Eating Poetry
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.
Commentary
I submitted another Mark Strand poem some time ago
(poem #453), so
I’ll forego any biographical info except to say there’s a short bio at http://www.britannica.com/bcom/eb/article/0/0,5716,366991,00.html and the author won a pulitzer prize in 1999 for his book “A Blizzard of One” (http://www.pulitzer.org/year/1999/poetry/works)
I was given this poem by way of introduction to Strand, and while he isn’t the boldest poet currently writing, he deserves his reputation as one of the best. In this poem, there’s a hint of the poetry being the source of light in the library that I love, and “bookish dark” has a familiar smell to it. I have to admit, however, I don’t understand the reference to the dogs on the stairs. Perhaps there is someone on the list with some good ideas?
— Terry Smith
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From the Wondering Minstrels mailing list, 1999–2008.
David Wright · 25 January 2001
These dogs, they are perhaps the spirit released from the poets words, the anima unleashed from text, the life of verse reconstituted into breath, impulse and image… Something like this. Few things seem quite so spontaneous and enthused as dogs. This is no actual librarian, but the librarian and the dogs are something like the tension of language itself, on the one hand to signify and classify and capture, and on the other hand to express, to embody, to sing… …both of which create meaning.
Then again, speaking as a flesh-and-blood librarian who has been on the receiving end of psychotic behavior, maybe they’re just dogs. Stranger things have happened, in MY bookish dark. -David Wright
mderagon · 25 January 2001
I think the dog reference is beautiful and whether it brings with it a sense of animalistic instinct that the narrator has found from the ink of poetry or whether it talks of the freedom with which poetry unleashes Eye don’t think it matters–this poem screams for freedom and devourment of the dark bookish world these verses have been locked up in. They are busting off the shelves and the vitalis is creeping up from the basement, as dogs burning through the ice of ennui.
Lgemini615 · 4 May 2002
I understood this poem to be about the woman’s sexual desires that surface hence the dogs in the basement. The freudian “id” of the woman sexual desires are trying to surface but she is ignoring it,”the poems are gone” could refer to her past lovers that left her and she has dimmed her desires for lust until desire licks her hand convincing her to give in and she screams her resistance. And the last stanza shows that she does and masterbates to the sexual desires she has.
Ken Wanamaker · 18 June 2005
W/R the dogs in Strands poem. Perhaps the poet meant that his poems are dogging’ him [to hound, keep at the heels of]. Perhaps they drive him to write. Dogs are also loyal companions to man. Perhaps he sees poetry in this light, too.
Ken Wanamaker
Hope not being hope
until all ground for hope has
vanished.
Marianne Moore- “The Hero”
Heather White · 15 January 2006
Quite the striking poem, it almost sounds like something a friend of mine said a long time ago, but far more eloquently.
AKAANGEL880 · 16 January 2006
I loved how you potrayed the dog as if it was thirsty to only write poetry. The begging line was wonderful also. “There is no happiness like mine,” this line I really liked because you have to make yourself happy before you make anyone else.
chaz · 4 September 2007
I am not sure exactly what to do. I really didn’t understand the poem but I thought it was sort of funny and was a decent poem
connor · 4 February 2008
This is a great poem it shows the writers desire to write as almost being instinctual. As if it were starved to write poetry.