Almost Invisible by Mark Strand

By Mark Strand

From Pulitzer Prize--winner Mark Strand comes an exquisitely witty and poignant sequence of prose poems. occasionally showing as natural prose, occasionally as impure poetry, yet constantly with Strand's readability and straightforwardness of favor, they're like riddles, their solutions vanishing simply as they seem within sight. myth, family satire, meditation, shaggy dog story, and delusion all come jointly in what's arguably the liveliest, so much interesting ebook that Strand has but written.

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From Bookslut
"Adrienne wealthy is hard, as a poet and as a philosopher. The poems in cellphone Ringing within the Labyrinth are full of traps and snares and difficulties that stream in circles. She’s so deft, in a few enigmatic means, that she manages to drag off references and turns of word that will sink the other poet’s paintings, that will appear pretentious or overwrought in different arms. within the nine-part “Draft #2006,” that may be my favourite piece during this quantity, she fees Karl Marx’s Theses on Feuerbach partially 4, visits a farmer swallowing pesticide in Andhra Pradesh partly six, and talks in regards to the “thereness” of something partly 9 -- and but by some means, via anything edgier and brainier than magic, the poem isn't heavy-handedly political or philosophical. It’s simply thought-provoking. And round. And difficult. you'll take a seat stewing over the 1st line -- “Suppose we got here again as ghosts asking the unasked questions” -- for hours, after which there are principles and pictures that offer natural excitement with their secret. The “border of poetry” is “dreamfaces blurring horrorlands. ” In “rooms of mahogany and leather,/ conversations open in overseas code. Thighs and buttocks to open later by means of/ association. ” there's something undying approximately this poem, even supposing it’s approximately timeliness:

They requested me, is that this time worse than another.

I stated, for whom?

Wanted to teach them anything. whereas I wrote at the
chalkboard they drifted out. I grew to become again to an empty room.

Maybe I couldn’t write speedy adequate. perhaps it was once too soon.

“Draft #2006” made me take into consideration what it can suggest to seize this second in heritage with a poem. There are poets who've succeeded in grabbing a second, epically and without end -- T. S. Eliot’s “Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock” does it, and Ginsburg’s “Howl,” and several other of Auden’s poems and, perhaps so much completely, Dan Pagis’s “Written in Pencil within the Sealed Railway automobile. ” As I begin to give it some thought, such a lot of robust poems do catch the instant, rigidly and obviously. “Draft #2006,” as I reread it, is this sort of -- it captures a time on the earth, within the human global, that's slippery, lovely and perhaps inevitable.

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These impersonae, even if we name them
won’t invade us as on motion picture screens

they are so outdated, so new, we aren't to them
we examine them or don’t from in the milky gauze

of our tilted gazing
but they don’t glance again and we won't damage them

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Additional resources for Almost Invisible

Sample text

And there are slots down which can filter the cold, condensed. And what of the claws? And what of the fibrillate furl resisting and generating itself inside the snug jacket? The text is four figures, inter-hitched or something like that, brushed inside red rules or what I do I do in my own office. , staying just outside the nest, and the child-bird stuffed beneath the mother or the mother with the father battering upward, barely catching tips but so they catch. 24 Coal Age trunks budded and scarred summer experience on the loess edge of the moraine fallings out between elders beautiful forestations of made language put forth a little finger on the tip in composite relief the damselfly structure exacted a storm floats over the purchase neither you nor I neither one of us mass interlockings of leaves tiny waxed tabs interlapping the false pines the puzzling pines it has not yet occurred along the limb it has not yet determined to be spurlike it is not yet done it lingers in the pattern of its advancement are you long of this world I am delivered into casting my bit among us are you a being of more than one measure ruffed so none can hold 25 Monoprint snow that is slabbing all the downdrift around it settling and rounding the outside worked in of the macular golds whoever has passed by the pole passed through herself saying is this the reel of the road chiseled and sheared a rumor flown from the coast a network of creosote bushes sprigging through sleep took notice of this and moved on tested the zone where this was coming in slowly went forth with the field unpinned from the end of a fretted ice tonsil the bitter reward no one knew died and went forth 26 Round the Mountain rouge-wedged and bogs built to the rims of spillage stone that then gets stacked in walls to keep in grazers, in or out, the circuit cuts the sod, lobed cushion plant flares out white against its bronzing— make a thing like that behave it’s okay to go alone not okay it makes one selfish snow melts plumbing down the tiers old man standing with us take his picture so he takes the jungle orange and dry biscuit, round the cuffs a steady stirrup stitch 27 Zoetrope False hellebore, lodged in the clefts of the ravine we climbed up into fanned shafts, looked down through shredded cloud to the pit of slid quartz.

The manner in which it fills in. Wickedness. Tint. 23 Tableau Speech, the slate-blue grooves of the adolescent pigeon, its pinfeathers ranked, preened, bitten over constantly by the parent— not by the stand-by nurselike ancillary bird who keeps watch watching the rugged front of shrubs and daylight. It all happens on the air-conditioner in the “chimney” between back “wings” of the brownstones, fidgeting in the cote of twigs and pewter-dark shit. A tool being worked not sharp enough to bore its way to the mark.

The pull, the tack, and the load up of buildings on trees, trees through the brackets of buildings like ramparts through groves fur-feathered groves giving furthermost arches, parterres to reach and recede with 21 Little Discourse The needles of art are blunt but those of nature— hawthorns, quills, mosquito bits— sharp as needles under the scope we invented ourselves for seeing for we are rude and stumble Hooke said in our displacements. What I slip between the gills of the organic beautifactions, lifting the parts apart to touch for eminences mildews or smuts.

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