My body sings only one song; the wind turns gray in my arms. Flowers bloom. Flowers die. More is less. I long for more. — Mark Strand, from “The One Song,” Collected Poems (Alfred A. Knopf, 2014) Advertisements
Where are the waters of childhood? See where the windows are boarded up, where the gray siding shines in the sun and salt air and the asphalt shingles on the roof have peeled or fallen off, where tiers of oxeye daisies float on a sea of grass? That’s the place to begin. Enter the kingdom… Continue reading Mark Strand
There is within me a thing that is aching, aching, aching always as the days pass. — Mary MacLane, I Await The Devil’s Coming. (Melville House; Reprint edition, March 19, 2013) Originally published April 26th 1902.
In another time, What cannot be seen will define us, and we shall be prompted To say that language is error, and all things are wronged By representation. The self, we shall say, can never be Seen with a disguise, and never be seen without one. — Mark Strand, from “A Suite of Appearances, IV,”… Continue reading Mark Strand
It was afternoon but I was sure there was moonlight trapped under the plates. You were standing outside the window, saying, “Lift them up.” When I lifted them up the sea was dark, the wind was from the west, and you were gone. — Mark Strand, from “Seven Days,” The Georgia Review. Vol. 29, No.… Continue reading Mark Strand
It is all in the mind, you say, and has nothing to do with happiness. The coming of cold, the coming of heat, the mind has all the time in the world. You take my arm and say something will happen, something unusual for which we were always prepared, like the sun arriving after a… Continue reading Mark Strand
Of their mirrors, pretending we are the ones who stare From the other side, collected In the glassy air. — Mark Strand, from “Violent Storm,” New and Selected Poems. (Alfred A. Knopf, 2009)