CAPITAL LETTERS ARE FOR FILLING OUT FORMS,

JUMP STARTS

F or the following line

F or each verse

F or each poem

(“TITLES  MAYBE” too)

.

Punctuation , (!)  maybe at

Abrupt Stops

For an end to each line , (!)

For each verse . (!)

For each poem

 

 

 

 

N E W   T H I N G S

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i)

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M  U  C  H

often it’s uncertain   to see,

to see the true things through,

but certainly sometime’s there’s time

when surely much of what’s new

when noticed might matter

to you or rather

to  me

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.                    ii)

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D  U  E

I fear I forget that the frail,

nearly unable, but

when a whisper of   Will…

when they muster an incalculable

measure of  reach

to straighten, and lean up

for what’s due.

That’s alot to wait for

.

The Freshest thing in the clearing

by the pond’s sunk boat,

near a nest,  There’s this ringing

drop, possibly  just now  dotting

one leaf,  left  just new

by all the dew

That’s what I wait for

STRAND

Well, I think what happens at certain points in my poems is that language takes over, and I follow it. It just sounds right. And I trust the implication of what I’m saying, even though I’m not absolutely sure what it is that I’m saying. I’m just willing to let it be. Because if I were absolutely sure of whatever it was that I said in my poems, if I were sure, and could verify it and check it out and feel, yes, I’ve said what I intended, I don’t think the poem would be smarter than I am. I think the poem would be, finally, a reducible item. It’s this “beyondness,” that depth that you reach in a poem, that keeps you returning to it. And you wonder, The poem seemed so natural at the beginning, how did you get where you ended up? What happened? I mean, I like that, I like it in other people’s poems when it happens. I like to be mystified. Because it’s really that place which is unreachable, or mysterious, at which the poem becomes ours, finally, becomes the possession of the reader. I mean, in the act of figuring it out, of pursuing meaning, the reader is absorbing the poem, even though there’s anabsence in the poem. But he just has to live with that. And eventually, it becomes essential that it exists in the poem, so that something beyond his understanding, or beyond his experience, or something that doesn’t quite match up with his experience, becomes more and more his. He comes into possession of a mystery, you know—which is something that we don’t allow ourselves in our lives.

from interview in Paris Review./ http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/1070/the-art-of-poetry-no-77-mark-strand

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Mark Strand, April 11,1934-November 29,2014

H A L C Y O N D E R

October 31, 2014

This  season

The storms  staid off

Or didn’t  set in

I needn’t pack  sand bags

Nature spared me  the necessity

To save myself from flood

Anyway

 

 

 

If  counting

Caught  halfway

Within & through a mountain

In a train on fire

Can’tWaiting  on the dark at the end of the tunnel

If  counting this here as a nightmare

I bet you’re poor at metaphor

.

It’s a well-lit  path

That tunnel

& the dark at the end  is full

Of  newer  stars,

Of night air  rich  w/lungsfull

New  oxygen

Again

 

 

 

A  sun  upon  us  all

It was one wondrous puzzle

Wondering where the shadows go

.

It’s not like the night in us

Lies deeper in our darkest room

It’s rather that the truths  lie

Undercover undercovers in our oldest  gloom

It’s no mystery, It’s no mistake

That the nightime is the right time

To pull up stakes  &  go

To where one goes

AFTER THE STORM

June 4, 2014

On a walk out  on a dark street

And without the sweet burden of youth

And  don’t ask  about the mask

My eyes won’t recognize

Looking back  my way

In the marquee window booth

S K I E S

May 30, 2014

All the solace we take

From phone calls we make

We’ll face away again from curtains

& inside that, the screen.

We’ll turn away  to devout attention,

Without mentioning  our skies between

Words, our flying  there  certainly

& without a doubt  again

We’re saved  in an

Enclave

WEATHERVANE

May 28, 2014

 

 

 

either  one  can

weathervane

in a spin

a  hurricane  can

windfall  upon,

mindful  for  yr

isadora  duncan

scarfish  flourish/ must

there  be

a  catch

to  watch

yr  purity

 

GETHSEMANE

April 17, 2014

 

 

 


 

 

There ought better be a beacon
on a pacific coast cliff could be
where hope’s light works with a sea horn
where a night light works with a warning
forces & forges  the blackest  fog & forests
 
There can be a candle
in a window with enough heat
to fire the hearth
to light one lone solitary stone room
.
(from 2010)
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.”Writing is nothing more than a guided dream” -Jorge Luis Borges