The BlueIris Semi-Nightly Poetry Break, 2/3/09

[BlueIris]

"The Grief of Men"

The Buddhist ordered his boy to bring him, New Year's
morning, a message. He
woke; answered;
tore open the message
he himself had written, and signed, "Buddha."

"Busyness has caught you, you have slowed and stopped.
If you start toward me, I
will surely come
to meet you." He wept.
Exhausted by work and travel, I walk.

I hear the coot call his darkening call,
and the dog's doubt far back in his throat.
A porcupine walks
by the water at dusk;
no one sees him, under the low bushes.

Men have died on high slopes, as others watch.
They look around, and do not see
those they love most,
and call out
the sound the porcupine does not make.

And fresh waters wash past the tidal sands,
into the delta, wash past clear
bars and are gone.
Women can die
in childbirth, Bertha, inwardly near me, died,

my father's sister. "No more children, that's it,"
the doctor said. They wanted a child.
The doctor stands
by the bed, but Bertha
dies, her breath ends, her knees quiver and are still.

Her husband will not lie quiet.
He throws himself against the wall.
Men come to hold him down.
My father is there,
sits by the bed long night after night.

—Robert Bly

[Tuesday Afternoon]

1. Can't help but think of Longhorn's husband --

reading this one.

[BlueIris]

3. All best to the family of Longhorn. nt

[CaliforniaPeggy]

2. My dear BlueIris...

Ah, beautiful, and so very sad...

As Tuesday Afternoon said, this makes me think of Longhorn's husband too...

Thank you for this...