It's morning. The brown scoops of coffee, the wasp-like Coffee grinder, the neighbors still asleep. The gray light as you pour gleaming water-- It seems you've traveled years to get here. Finally you deserve a house. If not deserve It, have it; no one can get you out. Misery Had its way, poverty, no money at least. Or maybe it was confusion. But that's over. Now you have a room. Those lighthearted books: The Anatomy of Melancholy, Kafka's Letter to his Father, are all here. You can dance With only one leg, and see the snowflake falling With only one eye. Even the blind man Can see. That's what they say. If you had A sad childhood, so what? When Robert Burton Said he was melancholy, he meant he was home.
You can find this poem in Robert Bly’s, Stealing Sugar from the Castle: Selected Poems, 1950–2011
I'm so glad I subscribed.
I once had a workshop with Mr. ably and his zither instrument and his suspenders - just before we had one with Meredith Monk who kicked our knees out from under us . We had to lay down ina dark room after that experience. A memory of Art School in Chicago thank you.