A man and a woman lay in bed. “Just one more time,” said the man, “just one more time.” “Why do you keep saying that?” said the woman. “Because I never want it to end,” said the man. “What don’t you want to end?” said the woman. “This,” said the man, “this never wanting it to end.”
A rough sound was polished until it became a smoother sound, which was polished until it became music. Then the music was polished until it became the memory of a night in Venice when tears of the sea fell from the Bridge of Sighs, which in turn was polished until it ceased to be and in its place stood the empty home of a heart in trouble. Then suddenly there was sun and the music came back and traffic was moving and off in the distance, at the edge of the city, a long line of clouds appeared, and there was thunder, which, however menacing, would become music, and the memory of what happened after Venice would begin, and what happened after the home of the troubled heart broke in two would also begin.
Imagine a poem that starts with a couple Looking into a valley, seeing their house, the lawn Out back with its wooden chairs, its shady patches of green, Its wooden fence, and beyond the fence the rippled silver sheen Of the local pond, its far side a tangle of sumac, crimson In the fading light. Now imagine somebody reading the poem And thinking, "I never guessed it would be like this," Then slipping it into the back of a book while the oblivious Couple, feeling nothing is lost, not even the white Streak of a flicker's tail that catches their eye, nor the slight Toss of leaves in the wind, shift their gaze to the wooden dome of a nearby hill where the violet spread of dusk begins. But the reader, out for a stroll in the autumn night, with all The imprisoned sounds of nature dying around him, forgets Not only the poem, but where he is, and thinks instead Of a bleak Venetian mirror that hangs in a hall By a curving stair, and how the stars in the sky's black glass Sink down and the sea heaves them ashore like foam. So much is adrift in the ever-opening rooms of elsewhere, He cannot remember whose house it was, or when he was there. Now imagine he sits years later under a lamp And pulls a book from the shelf; the poem drops To his lap. The couple are crossing a field On their way home, still feeling that nothing is lost, That they will continue to live harm-free, sealed In the twilight's amber weather. But how will the reader know, Especially now that he puts the poem, without looking, Back in the book, the book where the poet stares at the sky And says to a blank page, "Where, where in Heaven am I?"
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.