Iron John

            The writing on the paper is starting to fade and the edges are a bit ragged. It’s loosely folded and the word “Father” is printed on top. It’s a letter I gave to my Dad on Father’s Day many years ago. I didn’t realize he saved it until I found it among his things when he died. I’m holding it now. I thought of this letter when I heard that Robert Bly had died. He was a poet born and raised in rural Minnesota who helped me understand the distant relationship I had with my dad. He helped me see that artists – especially poets - sometimes observe things that others miss. I don’t think I would have written to my Dad if I hadn’t read Robert Bly.

            My Dad was the perfect illustration of the traditional American man. Strong, tough, mechanically gifted, honest, loyal, and stoic. The only emotion he would routinely express was anger. I grew up surrounded by stories and images that modeled the way “real” men were supposed to behave. You’ve all seen them, too. Old John Wayne movies, old military training footage, stories about young men “fighting” their way to success. Don’t be a “wimp”. Fight back. Don’t let them see you be “weak”. Get MAD, Baby. If you were lucky, like me, you had a Mom who would hug you when you hurt. If not, “suck it up, buttercup”. Enter Robert Bly

            I first read Bly’s poetry when I was in college, but it was several years into my teaching career when I came across his book Iron John: A Book about Men. I was fascinated by his analysis of mythology and fairy tales. I have long believed we are a “narrative species” in that we sum up our life experiences in stories. Robert Bly helped me understand how our legendary “manhood” stories applied to me. His writing made me deeply reflect on my own relationship with my father and helped me manage my own feelings. Robert Bly helped many people see the world anew. Rest in Peace.

The Sympathies of the Long Married

 Oh well, let's go on eating the grains of eternity.

 What do we care about improvements in travel?

 Angels sometimes cross the river on old turtles.

 Shall we worry about who gets left behind?

 That one bird flying through the clouds is enough. 

Your sweet face at the door of the house is enough.

 The two farm horses stubbornly pull the wagon.

 The mad crows carry away the tablecloth.

 Most of the time, we live through the night.

 Let's not drive the wild angels from our door.

 Maybe the mad fields of grain will move. 

Maybe the troubled rocks will learn to walk.

 It's all right if we're troubled by the night.

 It's all right if we can't recall our own name.

 It's all right if this rough music keeps on playing.

 I've given up worrying about men living alone.

 I do worry about the couple who live next door.

 Some words heard through the screen door are enough.

 ……..Robert Bly