{"product_id":"stranger-by-night-isbn-9781524711702","title":"Stranger by Night","description":"\u003cb\u003eNow in his seventies, the award-winning poet looks back on what was and accepts what is, in a deeply moving and beautiful sequence about what sustains him\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBeginning with \"My Friends Don't Get Buried,\" the lament of a delinquent mourner as his friends have begun to die, and ending with the plaintive note to self \"don't write elegies\/anymore,\" Edward Hirsch takes us backward through the decades in these memory poems of startling immediacy.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHe recalls the black dress a lover wore when he couldn't yet know the tragedy of her burning spirit; the radiance of an autumn day in Detroit when his students smoked outside, passionately discussing Shelley; the day he got off late from a railyard shift and missed an antiwar demonstration. There are direct and indirect elegies to lost contemporaries like Mark Strand, William Meredith, and, most especially, his longtime compatriot Philip Levine, whom he honors in several poems about daily work in the late mid-century Midwest.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAs the poet ages and begins to lose his peripheral vision, the world is \"stranger by night,\" but these elegant, heart-stirring poems shed light on a lifetime that inevitably contains both sorrow and joy.“Bring[s] new life to the elegy . . . Hirsch compresses molten emotions into spare, columnar lyrics ignited by exhilarating enjambments and cadences supple and musical . . . In singing, earthy, and soulful poems, Hirsch muses over age and the loss of friends, including fellow poets Philip Levine and Mark Strand . . . The poet also reaches back to his first hard-labor jobs, his teaching stints in coal country, and pilgrimages in Poland and Russia . . . Consummate, passionate, generous, and resplendent, Hirsch’s poems vanquish the static of our lives and guide us back to a place of contemplation and gratitude.” \u003cb\u003e—Donna Seaman, \u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Tender and unflinching . . . Hirsch balances heartfelt elegy with a celebration of the everyday. In these 48 poems of sensory remembrance, any door might open on the past . . . While later poems address Hirsch’s loss of eyesight, giving resonance to the collection’s title, readers will be grateful that the poet’s inner eye remains as observant and compassionate as ever.” \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003c\/b\u003eEDWARD HIRSCH, a MacArthur Fellow, has published nine previous books of poetry, including \u003ci\u003eThe Living Fire: New and Selected Poems \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eGabriel: A Poem, \u003c\/i\u003ea book-length elegy for his son. He has also published seven books of prose, among them \u003ci\u003eHow to Read a Poem and Fall in Love with Poetry,\u003c\/i\u003e a national best seller, and \u003ci\u003e100 Poems to Break Your Heart\u003c\/i\u003e. He has received numerous prizes, including the National Book Critics Circle Award. A longtime teacher, at Wayne State University and in the Creative Writing Program at the University of Houston, Hirsch is now president of the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation. He lives in Brooklyn.Chapter 1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy Friends Don’t Get Buried\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy friends don’t get buried\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein cemeteries anymore, their wives\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecan’t stand the sadness\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof funerals, the spectacle\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof wreaths and prayers, tear-soaked\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003espeeches delivered from the altar,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eall those lies and encomiums,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe suffocating smell of flowers\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efilling everything. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo more undertakers in black suits\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eclutching handkerchiefs,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eold buddies weeping in corners,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etelling off-color stories, nipping shots,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eno more covered mirrors,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eblack dresses, skullcaps, and crucifixes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSometimes it takes me a year or two\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto get out to the backyard in Sheffield\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eor Fresno, those tall ashes scattered\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eunder a tree somewhere in a park\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esomewhere in New Jersey.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI am a delinquent mourner\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003estepping on pinecones, forgetting to pray.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut the mourning goes on anyway\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebecause my friends keep dying\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewithout a schedule,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewithout even a funeral,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhile the silence\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edrums us from the other side,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe suffocating smell of flowers\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efills everything, always,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe darkness grows warmer, then colder,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI just have to lie down on the grass\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand press my mouth to the earth\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto call them\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eso they would answer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Black Dress\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI don’t know why I opened her book\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ealmost randomly, on a whim,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eit signaled me from the shelf\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eafter all these years, like a burning\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eblack dress tangled in the branches,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eher dress, she was the one\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewho was burning,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand that’s when the letter fell out,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea love letter, sort of, after we’d given up\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eon each other, or did we?,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eour impossibility,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand suddenly it came back to me\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein a rush, that night in Boston,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea restaurant on the harbor, a storm\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esimmering outside, that slinky\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eblack dress she was wearing,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI didn’t know she was burning\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003einside of it, I thought\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eit was the coming storm,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esummer lightning,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI didn’t know I was turning\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe pages of her book, her body,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhich I would read so closely,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wanted it so desperately,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eshe was the fire, I didn’t know\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eshe was already mourning\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efor her childhood in the orchard,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eher lost self, forgive me,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI didn’t know she was burning\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhen she took off that black dress.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Unveiling\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInstead of a pebble to mark our grief\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eor a coin to ease his passage\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyou placed a speaker\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eat the top of his head\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand suddenly a drumbeat\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecame blasting out of the grass,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003estartling the mourners on the far side\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof the cemetery, clanging the trees,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003escattering the swifts\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat had gathered around the stone\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elike souls of the dead,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esouls that were now parting\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto make way for a noisy spirit\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003erising out of the dirt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Keening\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll morning I heard a thrumming\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein the distance, a wail, a wild cry—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eatonal, primitive—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eso faint and far away\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat I tried to blot it out\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand follow the news breaking\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elike a fog over the day,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethough I kept hearing it\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003erising\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand coming closer,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea chant,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea plea from the dead\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esuddenly burning inside me, \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eone of the grief-stricken ones,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewearing a button-down with a tie\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand walking the hall with a notebook\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eas if I belonged here, as if\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI had something else to report.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter the Stroke\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(\u003ci\u003eIn memory of William Meredith\u003c\/i\u003e)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eImagine him\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003estanding at the bottom\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof an empty well,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eraising a broken arm\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein darkness\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand calling out\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto someone, anyone\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewho may be passing by\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebut cannot hear\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea voice in the ground,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe desperate plea\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof a singer whose faith\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehas not deserted him,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethough he is silenced now\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elike a cello locked\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein a black case,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea church bell buried\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esomewhere in the earth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Secret\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(\u003ci\u003eIn memory of Richard Rifkind\u003c\/i\u003e)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe were watching flamenco dancers\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003estomping on the stage\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand swirling around us,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand I noticed the way he looked at them\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewith a mixture of curiosity\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand contentment, a happiness\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efree of desire, a state\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eforeign to me,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand when I asked about it later\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehe smiled\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewith such a great sweetness\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat it seemed like a light\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehe had discovered\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewithin himself, a secret\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehe shared with me once\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efor a little while,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand I’ve carried that secret with me\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eever since\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eas a token,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea stone for good luck,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea memory for good fortune.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn Memory of Mark Strand\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(\u003ci\u003eKrumville Cemetery, Olivebridge, New York\u003c\/i\u003e)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’m not sure why I glanced back\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eat the bus driver grinding a cigarette butt\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewith her heel into the gravel driveway.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe was a figure from a myth, from\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eone of his poems, a stranger, a guardian\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emarking the passage to the other world.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaybe she was just another way\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof distracting myself from the burial,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efrom waiting in stunned silence\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewith the other mourners, all the forlorn\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003egathered at the graveside without a rabbi\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eor a priest to lead us in prayer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt could be said that we were godless,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehaunted, lost, as we stood\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein the vanishing light and light rain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePerhaps we had given up too much—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe fundamental beliefs, the consoling rituals—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat would have made the day more bearable.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut as we huddled together in the afternoon,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003equivering a little in the chill mist, muffling our sobs,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elooking up every now and then at the tall pines,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewe felt something lonely moving amongst us,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea current almost, a small gust of wind,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enot a ghost exactly, nothing like that,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebut the ghost of a feeling, a shiver,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhich we might have missed altogether,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eexcept he had changed us, we were changed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLet’s Go Down to the Bayou\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLet’s go down to the bayou\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand cast our sins\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003einto the brown water\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eon little strips of paper\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eslowly floating uphill\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe way we did that fall\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhen we moved to Houston\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand lived with a small\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eanonymity\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein a large complex\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eset up for the families\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof patients treated\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efor months\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein a nearby hospital\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebecause maybe this time\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eour neighbor’s daughter\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewith the shaved head\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewill be healed\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand the bayou will accept\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eour murky sins\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe way God never did\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand cleanse us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen You Write the Story\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen you write the story\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof being a father\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edon’t leave out the joy\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof romping up and down\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe stairs together\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eor curving a wiffle ball\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eacross the hallway\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eor sneaking \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epast the poor dog\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewho has fallen asleep\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eunder the grand piano\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein the living room\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof the house on Sul Ross,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edon’t forget the giddiness\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof eating together\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein a secret winter fortress\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehidden somewhere—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’m not saying where—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein someone’s backyard,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand what was that song\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyou invented\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto lull him to sleep?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand wasn’t it yesterday\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat you carried him\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edown the stairs\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto the car humming\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein the driveway at five a.m.?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Radiance\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(\u003ci\u003eDetroit, 1984\u003c\/i\u003e)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLate September\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein the shade\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eoutside of State Hall,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat concrete brutality,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhere my students are smoking\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eoff a hangover\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand gossiping in Ukrainian\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhile Dan Hughes leans on his walker\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand talks to me about Shelley’s\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebright destructions.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI did not know it was indelible—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe sun spangling the campus trees,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe traffic thickening the smog\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eoutside the museum on Woodward,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eour voices rising.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen you tell the story\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof those years\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003egoing up in flames,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edon’t forget the radiance\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof that day in autumn\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eburning out of time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRiding Nowhere\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(\u003ci\u003eIn memory of Philip Levine\u003c\/i\u003e)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter all these years\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI still can’t forget\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecollecting you\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein the snowy darkness\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand driving in silence\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ealong Jefferson Avenue\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto a local gym\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhere we stretched\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eside by side\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eon stationary bicycles\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eriding nowhere\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eat a steady pace\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein front of a window\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eframing the Detroit River\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat glided on and on\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eat its own sweet will\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eunder the skyscrapers\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003echurches and factories\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eglittering together\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein the early-morning light.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLet’s Get Off the Bus\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLet’s get off the bus\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein 1979\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein front of the empty fairgrounds\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eon Eight Mile and Woodward\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand stop for a few rounds\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eat the Last Chance Bar.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe moon is tilted\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eat a rakish angle\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand we can toast the unruly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epoets of Detroit\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand praise our students\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewho work three jobs\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand still show up for class.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDon’t get lost\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein the sad stories\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof the regulars\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand make sure to step over\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe junkies on the corner\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand dodge the cars barreling\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epast the stoplights\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efor the suburbs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLet’s surprise my wife\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewho is napping off her grief\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand crank up the stereo\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efor Stevie Wonder’s road trip\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethrough The Secret Life of Plants.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomeone has started a garden\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eon the far side of Palmer Park—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eor is it Woodlawn Cemetery?—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhere we can throw a party\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efor our friends\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewho are still alive.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the Valley\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat was teaching\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein that first Pennsylvania winter\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebut listening to directions\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand learning how to drive\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eon icy two-lane roads\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efrom Easton to Bethlehem?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou were tested\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eby a deer standing starkly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eon the yellow line\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand a dead opossum\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efreezing in the gravel\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand the radio playing spirituals\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eabout going home\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eon a lonesome highway.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe sun skidded to a halt\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein the smokestacks\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eover the river\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand I can still see you\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eclimbing the snowy hills\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand coasting\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epast the empty factories\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand abandoned warehouses\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto a Catholic school\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eon the edge of town.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou were a skeptic\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein the Valley of the Lord\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewho carried “Pied Beauty”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein your jacket pocket\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand drank scalding coffee\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein the teacher’s lounge\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewith two old priests\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand a lanky young nun\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewho played pickup basketball\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand noticed all things\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecounter, original, spare, strange.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat was teaching\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebut quieting a classroom\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand learning how to stand\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eat a blackboard\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewith an open book\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand praise\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe unfathomable\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emystery of being\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto children writing poems\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eor prayers\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein the failing blue light\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof a weekday afternoon?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat Is Happiness?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat is happiness anyway?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esomeone wondered aloud\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eat the lingering party on the lawn,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand all at once\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was catapulted back\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003einto a raucous second-grade classroom\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein northern Pennsylvania,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eeveryone clamoring with memories\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof wading naked\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003einto the Susquehanna River,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003erunning wildly over sandstone\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand shales, jumping over\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003econcrete dividers, steel railings,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe whole family pointing together\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eat the peak of North Knob…\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI stood at the blackboard\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecalling out names\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand noting it all down,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emarveling\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eat so much jubilance,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efully absorbed in our creation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWindber Field\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI don’t know why\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI thought it was a good idea\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto bring Wilfred Owen’s poem\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eon the colliery disaster of 1918\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto that tiny high school class\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein western Pennsylvania,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebut soon they were writing\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eabout smokeless coal\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand black seams\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein the ground, the terror\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof firedamp, the Rolling Mill\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMine Disaster in Johnstown,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe closing of Windber Field,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe memory of standing \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein a wide ring\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003earound a mine shaft\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto watch a man emerge\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efrom the earth\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elike a god, a father\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein an open cage\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esailing across the sky.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNight Class in Daisytown\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was failing\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emy night class\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003efor the eleven parents\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof my students\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein the Conemaugh Valley\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhen I mentioned\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eas if by accident—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eor was it desperation?—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe Pitman Poet of Percy Main,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewho worked the mines\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein Northumberland\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand wrote songs and\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecarols for the coalfields,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand before long\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was standing there\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewith a piece of fresh chalk\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecollecting memories\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eabout coal in Cambria County,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe pickaxe and the lantern\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehanging by the front door,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe father-in-law\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewho woke up in the dark\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand worked all day in the dark\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand slept with a night light,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe mother who whispered\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eabout blackdamp, the brother\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewho got lost for twenty-four hours\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein the underworld\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand then found a steel cable\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eglinting in a mine shaft\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand pulled himself\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003einto the light.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Stony Creek\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI drove along the Stony Creek\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epast the coal piles\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand the abandoned mine land\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto a little company town\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewithout a company,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea community\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhere I parked the car\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein front of a church\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein foreclosure\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand crossed the street\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto the first school\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat would let me teach\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eall day\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003euntil it was time\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto drive home again\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epast the pockmarked land\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand the dark caves, the moon\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eglinting through the gloam\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003elike a headlamp,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eheat lightning\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein the distance, a storm\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esweeping slowly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eacross the thunderous sky\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eover the mountains.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the Endless Mountains\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEarly morning.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI still remember\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe wild cherry tree\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebehind an empty train station\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein the Endless Mountains\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof Pennsylvania.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was traveling to teach\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJapanese poetry,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003estray flashes of beauty,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto a high school classroom,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebut for a moment\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI sat down on a wooden bench\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eflooded with sunlight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNothing moved,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003etime stopped like a question\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eon the dusty clock in the corner,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand blue swallows\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehovered over\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe fire cherry.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI could hear an endless hush\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein the mountains.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDays of 1975\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt started with the tattered blue secret\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof Bashō, that windswept spirit,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eriding my back pocket for luck. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt started with a walk\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethrough the woods at dawn,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emud on my new shoes,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ehigh humming in the trees.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was not prepared for the scent\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof freshly turned soil\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto pervade the empty classroom\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eor the morning to commence\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewith a bell that did not stop\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eringing in my head. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo many expectations filed\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enoisily into the room—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was ready to begin. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom the tall windows\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI could see a storefront church\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eopening on the other side\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof the polluted river. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI remember walking past the rows\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand rows of bent heads,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003escarred desks,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand gazing up\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eat the Endless Mountains. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn those hopeful days of 1975\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI drove the country roads\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein honor of radiance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eO spirit of poetry,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003esouls of those I have loved,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ecome back to teach me again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAre You a Narc?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI don’t know what possessed you\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto step into that small joint \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003enear Penn Station\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eat rush hour on a Thursday night\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein late summer,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebut at twenty-four\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyou should have known\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eenough to leave\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhen the room quieted\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand everyone swiveled around\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto look at you\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebefore turning back to their drinks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou were too embarrassed\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eor clueless to turn back\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein those days\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand so you sat down\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eat the bar next to a woman\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein a postal uniform\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewho advised you\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto make the smart play\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand leave forty bucks\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eon the counter\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand head for the door\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhile you could still walk.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Iron Gate\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDon’t look for the Warsaw Ghetto\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eon a Polish map\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein 1974,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eit’s not there,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003edon’t show up at the Iron Gate\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand try to enter\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe Second Polish Republic,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethere’s no guidebook to the trauma\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof the Muranów neighborhood,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethere’s no sign to guide you\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethrough the bloody streets\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof the Uprising,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe War\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethat destroyed the city\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhere you’ve come\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto see what’s been lost,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhat’s been rebuilt,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethough you walk for days\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eon end without understanding\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhere you are, where\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eyou’ve been, the desperation\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003egrowing inside of you\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ewhen you lie down at night\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein a youth hostel\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand feel the darkness\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epressing through the treetops,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe sound\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof something wild\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ebrushing against the window,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ea winter fever, a terror\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ein the wind, the ghosts\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eof your ancestors\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003epushing apart the fence\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eoutside the building.","brand":"Knopf","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304142098661,"sku":"NP9781524711702","price":20.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781524711702.jpg?v=1767737405","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/stranger-by-night-isbn-9781524711702","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}