Newsletter sign up

Be the first to know when new American Life in Poetry columns are live.

Column 779

Why We Don’t Die

Intro by Ted Kooser
02.23.2020

Robert Bly is one of the last liv­ing major Amer­i­can poets of his gen­er­a­tion, and W.W. Nor­ton recent­ly pub­lished his Col­lect­ed Poems. I and many oth­er poets of the cen­tral states owe Bly, who grew up on a Min­neso­ta farm, a great deal, for show­ing us how to write about what’s around us, the turkey sheds, the great skies, the rain-filled road­side ditch­es, all of it. Here’s one poem about our life force that I’m espe­cial­ly fond of. 

Why We Don’t Die

In late September many voices
Tell you you will die.
That leaf says it, that coolness.
All of them are right.

Our many souls—what
Can they do about it?
Nothing. They’re already
Part of the invisible.

Our souls have been
Longing to go home
Anyway. “It's late,” they say,
“Lock the door, let’s go.”

The body doesn't agree. It says
“We buried a little iron
Ball under that tree.
Let’s go get it.”

Share this column

Disclaimer

We do not accept unsolicited submissions

We do not accept unsolicited submissions. American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Reprinted from Collected Poems of Robert Bly. Copyright © 2018, 2011, 2005, 2001, 1997, 1994, 1985, 1981, 1979, 1977, 1975, 1973, 1972, 1967, 1966, 1965, 1964, 1963, 1962, 1961, 1960, 1959, 1953 by Robert Bly. Used with permission of the publisher, W.W. Norton & Company, Inc. All rights reserved. Introduction copyright © 2024 by The Poetry Foundation.