My Name -- Mark Strand

Guest poem submitted by Masha Saakova:

(Poem #1831) My Name One night when the lawn was a golden green and the marbled moonlit trees rose like fresh memorials in the scented air, and the whole countryside pulsed with the chirr and murmur of insects, I lay in the grass feeling the great distances open above me, and wondered what I would become -- and where I would find myself -- and though I barely existed, I felt for an instant that the vast star-clustered sky was mine, and I heard my name as if for the first time, heard it the way one hears the wind or the rain, but faint and far off as though it belonged not to me but to the silence from which it had come and to which it would go. -- Mark Strand

You already have three Mark Strand poems up, but this one is, by far, my
favorite. I saw it last year in The New Yorker.  I don't want to dissect
this poem too much because I have read it over and over again simply for the
experience. It also seems that Strand poems do not necessarily have a
singular or definite meaning, and that's really part of their beauty. "My
Name" needs to be read aloud -- the sounds are musical (he does a lot of
near-rhymes, consonsance, assonance, alliteration.) I love the stillness
and, yet, the suspense and darkness of the night. The numerous details
convey his awareness of self and of the nature, the surroundings, the world
of which he is a part and still separated from.  To me (emphasis on me,)
this poem is about enjoying a moment and the world that is all ours to take
in, but it is also about realizing our insignificant role in it. I've read
this poem at least a dozen times, and each time I make a discovery -- I
think that's what Strand intended. Hope you like it.

Thanks for your time,
Masha

A Piece Of The Storm -- Mark Strand

Guest poem sent in by Nandini Krishnamoorthy

(Poem #1478) A Piece Of The Storm For Sharon Horvath From the shadow of domes in the city of domes, A snowflake, a blizzard of one, weightless, entered your room And made its way to the arm of the chair where you, looking up From your book, saw it the moment it landed. That's all There was to it. No more than a solemn waking To brevity, to the lifting and falling away of attention, swiftly, A time between times, a flowerless funeral. No more than that Except for the feeling that this piece of the storm, Which turned into nothing before your eyes, would come back, That someone years hence, sitting as you are now, might say: "It's time. The air is ready. The sky has an opening." -- Mark Strand

I stumbled upon this poem thanks to Radhika mentioning the website "Poetry
in motion". The interpretation of this poem would be a daunting task to even
the seasoned critics, and I have but tried to "comprehend" the poetry.

To me the poem ties time and the power of transience in our lives. Some
things though seemingly transient are destined to unfold ever so slowly,
giving us the luxury to soak in the beauty of "it" being prolonged and when
its over, it reinforces the fact that it may start all over again, only to
capture another's attention. Of course this poem also tries to paint the
image of man as a mortal being and that many things that we believe to be
significant may melt to nothingness.

Well if it hurts no one, I would stick with my first line of interpretation.
Perhaps Mark Strand's opinion on interpreting poetry would be a good way to
summarize this poem.

  "It's not that poetry reveals more about the world — it doesn't — but
  it reveals more about our interactions with the world than our other modes
  of expression. And it doesn't reveal more about ourselves alone in
  isolation, but rather it reveals that mix of self and other, self and
  surrounding, where the world ends and we begin, where we end and the world
  begins".

        -— Mark Strand (Interview with Katharine Coles)

Nandini

Eating Poetry -- Mark Strand

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. -- Mark Strand

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

Keeping Things Whole -- Mark Strand

Guest poem submitted by Terry Smith:

(Poem #453) Keeping Things Whole In a field I am the absence of field. This is always the case. Wherever I am I am what is missing. When I walk I part the air and always the air moves in to fill the spaces where my body's been. We all have reasons for moving. I move to keep things whole. -- Mark Strand

This sparse, philosophical free verse poem is from Mark Strand's 1964 "Sleeping
With One Eye Open".  Strand teaches at the University of Chicago, and is the
Poet Laureate of the U.S. (though born a Canadian... another import we've
acquired and made our own)

I can turn the opening 3 lines around and around in my head for ages at a time,
playing with the meanings, exploring the depth of the idea.  These and the last
2 lines of that stanza are practically koans, and worthy of meditation.

The second stanza seems just a short explanation for the sake of those with too
little time for navel gazing, but the last stanza locks the poem's appeal to a
drifter like me.

A friend of mine was showing me Strand's 'Eating Poetry' in a compilation, and I
opened to this one and fell in love with his talent at expressing such grand
thoughts in so few beautiful words.