ´»ï¼ä»å¨1950å¹´åå°è¥¿é¨èå®¶ç¾å½å å°å鍿尼èè¾¾å·ï¼å± ä½å¨æå°¼é¿æ³¢å©æ¯ï¼åæ¥æä¸ºè¯¥å·ç¬¬ä¸ä»»å·æ¡å è¯äººã离å¼ä¸æµ·å²¸ä¹åï¼ä»å»äºæ¬§æ´²æ¸¸åï¼åæ¥å积æè¯ä»éè±è¯è¯æï¼ä¾å¦èé²è¾¾ãå·´åéã马æ¥å¤ãç¹æå å°ãé²ç±³çãå¹¶äº1962å¹´åºçè¯éãéªéä¸çæ²å¯ãSilence in theSnowy Fieldsï¼è¿æ¬è¯éå½±åäºç¾å½ä¸¤ä»£äººçåä½ãä»çåä½ãç¿»è¯ä»¥åæè®ºï¼ä»å®è·µå°ç论ä¸ä¸ºç¾å½è¯ææè±è¾ç¥ç¹ãåºå¾·ãè«å°ç人çå½±åååºäºè´¡ç®ã
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Watering the Horse
How strange to think of giving up all ambition!
Suddenly I see with such clear eyes
The white flake of snow
That has just fallen in the horseâs mane!
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The Teapot
That morning I heard water being poured into a teapot.
The sound was an ordinary, daily, cluffy sound.
But all at once, I knew you loved me.
An unheard-of thing, love audible in water falling.
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Ferns
It was among ferns I learned about eternity.
Below your belly there is a curly place.
Through you I learned to love the ferns on that bank,
and the curve the deerâs hoof leaves in sand.
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Driving my Parents Home at Christmas
As I drive my parents home through the snow
their frailty hesitates on the edge of a mountainside.
I call over the cliff
only snow answers.
They talk quietly
of hauling water of eating an orange
of a grandchildâs photograph left behind last night.
When they open the door of their house they disappear.
And the oak when it falls in the forest who hears it through miles and miles of silenceï¼
They sit so close to each otherâ¦as if pressed together by the snow.
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Late Moon
The third-week moon reaches its light over my fatherâs farm,
Half of it dark now, in the west that eats it away.
The earth has rocks in it that hum at early dawn.
As I turn to go in, I see my shadow reach for the latch.
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Water
The bird dips to take some water in its bill.
You know we do not drink only with our hands.
We receive what nothing else can give.
We are thirsty for the heron
and the lake, the touch of bill on the water.
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The Shocks We Put Our Pitchforks Into
The shocks said that winter
Was coming. Each stood there,
Said, âIâve given myself away.
Take me. Itâs over.â
And we did. With the shiny tips
Of our forks, their handles so
Healthy and elegant,
We slipped each bundle free,
Gave it to the load.
Each bundle was like
A soul, tucked back
Into the cloud of souls.
Thatâs how it will be
After deathââsuch an abundance
Of souls, all togetherââ
None tired, in the heavy wagon.
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The Resemblance Between Your Life and a Dog
I never intended to have this life, believe me â
It just happened. You know how dogs turn up
At a farm, and they wag but canât explain.
Itâs good if you can accept your life â youâll notice
Your face has become deranged trying to adjust
To it. Your face thought your life would look
Like your bedroom mirror when you were ten.
That was a clear river touched by mountain wind.
Even your parents canât believe how much youâve changed.
Sparrows in winter, if youâve ever held one, all feathers,
Burst out of your hand with a fiery glee.
You see them later in hedges. Teachers praise you,
But you canât quite get back to the winter sparrow.
Your life is a dog. Heâs been hungry for miles.
Doesnât particularly like you, but gives up, and comes in.
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Standing Under a Cherry Tree at Night
The cherry branches sway . . . they are arms that prophesy music, hands that follow the note just about to come. The clumps of blossoms look heavily down, and are womenâs faces, not angry with us, who forgive and return petals to the earth. And I too sway like these boughs, as if in heavy canyons, hardly making ground, moving upstream against tiny cedar twigs being turned over and over in the cloudy spring river coming down.
All day I walked by the sea! I climbed down the cliffs at times to sit with the black mussels. Finally, I am back here, in the garden, where the night air is affectionate, the stars are a transparent mountain range . . . and I am a human being standing in the dark, looking at the cherry branches above him swaying against the night sky not far from the sea!
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️Taking the Hands
Taking the hands of someone you love,
You see they are delicate cagesâ¦
Tiny birds are singing
In the secluded prairies
And in the deep valleys of the hand.
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The Whole Moisty Night
The Viking ship sailing into the full harbor.
The body meets its wife far out at sea.
Its lamp remains lit the whole moisty night.
Water pours down, faint flute notes in the sound of the water.
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️At Mid Ocean
All day I loved you in a fever holding on to the tail of the horse.
I overflowed whenever I reached out to touch you.
My hand moved over your body covered
With its dress
Burning rough an animalâs hand or foot
moving over leaves.
The rainstorm retires clouds open sunlight
sliding over ocean water a thousand miles from land.
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️Late Moon
The third-week moon reaches its light over my fatherâs farm,
Half of it dark now, in the west that eats it away.
The earth has rocks in it that hum at early dawn.
As I turn to go in, I see my shadow reach for the latch.
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️️ ️️️️The Turtle
Rain lifts the lake level, washing the reeds.
Slowly the milkweed pods open, the yellow lily pads.
Through the mist man and woman see the far shore.
The turtleâs head rises out over the water.
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️️On a Cliff
Reading the Master,
I heard a grasshopper making dry sounds with his wings,
Leaping about in the wind,
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️️ ️️Ferns
It was among ferns I learned about eternity.
Below your belly there is a curly place.
Through you I learned to love the ferns on that bank,
and the curve the deerâs hoof leaves in sand.
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️️The Moose
The arctic moose drinks at the tundraâs edge,
swirling the watercress with his mouth.
How fresh the water is, the coolness of the far North.
A light wind moves through the deep firs.
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️️The Minty Grass
The ram walks over the minty grass.
The hawk ruffles his shoulder feathers.
Two chooks sit with feathers overlapping.
Just before dark big snowflake fall.
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