Canadian-American Culture · Canadian-American Literature · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Excerpt · Fragment · Passage · Poetry

Mark Strand

And though it was brief, and slight, and nothing To have been held onto so long, I remember it, As if it had come from within, one of the scenes The mind sets for itself, night after night, only To part from, quickly and without warning. — Mark Strand, from “Luminism,” The Continuous Life (Alfred… Continue reading Mark Strand

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Canadian-American Culture · Canadian-American Literature · Contemporary · Online Anthology · Online Magazine · Periodical · Poetry · Prose Poetry

Mark Strand

Afternoon darkens into evening. A man falls deeper and deeper into the slow spiral of sleep, into the drift of it, the length of it, through what feels like mist, and comes at last to an open door through which he passes without knowing why, then again without knowing why goes to a room where… Continue reading Mark Strand

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Canadian-American Culture · Canadian-American Literature · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Poetry

Mark Strand

Watching snow cover the ground, cover itself, cover everything that is not you, you see it is the downward drift of light upon the sound of air sweeping away the air, it is the fall of moments into moments, the burial of sleep, the down of winter, the negative of night. — Mark Strand, “Snowfall,”… Continue reading Mark Strand

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Canadian-American Culture · Canadian-American Literature · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Poetry

Mark Strand

Violent Storm Those who have chosen to pass the night Entertaining friends And intimate ideas in the bright, Commodious rooms of dreams Will not feel the slightest tremor Or be wakened by what seems Only a quirk in the dry run Of conventional weather. For them, The long night sweeping over these trees And houses… Continue reading Mark Strand

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Canadian-American Culture · Canadian-American Literature · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Excerpt · Passage · Poetry · Prose Poetry

Mark Strand

In the old days, my thoughts like tiny sparks would flare up in the almost dark of consciousness and I would transcribe them, and page after page shone with a light that I called my own. I would sit at my desk amazed by what had just happened. And even as I watched the lights… Continue reading Mark Strand

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