In 1982 Robert Bly came to the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill at my invitation. I was a troubled Ph.D. student, more than half blind, in the wrong place, post-Fulbiright, post Iowa MFA, alone, neurasthenic, and recently injured by a freak accent: while reading a book of poems in bed, holding the book up close to my one good eye, a paper bookmark flipped out and sliced open my only functional reading orb. Carl Jung and Freud both said there are no accidents. The book was Linda Gregg’s terrific volume: Too Bright to See.
One day I came home to my incredibly shabby grad student apartment and flipped on the light switch. The light bulb went out. I went to the next lamp and switched it on. The bulb popped. I went into the next room. Same thing.
I knew I was in the spell of synchronicity.
Walking across campus Robert looked at me and said: “There’s something about you; you remind me of James Wright; its in your rich face and open eyes.”
Bly saved my life on that day in that place.
If you’re a poet, have you saved anyone lately?
Or have you spent your days advertising your failures, making sun flecked comic book pages out of ego?
I know these men who cannot speak. They have autism. I want to create a writing workshop for them. Do you understand?
Have you saved anyone lately?
Robert Bly: “How much labor is needed to live our four lives!”
Planet of the Blind 
The poet Heather McHugh just granted me an amazing one-week, all-expenses paid trip to Victoria, Canada , through her non-profit called caregifted.org. I spent much time with her this week and was awed and sustained by her person.
On that note, I’ll tell you that, I was an underclassman — an English major — at UNC-Chapel Hill in 1982, and I went to hear Robert Bly. I remember him to this day. Thank you.
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