Mirror A white room and a party going on and I was standing with some friends under a large gilt-framed mirror that tilted slightly forward over the fireplace. We were drinking whiskey and some of us, feeling no pain, were trying to decide what precise shade of yellow the setting sun turned our drinks. I closed my eyes briefly, then looked up into the mirror: a woman in a green dress leaned against the far wall. She seemed distracted, the fingers of one hand fidgeted with her necklace, and she was staring into the mirror, not at me, but past me, into a space that might be filled by someone yet to arrive, who at that moment could be starting the journey which would lead eventually to her. Then, suddenly, my friends said it was time to move on. This was years ago, and though I have forgotten where we went and who we all were, I still recall that moment of looking up and seeing the woman stare past me into a place I could only imagine, and each time it is with a pang, as if just then I were stepping from the depths of the mirror into that white room, breathless and eager, only to discover too late that she is not there. XVI It is true, as someone has said, that in A world without heaven all is farewell. Whether you wave your hand or not, It is farewell, and if no tears come to your eyes It is still farewell, and if you pretend not to notice, Hating what passes, it is still farewell. Farewell no matter what. And the palms as they lean Over the green, bright lagoon, and the pelicans Diving, and the glistening bodies of bathers resting, Are stages in an ultimate stillness, and the movement Of sand, and of wind, and the secret moves of the body Are part of the same, a simplicity that turns being Into an occasion for mourning, or into an occasion Worth celebrating, for what else does one do, Feeling the weight of the pelicans' wings, The density of the palms' shadows, the cells that darken The backs of bathers? These are beyond the distortions Of change, beyond the evasions of music. The end Is enacted again and again. And we feel it In the temptations of sleep, in the moon's ripening, In the wine as it waits in the glass. Elegy for My Father (Robert Strand 1908-1968) 1 THE EMPTY BODY The hands were yours, the arms were yours, But you were not there. The eyes were yours, but they were closed and would not open. The distant sun was there. The moon poised on the hillÕs white shoulder was there. The wind on Bedford Basin was there. The pale green light of winter was there. Your mouth was there, But you were not there. When somebody spoke, there was no answer. Clouds came down And buried the buildings along the water, And the water was silent. The gulls stared. The years, the hours, that would not find you Turned in the wrists of others. There was no pain. It had gone. There were no secrets. There was nothing to say. The shade scattered its ashes. The body was yours, but you were not there. The air shivered against its skin. The dark leaned into its eyes. But you were not there. 2 ANSWERS Why did you travel? Because the house was cold. Why did you travel? Because it is what I have always done between sunset and sunrise. What did you wear? I wore a blue suit, a white shirt, yellow tie, and yellow socks. What did you wear? I wore nothing. A scarf of pain kept me warm. Who did you sleep with? I slept with a different woman each night. Who did you sleep with? I slept alone. I have always slept alone. Why did you lie to me? I always thought I told the truth. Why did you lie to me? Because the truth lies like nothing else and I love the truth. Why are you going? Because nothing means much to me anymore. Why are you going? I donÕt know. I have never known. How long shall I wait for you? Do not wait for me. I am tired and I want to lie down. Are you tired and do you want to lie down? Yes, I am tired and I want to lie down. 3 YOUR DYING Nothing could stop you. Not the best day. Not the quiet. Not the ocean rocking. You went on with your dying. Not the trees Under which you walked, not the trees that shaded you. Not the doctor Who warned you, the white-haired young doctor who saved you once. You went on with your dying. Nothing could stop you. Not your son. Not your daughter Who fed you and made you into a child again. Not your son who thought you would live forever. Not the wind that shook your lapels. Not the stillness that offered itself to your motion. Not your shoes that grew heavier. Not your eyes that refused to look ahead. Nothing could stop you. You sat in your room and stared at the city And went on with your dying. You went to work and let the cold enter your clothes. You let blood seep into your socks. Your face turned white. Your voice cracked in two. You leaned on your cane. But nothing could stop you. Not your friends who gave you advice. Not your son. Not your daughter who watched you grow small. Not fatigue that lived in your sighs. Not your lungs that would fill with water. Not your sleeves that carried the pain of your arms. Nothing could stop you. You went on with your dying. When you played with children you went on with your dying. When you sat down to eat, When you woke up at night, wet with tears, your body sobbing, You went on with your dying. Nothing could stop you. Not the past. Not the future with its good weather. Not the view from your window, the view of the graveyard. Not the city. Not the terrible city with its wooden buildings. Not defeat. Not success. You did nothing but go on with your dying. You put your watch to your ear. You felt yourself slipping. You lay on the bed. You folded your arms over your chest and you dreamed of the world without you, Of the space under the trees, Of the space in your room, Of the spaces that would now be empty of you, And you went on with your dying. Nothing could stop you. Not your breathing. Not your life. Not the life you wanted. Not the life you had. Nothing could stop you. 4 YOUR SHADOW You have your shadow. The places where you were have given it back. The hallways and bare lawns of the orphanage have given it back. The Newsboys Home has given it back. The streets of New York have given it back and so have the streets of Montreal. The rooms in Bel?m where lizards would snap at mosquitos have given it back. The dark streets of Manaus and the damp streets of Rio have given it back. Mexico City where you wanted to leave it has given it back. And Halifax where the harbor would wash its hands of you has given it back. You have your shadow. When you traveled the white wake of your going sent your shadow below, but when you arrived it was there to greet you. You had your shadow. The doorways you entered lifted your shadow from you and when you went out, gave it back. You had your shadow. Even when you forgot your shadow, you found it again; it had been with you. Once in the country the shade of a tree covered your shadow and you were not known. Once in the country you thought your shadow had been cast by somebody else. Your shadow said nothing. Your clothes carried your shadow inside; when you took them off, it spread like the dark of your past. And your words that float like leaves in an air that is lost, in a place no one knows, gave you back your shadow. Your friends gave you back your shadow. Your enemies gave you back your shadow. They said it was heavy and would cover your grave. When you died your shadow slept at the mouth of the furnace and ate ashes for bread. It rejoiced among ruins. It watched while others slept. It shone like crystal among the tombs. It composed itself like air. It wanted to be like snow on water. It wanted to be nothing, but that was not possible. It came to my house. It sat on my shoulders. Your shadow is yours. I told it so. I said it was yours. I have carried it with me too long. I give it back. 5 MOURNING They mourn for you. When you rise at midnight, And the dew glitters on the stone of your cheeks, They mourn for you. They lead you back into the empty house. They carry the chairs and tables inside. They sit you down and teach you to breathe. And your breath burns, It burns the pine box and the ashes fall like sunlight. They give you a book and tell you to read. They listen and their eyes fill with tears. The women stroke your fingers. They comb the yellow back into your hair. They shave the frost from your beard. They knead your thighs. They dress you in fine clothes. They rub your hands to keep them warm. They feed you. They offer you money. They get on their knees and beg you not to die. When you rise at midnight they mourn for you. They close their eyes and whisper your name over and over. But they cannot drag the buried light from your veins. They cannot reach your dreams. Old man, there is no way. Rise and keep rising, it does no good. They mourn for you the way they can. 6 THE NEW YEAR It is winter and the new year. Nobody knows you. Away from the stars, from the rain of light, You lie under the weather of stones. There is no thread to lead you back. Your friends doze in the dark Of pleasure and cannot remember. Nobody knows you. You are the neighbor of nothing. You do not see the rain falling and the man walking away, The soiled wind blowing its ashes across the city. You do not see the sun dragging the moon like an echo. You do not see the bruised heart go up in flames, The skulls of the innocent turn into smoke. You do not see the scars of plenty, the eyes without light. It is over. It is winter and the new year. The meek are hauling their skins into heaven. The hopeless are suffering the cold with those who have nothing to hide. It is over and nobody knows you. There is starlight drifting on the black water. There are stones in the sea no one has seen. There is a shore and people are waiting. And nothing comes back. Because it is over. Because there is silence instead of a name. Because it is winter and the new year. Excerpted from New Selected Poems by Mark Strand All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
