When I read poetry, I want to feel myself suddenly larger … in touch with—or at least close to—what I deem magical, astonishing. I want to experience a kind of wonderment. And when you report back to your own daily world after experiencing the strangeness of a world sort of recombined and reordered in the depths of a poet’s soul, the world looks fresher somehow. Your daily world has been taken out of context. It has the voice of the poet written all over it, for one thing, but it also seems suddenly more alive … 
..........--Mark Strand

When Mark Strand died at the end of last month, I picked up one of his books and opened to the following line, "tomorrow's dust flares into breath". A poet that was always writing from the beyond, tending to the white fires that can be found there and then returning them back for our present. Ghosts incarnate, speaking so that we too, may know.

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