Guest poem sent in by Terry Smith
(Poem #676) Eating Poetry
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth. There is no happiness like mine. I have been eating poetry. The librarian does not believe what she sees. Her eyes are sad and she walks with her hands in her dress. The poems are gone. The light is dim. The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up. Their eyeballs roll, their blond legs burn like brush. The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep. She does not understand. When I get on my knees and lick her hand, she screams. I am a new man. I snarl at her and bark. I romp with joy in the bookish dark.
I submitted another Mark Strand poem some time ago (poem #453), so I'll forego any biographical info except to say there's a short bio at http://www.britannica.com/bcom/eb/article/0/0,5716,366991,00.html and the author won a pulitzer prize in 1999 for his book "A Blizzard of One" ([broken link] http://www.pulitzer.org/year/1999/poetry/works) I was given this poem by way of introduction to Strand, and while he isn't the boldest poet currently writing, he deserves his reputation as one of the best. In this poem, there's a hint of the poetry being the source of light in the library that I love, and "bookish dark" has a familiar smell to it. I have to admit, however, I don't understand the reference to the dogs on the stairs. Perhaps there is someone on the list with some good ideas? -Terry Smith