(Ed note: Brenda Shaughnessy wrote about Mark Strand on her facebook page. She kindly agreed to let me share her moving tribute here.Thank you, Brenda. sdh)
Like many others, I was very young when I first encountered Mark Strand's poems--and they seemed like they issued from some faraway, magical, impossible world where some exalted humans were deigned poets. These pieces of art were otherworldly. It made sense that the person who made them was this tall drink-of-water silver fox with an excess of charm (or so I saw in photos and heard in anecdote.) The chance to get to know him a little--enough to call him a friend, to love his wit, admire his generosity, and to appreciate his joyful embrace of younger generations of poets--made me feel like I was really part of poetry, past and present. He wasn't just his poems, of course. He was kind, full of vim, was devoted to poetry and cared about those who wrote it. I'm so sad that Mark Strand, the person, is now elsewhere forever. Here's one of my favorites:
The Tunnel
A man has been standing
in front of my house
for days. I peek at him
from the living room
window and at night,
unable to sleep,
I shine my flashlight
down on the lawn.
He is always there.
After a while
I open the front door
just a crack and order
him out of my yard.
He narrows his eyes
and moans. I slam
the door and dash back
to the kitchen, then up
to the bedroom, then down.
I weep like a schoolgirl
and make obscene gestures
through the window. I
write large suicide notes
and place them so he
can read them easily.
I destroy the living
room furniture to prove
I own nothing of value.
When he seems unmoved
I decide to dig a tunnel
to a neighboring yard.
I seal the basement off
from the upstairs with
a brick wall. I dig hard
and in no time the tunnel
is done. Leaving my pick
and shovel below,
I come out in front of a house
and stand there too tired to
move or even speak, hoping
someone will help me.
I feel I’m being watched
and sometimes I hear
a man’s voice,
but nothing is done
and I have been waiting for days.
Mark Strand
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