I stopped to rest in a place where an especially Thick mist swirled up from the river. Someone, Who claimed to have known me years before, Approached, saying there were many poets Wandering around who wished to be alive again. They were ready to say the words they had been unable to say— Words whose… Continue reading Mark Strand
Time slips by; our sorrows do not turn into poems, And what is invisible stays that way. Desire has fled, Leaving only a trace of perfume in its wake, And so many people we loved have gone, And no voice comes from outer space, from the folds Of dust and carpets of wind to tell… Continue reading Mark Strand
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)
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