From Dark Harbor by Mark Strand

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I 

When after a long silence one picks up the pen 
And leans over the paper and says to himself: 
Today I shall consider Marsyas 
Whose body was flayed to an excess 
Of nakedness, who made no crime that would square 
With what he was made to suffer. 
Today I shall consider the shredded remains of Marsyas 
What do they mean as they gather the sunlight 
That falls in small pieces through the trees, 
As in Titian's late painting. Poor Marsyas, 
A body, a body of work as it turns and falls 
Into suffering, becoming the flesh of light, 
Which is fed to onlookers centuries later. 
Can this be the cost of encompassing pain? 
After a long silence, would I, whose body 
Is whole, sheltered, kept in the dark by a mind 
That prefers it that way, know what I'd done 
And what its worth was? Or is a body scraped 
From the bone of experience, the chart of suffering 
To be read in such ways that all flesh might be redeemed, 
At least for the moment, the moment it passes into song. 
  
II 

Our friends who lumbered from room to room 
Now move like songs or meditations winding down, 
Or lie about, waiting for the next good thing 
Some news of what is going on above, 
A visitor to tell them who's writing well, 
Who's falling in or out of love. 
Not that it matters anymore. Just look around. 
There's Marsyas, noted for his marvelous asides 
On Athena's ancient oboe, asleep for centuries. 
And Arion, whose gaudy music drove the Phrygians wild, 
Hasn't spoken in a hundred years. The truth is 
Soon the song deserts its maker, 
The airy demon dies, and others come along. 
A different kind of dark invades the autumn woods, 
A different sound sends lovers packing into sleep. 
The air is full of anguish. The measures of nothingness 
Are few. The Beyond is merely beyond, 
A melancholy place of failed and fallen stars. 
  
III 
  
I am sure you would find it misty here, 
With lots of stone cottages badly needing repair. 
Groups of souls, wrapped in cloaks, sit in the fields 
Or stroll the winding unpaved roads. They are polite, 
And oblivious to their bodies, which the wind passes through, 
Making a shushing sound. Not long ago, 
I stopped to rest in a place where an especially 
Thick mist swirled up from the river. Someone, 
Who claimed to have known me years before, 
Approached, saying there were many poets 
Wandering around who wished to be alive again. 
They were ready to say the words they had been unable to say 
Words whose absence had been the silence of love, 
Of pain, and even of pleasure. Then he joined a small group, 
Gathered beside a fire. I believe I recognized 
Some of the faces, but as I approached they tucked 
Their heads under their wings. I looked away to the hills 
Above the river, where the golden lights of sunset 
And sunrise are one and the same, and saw something flying 
Back and forth, fluttering its wings. Then it stopped in mid-air. 
It was an angel, one of the good ones, about to sing.