How those fires burned that are no longer, how the weather worsened, how the shadow of the seagull vanished without a trace. Was it the end of a season, the end of a life? Was it so long ago it seems it might never have been? What is it in us that lives in the past and longs for the future, or lives in the future and longs for the past? (from "No Words Can Describe It")
Mark StrandA life is not sufficiently elevated for poetry, unless, of course, the life has been made into an art.
Mark StrandBut I tend to think of the expressive part of me as rather tedious - never curious or responsive, but blind and self-serving.
Mark StrandI 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.
Mark Strand