Mark Strand - Eating Poetry (Comer poesia)

 

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.

A tinta escorre-me dos cantos da boca,

isto é que é bom,

comer poesia.

Nem acredita no que vê, a bibliotecária,

tem os olhos tristes

e caminha com as mãos na véstia.

Os poemas foram-se

e a luz está fraca.

Os cães vêm da cave pelas escadas acima,

a rebolar os olhos

e com as pernas a fazer faísca.

A coitada da bibliotecária começa a bater os pés e a chorar,

sem compreender nada,

e grita quando eu me ponho de joelhos

e lhe lambo a mão.

Sou um novo homem,

rosno-lhe e ladro,

mergulhando alegre no escuro dos livros.

      Reading 'Eating Poetry' felt strange at first, but the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. It captures what it feels like to be completely consumed by something you love. I relate to that because when I find a great book or poem, I do not just read it. I take it in and let it change me. Mark Strand keeps the lines short and direct, which makes the poem feel urgent, like the speaker cannot help himself. The contrast between his joy and the librarian’s confusion makes it even more interesting. It is weird, but in the best way.

   Angel Nicolin Suyman