I'm thankful Minnesota farms raise great poets, too!

Sun is shining; temperature above freezing; moderate to gentle breeze; no longer to be taken for granted. I'm thankful for almost any really decent weather this year. There's been precious little of it.

Minnesota stubble field

Photo by J. Harrington

This morning I finished reading Robert Bly's Collected Poems, all 500+ pages. I'm thankful I lived long enough to read them all. Some of his poems left me confused; others I felt like I understood. Since Bly has been described as “one of the legends of contemporary poetry,” according to David Biespel, “the prototypical non-modernist the one who set in motion a poetics of intensity for generations to come.”, and is Minnesota's second (not first) poet laureate, I wanted to become acquainted with all of his poetry. The fact that I've taken a few poetry course at the Loft Literary Center with someone who has edited several books on Robert Bly probably has something to do with my undertaking. Also, in fairness, I've read most of the volumes of poetry written by Joyce Sutphen, our current poet laureate of Minnesota but had only skimmed through a few of Bly's separate volumes. I do find most of Sutphen's work more comprehensible but can't say whether that says more about the poets, their poems, or the reader. Perhaps that's as it should be. In any case, I'm thankful to live somewhere that produces such poets of note and noteworthiness. I'm also thankful to have been able to explore so much of the country in Minnesota captured in Bly's and Sutphen's poetry.

Driving toward the Lac Qui Parle River

By Robert Bly

I 

I am driving; it is dusk; Minnesota.

The stubble field catches the last growth of sun.   

The soybeans are breathing on all sides.

Old men are sitting before their houses on car seats   

In the small towns. I am happy,

The moon rising above the turkey sheds.

    II 

The small world of the car

Plunges through the deep fields of the night,   

On the road from Willmar to Milan.   

This solitude covered with iron

Moves through the fields of night

Penetrated by the noise of crickets.

    III 

Nearly to Milan, suddenly a small bridge,

And water kneeling in the moonlight.

In small towns the houses are built right on the ground;   

The lamplight falls on all fours on the grass.

When I reach the river, the full moon covers it.   

A few people are talking, low, in a boat.

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