The cat forgotten on the moon.

~ Monday, July 9 ~

“Atlantis” by Mark Doty


Atlantis” by Mark Doty

(Source: booklookslookbook)

Tags: Mark Doty Hi remember when I met you
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~ Monday, January 30 ~
A good poem may begin in self expression, but it ends as art, which means it isn’t really for the writer anymore, but for the reader who steps into and makes the experience of the poem her or his own.
— Mark Doty
Tags: Mark Doty poetry art oh hey I'm meeting you tomorrow no big deal
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~ Saturday, November 19 ~
I am learning to accept the flux and revision time and experience invariably make, but I am also learning to love what I wish to keep the same, something that nothing in my life has taught me until now; learning, that is, not to let go but to hold on. I hold on to the mended, exactly right old platter, fixed in its place, cherished, singular, at rest. If it is a reminder of loss—my mother, my lover vanished in the slipstream of time—then it is equally a token of what can be kept: a sense of home, of permanence, of the ground for ourselves we can make.
— from Still Life with Oyster and Lemon by Mark Doty
Tags: Still Life with Oyster and Lemon Mark Doty loss the ground for ourselves we can make beautiful
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~ Wednesday, October 19 ~
Why should we have been born knowing how to love the world? We require, again and again, these demonstrations.
— Mark Doty, from Still Life with Oysters and Lemon
Tags: Mark Doty prose lit
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~ Monday, February 22 ~

by Mark Doty

My salt marsh
-mine, I call it, because
these day-hammered fields

of dazzled horizontals
undulate, summers,
inside me and out-

how can I say what it is?
Sea lavender shivers
over the tidewater steel.

A million minnows ally
with their million shadows
(lucky we’ll never need

to know whose is whose).
The bud of storm loosens:
watered paint poured

dark blue onto the edge
of the page. Haloed grasses,
gilt shadow-edged body of dune…

I could go on like this.
I love the language
of the day’s ten thousand aspects,

the creases and flecks
in the map, these
brilliant gouaches.

But I’m not so sure it’s true,
what I was taught, that through
the particular’s the way

to the universal:
what I need to tell is
swell and curve, shift

and blur of boundary,
tremble and spilling over,
a heady purity distilled

from detail. A metaphor, then:
in this tourist town,
the retail legions purvey

the far-flung world’s
bangles: brilliance of Nepal
and Mozambique, any place

where cheap labor braids
or burnishes or hammers
found stuff into jewelry’s

lush grammar,
a whole vocabulary
of ornament: copper and lacquer,

shells and seeds from backwaters
with fragrant names, millefiori
milled into African beads, Mexican abalone,

camelbone and tin, cinnabar
And verdigris, silver,
black onyx, coral,

gold: one vast conjugation
of the verb
To shine.

And that
is the marsh essence—-
all the hoarded riches

of the world held
and rivering, a gleam
awakened and doubled

by water flashing
off the bowing of the grass.
Jewelry, tides, language:
things that shine.
what is description, after all
but encoded desire?

And if we say
the marsh, if we forge
terms for it, then isn’t it

contained in us,
a little,
the brightness?

Tags: Mark Doty Description poetry poem beautiful ifyoudon'treadallthewaytothelaststanzayouarereallymissingout!
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