It's all right if this suffering goes on for years. It's all right if the hawk never finds his own nest. It's all right if we never receive the love we want. It's all right if we listen to the sitar for hours. It doesn't matter how softly the musician plays. Sooner or later the melody will say it all. It doesn't matter if we regret our crimes or not. The mice will carry our defeats into Asia, And the Tuva throat-singers will tell the whole story. It's all right if we can't remain cheerful all day. The task we have accepted is to go down To renew our friendship with the ruined things. It's all right if people think we are idiots. It's all right if we lie face down on the earth. It's all right if we open the coffin and climb in. It's not our fault that things have gone wrong. Let's agree it was Saturn and the other old men Who have arranged these series of defeats for us.
You can find this poem in Robert Bly’s brilliant book of poems—Stealing Sugar from the Castle: Selected Poems, 1950–2011
Good. But grim. I am still holding out for some victories, some preserved things, some rebuilt things once thought ruined. But for now, this is good.
I love this poem (and Bly). I find it hopeful, relieving, ecstatic and true. It doesn't matter how softly the musician plays, sooner or later the melody will say it all. We are not the great protagonists of our own story making fateful decisions. We are witnesses and wanderers and there is as much glory in defeat as victory. Nothing has given me more gold that my most ruthless ass-kickings--and having somehow survived them, made friends with those ruined things.
Bobby B knows.