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Reasons for Moving
Reasons for Moving was Mark Strand's first book, and on its publication in 1968 Donald Justice called him "maybe the very best of the new poets." Darker followed, and Robert Penn Warren said, "the moment is always exciting when a true poet finds the secret self that is the wellspring of his inspiration." And Harold Bloom wrote, "these poems instantly touch a universal anguish as no confessional poems can, for Strand has the fortune of writing naturally and almost simply (though this must he supreme artifice) out of the involuntary near solipsism that always marks a central poetic imagination in America."
- GenresPoetry
47 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1968
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58 people want to read
About the author
Mark Strand
181 books269 followersMark Strand was a Pulitzer Prize-winning American poet, essayist, and translator. He was appointed Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress in 1990. He was a professor of English at Columbia University and also taught at numerous other colleges and universities.
Strand also wrote children's books and art criticism, helped edit several poetry anthologies and translated Spanish poet Rafael Alberti.
He is survived by a son, a daughter and a sister.
Strand also wrote children's books and art criticism, helped edit several poetry anthologies and translated Spanish poet Rafael Alberti.
He is survived by a son, a daughter and a sister.
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Displaying 1 - 10 of 10 reviews
May 17, 2016
Here is one of my favorites by the great poet Mark Strand:
Eating Poetry
by Mark Strand
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,
she screams.
I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.
In "The Accident," he speaks of getting run over by a train. In "The Mailman," he gets a letter at midnight and has to comfort the mailman who feels bad about bringing bad news. In "The Man in the Tree," the speaker is sitting in a tree. Those are some typical examples of Strand poems.
Eating Poetry
by Mark Strand
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,
she screams.
I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.
In "The Accident," he speaks of getting run over by a train. In "The Mailman," he gets a letter at midnight and has to comfort the mailman who feels bad about bringing bad news. In "The Man in the Tree," the speaker is sitting in a tree. Those are some typical examples of Strand poems.
September 12, 2012
Changed my life at age 16. "Wherever I am, I am what is missing." Does that sound like adolescent angst, or what?
February 28, 2020
Great imagery. A bit gloomy but not without hope. Like when a creepy tree scratches on the window but you comfort yourself remember it's just a tree. Loved it!
Read
April 27, 2024Favorite poem:
“The Man in the Tree”
I sat in the cold limbs of a tree.
I wore no clothes and the wind was blowing.
You stood below in a heavy coat,
the coat you are wearing.
And when you opened it, baring your chest,
white moths flew out, and whatever you said
at that moment fell quietly onto the ground,
the ground at your feet.
Snow floated down from the clouds into my ears.
The moths from your coat flew into the snow.
And the wind as it moved under my arms, under my chin,
whined like a child.
I shall never know why
our lives took a turn for the worse, nor will you.
Clouds sank into my arms and my arms rose.
They are rising now.
I sway in the white air of winter
and the starling’s cry lies down on my skin.
A field of ferns covers my glasses; I wipe them away
in order to see you.
I turn and the tree turns with me.
Things are not only themselves in this light.
You close your eyes and your coat
falls from your shoulders,
and tree withdraws like a hand,
the wind fits into my breath, yet nothing is certain.
The poem that has stolen these words from my mouth
may not be this poem.
“The Man in the Tree”
I sat in the cold limbs of a tree.
I wore no clothes and the wind was blowing.
You stood below in a heavy coat,
the coat you are wearing.
And when you opened it, baring your chest,
white moths flew out, and whatever you said
at that moment fell quietly onto the ground,
the ground at your feet.
Snow floated down from the clouds into my ears.
The moths from your coat flew into the snow.
And the wind as it moved under my arms, under my chin,
whined like a child.
I shall never know why
our lives took a turn for the worse, nor will you.
Clouds sank into my arms and my arms rose.
They are rising now.
I sway in the white air of winter
and the starling’s cry lies down on my skin.
A field of ferns covers my glasses; I wipe them away
in order to see you.
I turn and the tree turns with me.
Things are not only themselves in this light.
You close your eyes and your coat
falls from your shoulders,
and tree withdraws like a hand,
the wind fits into my breath, yet nothing is certain.
The poem that has stolen these words from my mouth
may not be this poem.
December 12, 2014
He was one of the best. Not only no more Mark Strand but no more Mark Strand books. This makes me sad.
November 22, 2023
"And when you opened it, baring your chest,
white moths flew out, and whatever you said
at the moment fell quietly onto the ground,
the ground at your feet."
"He talks
until the beam
from someone's flashlight
turns us white...
A pale light shines in his eyes."
"flowers swing
back and forth
like small balloons"
"He looked... It was summer. The night was full of stars"
"your face lost
under layers of heavy skin,"
"I move
to keep things whole."
white moths flew out, and whatever you said
at the moment fell quietly onto the ground,
the ground at your feet."
"He talks
until the beam
from someone's flashlight
turns us white...
A pale light shines in his eyes."
"flowers swing
back and forth
like small balloons"
"He looked... It was summer. The night was full of stars"
"your face lost
under layers of heavy skin,"
"I move
to keep things whole."
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
December 16, 2024
“Keeping Things Whole” / “The Dead”
September 17, 2017
"The Babies"
Let us save the babies.
Let us run downtown.
The babies are screaming.
You shall wear mink
and your hair shall be done.
I shall wear tails.
Let us save the babies
even if we run in rags
to the heart of town.
Let us not wait for tomorrow.
Let us drive into town
and save the babies.
Let us hurry.
They lie in a warehouse
with iron windows and iron doors.
The sunset pink of their skin
is beginning to glow.
Their teeth
poke through their gums
like tombstones.
Let us hurry.
They have fallen asleep.
Their dreams
are infecting them.
Let us hurry.
Their screams rise
from the warehouse chimney.
We must move faster.
The babies have grown into their suits.
They march all day in the sun without blinking.
Their leader sits in a bullet-proof car and applauds.
Smoke issues from his helmet.
We cannot see his face:
we are still running.
More babies than ever are locked in the warehouse.
Their screams are like sirens.
We are still running to the heart of town.
Our clothes are getting ragged.
We shall not wait for tomorrow.
The future is always beginning now.
The babies are growing into their suits.
Let us run to the heart of town.
Let us hurry.
Let us save the babies.
Let us try and save the babies.
Let us save the babies.
Let us run downtown.
The babies are screaming.
You shall wear mink
and your hair shall be done.
I shall wear tails.
Let us save the babies
even if we run in rags
to the heart of town.
Let us not wait for tomorrow.
Let us drive into town
and save the babies.
Let us hurry.
They lie in a warehouse
with iron windows and iron doors.
The sunset pink of their skin
is beginning to glow.
Their teeth
poke through their gums
like tombstones.
Let us hurry.
They have fallen asleep.
Their dreams
are infecting them.
Let us hurry.
Their screams rise
from the warehouse chimney.
We must move faster.
The babies have grown into their suits.
They march all day in the sun without blinking.
Their leader sits in a bullet-proof car and applauds.
Smoke issues from his helmet.
We cannot see his face:
we are still running.
More babies than ever are locked in the warehouse.
Their screams are like sirens.
We are still running to the heart of town.
Our clothes are getting ragged.
We shall not wait for tomorrow.
The future is always beginning now.
The babies are growing into their suits.
Let us run to the heart of town.
Let us hurry.
Let us save the babies.
Let us try and save the babies.
September 23, 2015
I have posted three of the poems from this collection at my blog: https://inanimategrace.wordpress.com/... is the best way to find the relevant entries.
Strand is a well-known poet whom I did not know, and I am glad to have met his work. This is an early collection, and the pieces are more given to the surreal than his later work, but the surreal described in very precise, everyday language. These are not lyrical poems, not 'beautiful' poems, but they are evocative and effective in reminding the reader how very strange ordinary reality can be if one allows it.
Strand is a well-known poet whom I did not know, and I am glad to have met his work. This is an early collection, and the pieces are more given to the surreal than his later work, but the surreal described in very precise, everyday language. These are not lyrical poems, not 'beautiful' poems, but they are evocative and effective in reminding the reader how very strange ordinary reality can be if one allows it.
June 6, 2021
He makes you ponder every word--there are so few words, but each one its like you are relearning the definition of a "chair" or "backwards" over again.
Displaying 1 - 10 of 10 reviews