I have no interest in critiquing poetry, nor am I qualified. I love the poetry I do for the same basic reason I love the music I do -- for qualities of sound. More specifically in the case of poetry, for qualities of language that evoke.
evoke: to call forth or summon as if by the chanting of magical words; to conjure up; to draw forth from within or elicit, in particular a mental image or sensory reaction
Bly is a master of evocation. This books ranks among my top five.
The quivering wings of the winter ant
wait for lean winter to end.
I love you in slow, dim-witted ways,
hardly speaking, one or two words only.
What caused us each to live hidden?
A wound, the wind, a word, a parent.
Sometimes we wait in a helpless way,
awkwardly, not whole and not healed.
When we hid the wound, we fell back
from a human to a shelled life.
Now we feel the ant's hard chest,
the carapace, the silent tongue.
This must be the way of the ant,
the winter ant, the way of those
who are wounded and want to live:
to breathe, to sense another, and to wait.