The largest website for English phrases and quotes

The largest website for English phrases and quotes

Category: Mark Strand

It’s very hard to write humor.

Write, Hard, Very

A poem is a place where the conditions of beyondness and withinness are made palpable, where to imagine is to feel what it is like to be. It allows us to have the life we are denied because we are too busy living. Even more paradoxically, a poem permits us to live in ourselves as if we were just out of reach of ourselves.

life, poem, poetry

No voice comes from outer space, from the folds of dust and carpets of wind to tell us that this is the way it was meant to happen, that if only we knew how long the ruins would last we would never complain.

What we desire, more than a season or weather, is the comfortOf being strangers, at least to ourselves.

estrangement, self, unknown

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.

accident, attention, life

There is no happiness like mine.I have been eating poetry.

american, contemporary, poetry

The HillI have come this far on my own legs,missing the bus, missing taxis,climbing always. One foot in front of the other,that is the way I do it.It does not bother me, the way the hill goes on.Grass beside the road, a tree rattlingits black leaves. So what?The longer I walk, the farther I am from everything.One foot in front of the other. The hours pass.One foot in front of the other. The years pass.The colors of arrival fade.That is the way I do it.

Time slips by; our sorrows do not turn into poems,And what is invisible stays that way.

invisble, poems, poetry, sorrows, time

And into the close and mirrored catacombs of sleepWe’ll fall, and there in the faded light discover the bones,The dust, the bitter remains of someone who might have been Had we not taken his place.

dream, haunting, potential, self

Nobody sees it happening, but the architecture of our timeIs becoming the architecture of the next time. And the dazzleOf light upon the waters is as nothing beside the changesWrought therein, just as our waywardness meansNothing against the steady pull of things over the edge.Nobody can stop the flow, but nobody can start it either.Time slips by; our sorrows do not turn into poems,And what is invisible stays that way. Desire has fled,Leaving only a trace of perfume in its wake,And so many people we loved have gone,And no voice comes from outer space, from the foldsOf dust and carpets of wind to tell us that thisIs the way it was meant to happen, that if only we knewHow long the ruins would last we would never complain.

There is no end to what we can learn. The book out thereTells us as much, and was never written with us in mind.

learning, lifelong-learning

…Then a man turnedAnd said to me: “Although I love the past, the dark of it,The weight of it teaching us nothing, the loss of it, the allOf it asking for nothing, I will love the twenty-first century more…

21st-century, future, history, past