Saturday, November 29, 2014

On the Stones Below

My favorite living poet is, as of today, no longer alive. I met Mark Strand back in 1992 or so, when he came to my college for a reading--the only poet I ever remember reading there, aside from those of us who haunted the halls as students.

I'm transcribing this poem here, in part because I could not find it elsewhere online. I'll be out back feeling...feelings.

2002
by Mark Strand

I am not thinking of Death, but Death is thinking of me.
He leans back in his chair, rubs his hands, strokes
his beard, and says, "I'm thinking of Strand, I'm thinking
that one of these days I'll be out back, swinging my scythe
or holding my hourglass up to the moon, an Strand will appear
in a jacket and tie, and together under the boulevards'
leafless trees we'll stroll into the city of souls. And when
we get to the Great Piazza with its marble mansions, the crowd
that had been waiting there will welcome us with delirious cries,
and their tears, turned hard and cold as glass from having been
held back so long, will fall and clatter on the stones below.
                  O let it be soon. Let it be soon."