From the Pulitzer Prize-winning poet: an exquisitely witty and poignant series of prose poems, each one a precise drama revealing the receding vista of our lives. In these sparkling, often hilarious short paragraphs, Mark Strand, writing as both a skeptic and a believer, comments on our foibles, ourMore »
From the Pulitzer Prize-winning poet: an exquisitely witty and poignant series of prose poems, each one a precise drama revealing the receding vista of our lives. In these sparkling, often hilarious short paragraphs, Mark Strand, writing as both a skeptic and a believer, comments on our foibles, our transient passions, and our dauntless pursuit of the beautiful. His paragraphs, sometimes appearing as pure prose, other times as impure poetry, are like riddles, their answers vanishing just as they come into view. Strand has the longest stare of any poet in our pantheon; nevertheless he loves to tread lightly, to be "almost invisible," while his writing remains indelible. It speaks of the human condition in all its folly, sorrow, and persistence, and does so with eloquence.« Less
Bury your face in your hands
Anywhere could be somewhere
Harmony in the boudoir
Clarities of the nonexistent
The minister of culture gets his wish
The old age of nostalgia
Dream testicles, vanished vaginas
The students of the ineffable
The everyday enchantment of music
The buried melancholy of the poet
Ever so many hundred years hence
Exhaustion at sunset
Clear in the September light
You can always get there from here
The gallows in the garden
Love silhouetted by lamplight
The triumph of the infinite
The mysterious arrival of an unusual letter
Poem of the Spanish poet
The enigma of the infinitesimal
A dream of travel
The emergency room at dusk
Once upon a cold November morning
The street at the end of the world
The Nietzschean hourglass, or the future's misfortune
An event about which no more need be said
A short panegyric
A letter from Tegucigalpa
Mystery and solitude in Topeka
There was nothing to be done
No words can describe it
In the afterlife
Futility in Key West
On the hidden beauty of my sickness
With only the stars to guide us
Trouble in Pocatello
Like a leaf carried off by the wind
The social worker and the monkey
Nobody knows what is known
Those little legs and awful hands
Not to miss the great thing
Nocturne of the poet who loved the moon
In the grand ballroom of the new eternity
When I turned a hundred.
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