The Night Abraham Called to the Stars

Poems

Robert Bly

• Publisher: HarperCollins e-books
• Year: 2009
• ISBN:
  9780061979866
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Middle Eastern Poetry
• Index: Literature

"The poems of The Night Abraham Called to the Stars mark the ripening of a new current in Bly's career: Now in his mid-70s, he is writing with tremendous energy and clarity and force, and producing some of the best work of his long career."— The Nation

A volume of poetry with an emphasis on spirituality from the National Book Award winner.

Drawing on the profound influence that Islamic poetry, such as Rumi's, has had on his work, Robert Bly transmutes the remarkable ghazal form into a stunning series of poems. In this form, the poet can change the landscape in each stanza, ranging from a love poem to wisdom literature to a complaint about the poet's private life.

A cultured form with many references to other poems and poets, ghazal poetry challenges and involves the reader. In this volume, Bly's poetry resonates with deep spirituality while sounding the major themes of modern life. Merging wildness and a beautiful formality, this collection assures the reputation of one of the major poets of our era.

PART ONE

The Night Abraham Called to the Stars

Do you remember the night Abraham first called

To the stars? He cried to Saturn: “You are my Lord!”

How happy he was! When he saw the Dawn Star,

He cried, “You are my Lord!” How destroyed he was

When he watched them set. Friends, he is like us:

We take as our Lord the stars that go down.

We are faithful companions to the unfaithful stars.

We are diggers, like badgers; we love to feel

The dirt flying out from behind our hind claws.

And no one can convince us that mud is not

Beautiful. It is our badger soul that thinks so.

We are ready to spend the rest of our life

Walking with muddy shoes in the wet fields.

We resemble exiles in the kingdom of the serpent.

We stand in the onion fields looking up at the night.

My heart is a calm potato by day, and a weeping,

Abandoned woman by night. Friend, tell me what to do,

Since I am a man in love with the setting stars.

The Wildebeest

Once more the murky world is becoming confused. Oh

The essence of Reason’s House is confusion,

So this development is like the owl becoming owlish.

Arithmetic has failed to bring order to our sorrow.

Newton is not guilty, because the man who

Invents the knife is not responsible for the murder.

Bees, abandoned by their Queen, clump

Together in the dusty light of the hemlocks.

Even programmers don’t know when she will return.

The Herd Girl and the Shepherd Boy spend all year

At the opposite shores of the Milky Way.

In spring the lovers receive one night together.

The wildebeest leaps into the river spread-legged

Among the crocodiles; and the wolf packs are sad

Chasing the caribou endlessly over the steppes.

The beaver make their dens over and over. Grandmother

After grandmother dies, and nothing changes.

The Moses of the beaver does not see the Promised Land.

Jerez at Easter

Please tell me why the lamb is in love with the wolf

And why the child’s finger calls the hammer down

And why at dusk Alexander walks toward his enemies.

Tell me why the gazelle grazes so close to the lion

And why the rat makes up games on the snake’s tail

And why the student bends his head when he’s attacked.

One meadow in the redwoods can contain a thousand ferns.

By this we deduce we are living in the serpent’s home.

Each curly fern is his tongue unfolding.

The poet makes a meadow from each leaf.

Each curve of language turns into a lamb’s ear,

Because a genius is a child in the house of suffering.

None of us is free from a certain bend in the knee.

The caws from the oak-bound ravens in the trees

Around our house guide Alexander toward the night.

The old man’s voice breaks as he sings at Easter.

In between the clapping, there’s always a voice breaking.

Last night in Jerez some people lived, some people died.

Giordano Bruno and the Muddy Footprint

Furry demons come to the door offering separations.

The crane’s foot in the mud is the map of our life.

That sucking sound of the farm boot is the planet’s cry.

Curly hair guards the opening to the womb.

Because there is heaven inside the womb, we will not allow

Our eyes to turn away from a single black hair.

There is so much glory in the great hooves

Of the stag that Tristan tracks through the glen,

And so much fear in the naked footprint near the river.

It’s all right to praise the raven’s dark feet,

And the crows settling down at dusk in the oak,

For setting stars always predict the stars that rise.

The web in the morning speaks of the origin of all dew.

The lovers look at each others’ bodies so carefully,

And they need no more, and see all India there.

What relaxes us comes from God. It was when

He first saw the print of the sparrow’s foot in the mud

That Giordano Bruno knew that the world was on fire.

Moses’ Cradle

The Pharaoh’s wives touch the mud with their toes.

You and I float in Moses’ cradle. Dear friends, you and I

Are parted by a thin skin from the ignorance of the Nile.

Ghosts compose themselves from ground mist.

Friends, our souls are moist. “Dry souls are best.”

Plotinus thought so, but he was nursing at eleven.

Some childre...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Contents
• Part One
• Part Two
• Part Three
• Part Four
• Part Five
• Acknowledgments
• About the Author
• Other Books by Robert Bly
• Copyright
• About the Publisher