Former U.S. Poet Laurete and Pulitzer winner Mark Strand died over the weekend. It’s of note in our house because Bobbie studied with him at Johns Hopkins.
So we mark his passing with this poem: Eating Poetry.
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.
The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.
Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.
She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
I am a new man,
I snarl at her and bark,
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.
There’s a similar rush and joy involved in “eating Ashtanga,” right?
Posted by Steve