Mark Strand, who died late last year, was a poet and artist. He was named Poet Laureate of the United States in 1990 and he won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1999. (June 2015)

IN THE REVIEW

On Edward Hopper

Edward Hopper: Reclining Female Nude, Rear View, 1900–1906
This essay by Mark Strand was originally written for The New York Review of Books as a review of the exhibition of Edward Hopper’s drawings at the Whitney Museum of American Art in 2013. It was found as a handwritten text in his notebook after he died in November 2014 and transcribed by his literary executor, Mary Jo Salter.

The Old Age of Nostalgia

Those hours given over to basking in the glow of an imagined future, of being carried away in streams of promise by a love or a passion so strong that one felt altered forever and convinced that the smallest particle of the surrounding world was charged with a purpose of …

The Golden Frogs of Panama

The dying sun gives way to the sightless moon, A dusting of dead leaves darkens the lawn, The golden frogs of Panama are gone. “Never too soon,” says the clean-shaven man Slouched in the rear of a black limousine; “Never too soon,” he repeats, looking …

Those Last Moments

We were in another country and talked of the war, Which we thought would never end, and of our leaders Who did nothing, when we felt the slow encroachment Of the hour, and imagined people up and down the coast Becoming drowsy and drifting off towards …

People Walking through the Night

They carried what they had in garbage bags and knapsacks, long lines of them winding down country roads, through barren fields to the edge of town, then onto numbered streets, by rows of leafless trees and heaps of rubble. When they reached the central square, they …

Error

We drifted downstream under a scattering of stars and slept until the sun rose. When we got to the capital, which lay in ruins, we built a large fire out of what chairs and tables we could find. The heat was so fierce that birds …

2002

I am not thinking of Death, but Death is thinking of me. He leans back in his chair, rubs his hands, strokes His beard and says, “I’m thinking of Strand, I’m thinking That one of these days I’ll be out back, swinging my scythe Or holding …