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A life is not sufficiently elevated for poetry, unless, of course, the life has been made into an art.

Mark Strand

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Mark Strand
Age: 80 †
Born: 1934
Born: April 11
Died: 2014
Died: November 29
Editor
Poet
Translator
Writer
Sufficiently
Poetry
Unless
Courses
Course
Art
Made
Life
Elevated

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To open the dictionary of the Beyond and discover what one suspected, that the only word in it is nothing.
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We are reading the story of our lives As though we were in it As though we had written it.
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I believe that all poetry is formal in that it exists within limits, limits that are either inherited by tradition or limits that language itself imposes.
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Poems not only demand patience, they demand a kind of surrender. You must give yourself up to them. This is the real food for a poet: other poems, not meat loaf.
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And what does it matter when light enters the room where a child sleeps and the waking mother, opening her eyes, wishes more than anything to be unwakened by what she cannot name?
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Pain is filtered in a poem so that it becomes finally, in the end, pleasure.
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We’re only here for a short while. And I think it’s such a lucky accident, having been born, that we’re almost obliged to pay attention.
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The future is always beginning now.
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I haven’t met God and I haven’t been to heaven, so I’m skeptical.
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From the reader's view, a poem is more demanding than prose.
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I am not concerned with truth, nor with conventional notions of what is beautiful.
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I certainly can't speak for all cultures or all societies, but it's clear that in America, poetry serves a very marginal purpose. It's not part of the cultural mainstream.
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It's very hard to write humor.
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In a field I am the absence of field.That 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 space where my body has been. We all have reasons for moving. I move to keep things whole.
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Sometimes he did not know if he slept or just thought about sleep.
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Nothing is the destiny of everyone, it is our commonness made dumb.
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When we walk in the sun our shadows are like barges of silence.
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Ink runs from the corners of my mouth. There is no happiness like mine. I have been eating poetry.
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It came to my house. It sat on my shoulders. Your shadow is yours. I told it so. I said it was yours. I have carried it with me too long. I give it back.
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In a field I am the absence of field. This is always the case. Wherever I am I am what is missing.
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