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RAVENCLAW: “I romp with joy in the bookish dark.” –Mark Strand (Eating Poetry)

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I romp with joy in the bookish dark.
—— Mark Strand, “Eating Poetry”
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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 bum 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.

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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.

—— “Eating Poetry”, Mark Strand
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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

Mark Strand, “Eating Poetry”

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Monday Challenge: Eating Poetry

Monday Challenge: Eating Poetry

When it comes to poetry its just not enough to read poetry. Poetry is far more visceral than that. To really enjoy poetry you need to eat, drink and breathe poetry and then maybe…just maybe you can capture its true essence. Nobody explains this better than Mark Strand in his Poem, “Eating Poetry”.

I love this poem by Mark Strand for so many reasons, most profound of which is the dark imagery it…

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“I romp with joy in the bookish dark.”

@dancewiththepen ​Your tags about wolf!Bellatrix getting scolded for having paper in her mouth (excuse me for a second while I bahahahaha!!!!! rofl) reminded me of this poem from the point of view of a dog making an absolute mess eating books in a library. These are my favorite lines, the first stanza:

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.

There is no happiness like mine.

I have been eating poetry.

Source: “Eating Poetry” by Mark Strand. Poetry Foundation. Post title is the last line of the poem.

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Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
—— Eating Poetry, Mark Strand
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Refresh. Refresh. Refresh.

I’d give you another day dizzy 
in its bracket for the reluctant circumference
of a sad sad satellite’s antiquated orbital stoppage.
You can’t jump with a lead foot, can’t
anthropomorphize insect anticipation, can’t
pixelate postcard nostalgia, can’t
trace a boy’s tiny hand and call him
king of anything that crosses your path, your past,
your iconographic reluctance to let go the toehold
of ordinary New York lasting so long at night, so
lusty in traffic & another orphan absently
kicking the underside of an orange plastic chair.
Poems shouldn’t make you wait for them to finish.
Like love, they should finish making you wait.


By Noah Eli Gordon

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Macha

All my feelings are
different and this one
is the most

Of all places here
where women once retired
from the men for fear
of boring them

I am so bloody in my own bath
of wild hairs
that I couldn’t possibly
join you tonight
for that colonial thing

Heroin or whore
Babylon or Bethlehem

No matter what I’m followed by
mosquitos

Flitting dicks who want me
to teach them about themselves

But everything I know is contained in capsules
of macha that break down
in my bloodstream

And I wouldn’t recommend it
for the fairer sex
who should buck up and study up
on their condition

I used to feel sick for all my sloth
but not anymore

In wanting to please
I have sinned
In leaning in I have sinned

In breaking in two
I feel sin
So

Vete ya
A haircut and a hard cock
is all I need

To govern a family
My rod

cutting them down
supplicant on the ground

For I was the first real white girl ever born
in this country of flat skulls

That’s why I’m so cocky
with my staff

and my rule rock hard and inconsistent
with my favor

The mouths of L'Age d'Or
sucked well at my pre-war stockings
before cocktail hour

Bells rang and trays of mosquitos
were served with tarts

We hadn’t meant to kill them with La Macha
which includes but is not limited to:

a goddess religion
unfaultering at the altar of shade
an erotics of object-identification
and compassion extending beyond the grave

My sister and I drank mournfully but afterwards
we still danced all night

wearing quite literally bedazzled bustiers
and veils of a dead boy’s smoke

que mala after beating their macho dead
in ultra-feminine swoops

How do they want us to think of them now
our brothers haviing left so little charisma behind

on the internet
to aggrandize

Such small mosquitos
And though we are mourning we are still so macha

as we chip the thin teeth of traitors
and huff the scent of babies
and slap each other on the asses
and father seven times
and punish the bull
with its own marbled horns

But though we’re cocky we are still martyrs
My sister says quita la macha
and I’m like why

It’s okay to make up slogans in the spirit of revolution
and she’s like ok but

after you systematically destroy machismo you must
put his teeth to gnash at your engorged breasts
for any sort of catagenesis to occur

and I’m like that could be hot
But it isn’t the new love
conceived by and for macha

or is it?
idk
idk either
i really dk

So we taught our brothers all these methods of cameo
that they may take a small symbol of macha
to wear around their necks
to the part of culture where the money
used to be kept

May they remember the strength
of their mother’s biceps as they show mercy
to their fathers who are teleological

till the end of supremacy
which is the beginning of macha

Kiss the black lips that feed you
the corn hips that rock you
and blight the prayers after you’ve said them

Santa Mala
Madre de Mala
ruega por nosotros pecadores
ahora y en la ahora de nuestra muerte

Hand me my beads
War without end
Amén

By Monica McClure

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Away In Virginia, I See a Mustard Field And Think Of You

because the blue hills are like the shoulder and slopes
of your back as you sleep. Often I slip a hand under
your body to anchor myself to this earth. The yellow
mustard rises from a waving sea of green.

I think of us driving narrow roads in France, under
a tunnel of sycamores, my hair blowing in the hot wind,
opera washing out of the radio, loud. We are feeding
each other cherries from a white paper sack.

And then we return to everyday life, where we fall
into bed exhausted, fall asleep while still reading,
forget the solid planes of the body in the country
of dreams. I miss your underwear, soft from a thousand
washings, the socks you still wear from a store
out of business thirty years. I love to smell your sweat
after mowing grass or hauling wood; I miss the weight
on your side of the bed.



By Barbara Crooker
From Radiance.

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My Father Watched Westerns

He couldn’t get enough of them: those dusty
landscapes on the other side of the screen,
men on horses seeking justice or revenge.
All through my life if he was tired I would

find him in a dark room full of gunfire.
His movie titles included words like Lone
and Lonesome though mostly families
stuck together and young men learned

to risk their lives for whatever was noble
or right. I could not sit through them;
women were left behind in saloons
with hair and dresses as soft as pillows,

their possibilities perfumed by estrogen.
But it was the men my father was watching.
They had wide hats and leather boots,
masks made of betrayal. My father

remembered the dangerous people
he faced in courtrooms, his arguments
like bullets. His mind was full of places
that were not yet settled, places where

law was new. A man had a horse, a few
friends, some deep internal compass.
People relied on him; what he needed most
was courage. My father related to this.
He knew, afterall, how the west was won.


By Faith Shearin 
From Moving the Piano.

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Going for Water

The well was dry beside the door,
And so we went with pail and can
Across the fields behind the house
To seek the brook if still it ran;

Not loth to have excuse to go,
Because the autumn eve was fair
(Though chill) because the fields were ours,
And by the brook our woods were there.

We ran as if to meet the moon
That slowly dawned behind the trees,
The barren boughs without the leaves,
Without the birds, without the breeze.

But once within the wood, we paused
Like gnomes that hid us from the moon,
Ready to run to hiding new
With laughter when she found us soon.

Each laid on other a staying hand
To listen ere we dared to look,
And in the hush we joined to make
We heard—we knew we heard—the brook.

A note as from a single place,
A slender tinkling fall that made
Now drops that floated on the pool
Like pearls, and now a silver blade.


By Robert Frost

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30 DAYS OF POETRY
Day XXX – “Eating Poetry

The final poem, like yesterday’s poem, is one of my favorite poems about writing and poetry itself. Thanks for listening to me recite poetry, and I hope I’ve helped to put a little more poetry in your April!

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.

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National Poetry Month 2016: Day 3

National Poetry Month 2016: Day 3

I share this poem every year and with good reason!  It’s just soooo good! (more…)

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Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
—— Mark Strand, “Eating Poetry”
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To the New Year

With what stillness at last

you appear in the valley

your first sunlight reaching down

to touch the tips of a few

high leaves that do not stir

as though they had not noticed

and did not know you at all

then the voice of a dove calls

from far away in itself

to the hush of the morning


so this is the sound of you

here and now whether or not

anyone hears it this is

where we have come with our age

our knowledge such as it is

and our hopes such as they are

invisible before us

untouched and still possible

~ W.S. Merwin, “To the New Year

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So in Ap Lit we are doing teachings on the poem we choose.

And today one had Eating Poetry by Mark Strand

I got a totally different meaning from the poem then everyone

Part of the teaching was asking what is the underlying meaning, and that is what I went for, but what was being taught seemed more on surface?

Or maybe I was just way off?

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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.

Mark Strand, Eating Poetry

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