By Robert Wrigley
A robust new assortment from an award-winning poet Robert Wrigley has turn into one in all his generation's such a lot comprehensive poets, well known for his irony, energy, and lucid kind and for his skill to fuse narrative and lyrical impulses. Like its namesake—Robert Burton's seventeenth-century exam of human recommendations and emotions—Wrigley's new assortment potential to envision our international throughout the lens of melancholia. From imagined conflict memorials to insomniac chickens; from Descartes' misplaced daughter to a dreaming tree; from King Kong to hurry Limbaugh; and from Anna Karenina to a guy named Lucy Doolin (short for Lucifer), those are poems that elegize and have a good time that almost all appealing, exasperating, joyous, depressing, and completely imperfect of all creatures—the human being.
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They are children Whose hands their father takes on an excursion, showing them those things Most good for them, and brings them home to sleep-awaking Of themselves in Reality. To those who by a ray of His grace Find the path are masts. Infinitely more blessed are they than men, Albeit they are children wandering alone in the sun, amazed. It was to these that Baba now devoted himself. Up to now, Apart from his chosen disciples, he had been a stranger among strangers For although the world is of him and by him, the world is stranger to him And he is a stranger in the world.
All day we used our utmost persuasion but he would not budge. We reported our failure to Baba. He told us to try again. The second morning same result, although we pleaded, and whenever his lips Framed and his tongue said, 'Cha,' we supplied it. On the third morning Baba drove passed his house. On the fourth told us to go again. " Baba cut away his filth-cemented clothes: he had not bathed For thirty years, being wholly as Jesus said one should be, Perfect as the Father is Perfect — and when Baba had bathed him He dressed him in fresh, white clothes and fed him and sat with him.
Even a saint can fall through such expressions of egotism. Love is a flame, and to speak of love is to choke that flame with smoke. Real love is a clear flame which burns up everything, leaving Only God. Love me; and when you go from here, take me with you. Thus Baba explained to them through his love, through the words Of his faithful interpreter, the ways and the way of love: Love, Ever lovely and glorious and bright, the One-Being, God, their own Self Who appears as many but in reality is One; and encouraged them to awake From their sleep in dreams and their sleep in God and their dreaming In wakefulness and know themselves as God.