Biography of Mark Jarman
Mark F. Jarman is an American poet and critic often identified with the New Narrative branch of the New Formalism; he was co-editor with Robert McDowell of The Reaper throughout the 1980s. Centennial Professor of English at Vanderbilt University, he is the author of ten books of poetry, two books of essays, and a book of essays co-authored with Robert McDowell. He co-edited the anthology Rebel Angels: 25 Poets of the New Formalism with David Mason.
Jarman's awards for poetry include a Joseph Henry Jackson Award, three grants from the NEA, and a fellowship from the John Simon Guggenheim Foundation. His book The Black Riviera won the 1991 Poets' Prize. Questions for Ecclesiastes was a finalist for the 1997 National Book Critics Circle Award in poetry and won the 1998 Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize from the Academy of American Poets and The Nation magazine.
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Mark Jarman Poems
Is nothing real but when I was fifteen, Going on sixteen, like a corny song? I see myself so clearly then, and painfully-- Knees bleeding through my usher's uniform
Tale Of Two Cities
Sick as it approaches, sick as it departs. In fall the hulks of burned out houses stand unrazed.
In Ball's Market after surfing till noon, We stand in wet trunks, shivering, As icing dissolves off our sweet rolls Inside the heat-blued counter oven,
They were talking to him about resurrection, about law, about the suffering ahead. They were talking as if to remind him who he was and who they were. He was not
Descriptions Of Heaven And Hell
The wave breaks And I'm carried into it. This is hell, I know, Yet my father laughs,
The Black Riviera
There they are again.It's after dark. The rain begins its sober comedy, Slicking down their hair as they wait Under a pepper tree or eucalyptus,
My Parents Have Come Home Laughing
My parents have come home laughing From the feast for Robert Burns, late, on foot; They have leaned against graveyard walls, Have bent double in the glittering frost,
To raise a stump of rock into a tower, rolling a stone in place as the years pass. Strangers who only know your silhouette bid it farewell and travel to Japan,
To lie in your child's bed when she is gone Is calming as anything I know. To fall
Dispatches from Devereux Slough
Black Phoebe Highwayman of the air, coal-headed, darting Plunderer of gnat hordes, lasso with beak -
Song of Roland
Roland was a Paladin of Charlemagne, And he was my mother's cousin. The Paladin Served Charlemagne and died, blowing his horn. The cousin spent a day with her at the fair
There is a Renaissance painting of paradise In which people, still in their human bodies, Are embracing as if they'd just arrived in paradise
Spell For Encanto Creek
Tall blades of tufted grasses, keep on flowing. Towhees like good ideas, keep on flowing.
Then Saw The Problem
How do you turn into a flower of the field, the lily clothed to make Solomon rue his glory?
Is nothing real but when I was fifteen,
Going on sixteen, like a corny song?
I see myself so clearly then, and painfully--
Knees bleeding through my usher's uniform
Behind the candy counter in the theater
After a morning's surfing; paddling frantically
To top the brisk outsiders coming to wreck me,
Trundle me clumsily along the beach floor's
Gravel and sand; my knees aching with salt.