the everyday enchantment of music

A rough sound was polished until it became a smoother sound, which was polished until it became music. Then the music was polished until it became the memory of a night in Venice when tears of the sea fell from the Bridge of Sighs, which in turn was polished until it ceased to be and in its place stood the empty home of a heart in trouble. Then suddenly there was sun and the music came back and traffic was moving and off in the distance, at the edge of the city, a long line of clouds appeared, and there was thunder, which, however menacing, would become music, and the memory of what happened after Venice would begin, and what happened after the home of the troubled heart broke in two would also begin.

~ Mark Strand

from Almost Invisible

with thanks to poets.org

A Suite of Appearances

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In another time, we will want to know how the earth looked

then, and were people the way we are now. In another time,

the records they left will convince us that we are unchanged

and could be at ease in the past, and not alone in the present.

And we shall be pleased. But beyond all that, what cannot

be seen or explained will always be elsewhere, always supposed,

invisible even beneath the signs – the beautiful surface,

the uncommon knowledge – that point its way. In another time,

what cannot be seen will define us, and we shall be prompted

to say that language is error, and all things are wronged

by representation. The self, we shall say, can never be

seen with a disguise, and never be seen without one.

~ Mark Strand

with thanks to whiskey river

the remains

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I empty myself of the names of others. I empty my pockets.

I empty my shoes and leave them beside the road.

At night I turn back the clocks;

I open the family album and look at myself as a boy.

What good does it do? The hours have done their job.

I say my own name. I say goodbye.

The words follow each other downwind.

I love my wife but send her away.

My parents rise out of their thrones

into the milky rooms of clouds. How can I sing?

Time tells me what I am. I change and I am the same.

I empty myself of my life and my life remains.

~ Mark Strand

photo by Nancy Crampton

the remains

.

.

I empty myself of the names of others.

I empty my pockets, I empty my shoes and leave them beside

the road. At night I turn back the clocks; I open the family

album and look at myself as a boy.

.

What good does it do? The hours have done their job.

I say my own name. I say goodbye.

The words follow each other downwind.

I love my wife but send her away.

.

My parents rise out of their thrones

into the milky rooms of clouds. How can I sing?

Time tells me what I am. I change and I am the same.

I empty myself of my life and my life remains.

.

~ Mark Strand

with thanks to melancholynotes

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