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Mark Scott

Mark Scott

Mark Scott was born in Denver, Colorado, and received his Ph.D. From Rutgers University. Mark Scott’s first collection of poems, Tactile Values, was published by New Issues in 2000. His second, A Bedroom Occupation: Love Elegies, will be published by Lumen Books. His work has been published in such journals as Raritan Review, Kenyon Review, Western Humanities Review, Paris Review, and Poetry. He lives in Omaha.

www.markmscott.com

Also by Mark Scott

  • A Bedroom Occupation: Love Elegies
 

Tactile Values

Tactile ValuesTactile Values

$14.00 paper | 80 Pages
ISBN: 978-0-932826-91-6
Publication Date: Fall 2000
Buy: Amazon.com

"Mark Scott possess perfect pitch: a conversational music, a feel for dense textures of sound and unpredictable shifts of syntax, a fresh way of combining informal and formal tones that is utterly engaging. I am struck often in his poems by a comparably forceful and complex sensuousness chastened by analytic rigor, an intense and often distressed introspection, a feeling for the juice, the meat, the life in living things. He is a delicious love poet, a provocative linguistic banterer, a moving and painful elegist."
        —Alicia Ostriker

"By turns subtly figurative then frank and physical as an open hand, Mark Scott's poetry is true to its theme: our manifold, many-folded senses of touch, literal and metaphoric. The voice is that of an original mind quite (yet quietly) unlike any other: playful, modest, profound. With an elusive directness making its findings highly readable, this mind/body balance of Tactile Values seems unique in American poetry."
        —Reg Saner

"There can be heard in the poetry of Mark Scott the voice of a young poet of exceptional distinction and promise. It is a voice of dedicated intimacy, of an always perceiving closeness to other presences and to the things of this world."
        —Richard Poirier

Poem

The Last Twenty Pages

It was too sweet for her this morning
when she walked with nothing in her hands,
hoping for feathers.

Later, she ran across the water
and tripped. You could tell
by her knees.

Now she lies in black
reading Wide Sargasso Sea,
the last twenty pages.

It’s always the last twenty pages.
And no fishes when I swim into
warm places like napkin rings.

Both of us missed the light yesterday
that came clear under today
in almost unanimous shafts

the water grated. Above us
was tacking, floating, skiing,
mountain, sky.

Some were on land,
packing to leave and down about it,
and one was staying, a little girl,

to catch another frog and see it.
But none of us could be at home
on the water, or in it.

So most of the time we spent
was shored up for longing
after we went.