Mark Strand morreu no dia em que fiz 42 anos. Talvez os poetas nunca morram mas quando morre um, fico sempre triste. Em particular se a sua poesia em algum momento me iluminou. Via loverofbeauty, fica mais um poema dele.
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. sunlight
flooded the valley floor and blazed on the town’s
westward facing windows. the streets shimmered like rivers,
and trees, bushes, and clouds were caught in the spill,
and nothing was spared, not the couch we sat on,
nor the rugs, nor our friends, staring off into space.
everything drowned in the golden fire. then philip
put down his glass and said: “this hand is just one
in an infinite series of hands. imagine.”
and that was it. the evening dimmed and darkened
until the western rim of the sky took on
the purple look of a bruise, and everyone stood
and said what a great sunset it had been. this was a while ago,
and it was remarkable, but something else happened then—
a cry, almost beyond our hearing, rose and rose,
as if across time, to touch us as nothing else would,
and so lightly we might live out our lives and not know.
i had no idea what it meant until now.