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 (1934-2014)
This is the kind of brilliance I love. Thanks!
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