Sharan Strange
Biographic Data
| ID | 3672008 |
|---|---|
| NAME | Sharan Strange |
| GIVEN NAMES | Sharan |
| FAMILY NAME | Strange |
| SIGNATURE | STRANGE S |
| VERIFIED | No |
| TOTAL WORKS | 33 |
| TOTAL CITATIONS | 1 |
| WORKS AS AUTHOR | 33 |
| WORKS AS EDITOR | 0 |
| FIRST PUBLICATION YEAR | 1990 |
| LATEST PUBLICATION YEAR | 2026 |
| H-INDEX | 1 |
An Interview with Sharan Strange
On Seeing Sylvia Plath Written on a Wall
I had almost given up hope in words' trophic intention intoned. Then the wall reached out of its igneous solitude: Sylvia Plath— its plaintiveness, a blip on the path, reminder of words' necessity, if only to answer death. I wanted to pick up its pieces, patch the wounded side, cry out the testimony, someone's carved remembrance of weeks? years? ago. . . . before the rains, clearer, bolder
In Praise of the Young and Black
Before that we must exalt them as they begin to fathom the power of sure bodies and brown grace to allure and frighten and know a power that seeks to suppress their own out of craving [End Page 279] and sense of defeat
Saint on the Southbound S2, or Ode to the Bus Driver
hair thinned enough that you could be taken for a father. Padre nuestro on the southbound bus, patience in traffic, humility in your cotton jacket, your simple workman's dinner in a Safeway bag
Last Supper
Sharan Strange teaches at the Parkmont School in Washington, D.C., and has recently been writer-in-residence at Fisk University, Spelman College and the California Institute of the Arts. Her poetry has been widely published in journals and anthologies, and her first collection of poetry Ash (Beacon Press) was published in 2001
Offering
Childhood
Sharan Strange teaches at the Parkmont School in Washington, D.C., and has recently been writer-in-residence at Fisk University, Spelman College and the California Institute of the Arts. Her poetry has been widely published in journals and anthologies, and her first collection of poetry Ash (Beacon Press) was published in 2001
Threads
There is the story of my grandmother's distant relative who immigrated to the Soviet Union in the 1930s. He had been a target of the Klan because he was a labor organizer and, worse, Communist and--the biggest affront--a black man who dared to be such things in rural Georgia. Just two generations earlier, during Reconstruction, free black men and their newly emancipated brethren in the South--many college-educated, some prominent lawyers, all onl…
Childhood
Natural Occurrences
Callaloo - Volume 19, Number 2, Spring 1996
First Sight
First Sight Sharan Strange (bio) A beginning, and like a newborn you’re dazzled by sight. After 50 years a corridor is no longer a corridor, a window is solid, holds a picture like a movie screen. The doctors have undone a lifetime of darkness— for what? You still close your eyes, won’t turn on lamps at home. The city seems a mirage, dishonest with constant movement, or so shy it flattens into image, then shimmers. Seeing is strange! Free of the …
Froggy's Class
Callaloo - Volume 19, Number 2, Spring 1996
The Body
The Body Sharan Strange (bio) The man who is dying of AIDS calls it a sensual experience—dying—feeling his body as a newness. The throbbing in his leg is the beat of his heart. And the shallow breathing. His body slowly gives itself over to death, like easing into sleep or a full warm bath. Only sex has ever made him sense his corporeal self, now this. But it knows, he says, how to die. The body tells us when it’s time. After her lover died the p…
The Factory
The Factory Sharan Strange (bio) Talking about silkscreening, my aunt remembers her first job in New York, decades ago, at the Sample Co. near Chambers St., where she pressed glue through screens and stuck fabric pieces to boards. She was 18, scrawny, and no one’s idea of an employee. In the employment office week after week, she met an ugly girl who made her laugh, and so went home with her. The city was full of people and, forgetting caution, s…
Ash
Ash Sharan Strange (bio) Today sun warms the snow. It melts and comes apart, running off in streams, cross-hatching its way downhill. Water has a destination always— home, to all other water. Standing in its path, I’m closed, a knot of grief, a stone. I’m remembering your words: I didn’t choose this, and Now survive. I hoard my losses against the chance that more will be taken from me. I want what babies want, sustenance when I call out. I want b…
Dorothy
Dorothy Sharan Strange (bio) Being a foster kid gave her second-class status, but she was still our hero. An outcast like us, she was an ally against school bullies and neighborhood brats. Though we were all poor, she was rejected for more simple-minded, human reasons. With smoke-dark skin, hair no longer than a snap, and legs covered with sores, any hope she nursed of being found desirable or cherished was revoked. She retaliated with a physical…
Hunger
Hunger Sharan Strange (bio) 1 Combing the papers for summer jobs nothing that seems absurd now, or the obvious hustle, was beneath us; our need was rampant as newsprint, those endless columns of pulp dreams. Not old enough for hire, I fantasized my fortune in stuffing envelopes. Seductive ads beckoned: Make $$$!No experience needed! (Just gut- wrenching desire for anything more . . . ) I’d make thousands, save the family, buy my way out of loneli…
Mule
Mule Sharan Strange (bio) I sat in the high-back chair facing your bed, silence and the long day between us. I listened for a sound of need from you, grown smaller, almost lost to the shadows enclosing the room. I was nine and brave, they said, to do this. The cancer had attacked your throat and stomach. I didn’t know the pain you felt, just that you were weak, could eat only liquids drawn through a tube. How it reduced you from the tough, angry …
February 19,1994
The Unintended Life
Callaloo - Volume 19, Number 2, Spring 1996
The Stranger
The Stranger Sharan Strange (bio) The one I like most is about her—a story with so few details it became mystery, with so few versions it remains myth. This much I can tell you. She was married, had a family. I know this because her granddaughter-in-law told the story to her daughter, who told it to me. What was she like? I picture her small and lean, brown as pines, with hair like bare branches in winter. Did she grow very old? How did she die? …
An Interview with Sharan Strange
Callaloo - Volume 19, Number 2, Spring 1996
Offering
Metaphysical
Streetcorner Church II
The Body
The Body Sharan Strange (bio) The man who is dying of AIDS calls it a sensual experience—dying—feeling his body as a newness. The throbbing in his leg is the beat of his heart. And the shallow breathing. His body slowly gives itself over to death, like easing into sleep or a full warm bath. Only sex has ever made him sense his corporeal self, now this. But it knows, he says, how to die. The body tells us when it’s time. After her lover died the p…
Streetcorner Church
Matador
The Apprentice Dreams of Promotion
Transits
Acts of Power
Last Supper
Barbershop Ritual
Offering
Metaphysical
Streetcorner Church II
Looking
Natural Occurrences
Callaloo - Volume 19, Number 2, Spring 1996
First Sight
First Sight Sharan Strange (bio) A beginning, and like a newborn you’re dazzled by sight. After 50 years a corridor is no longer a corridor, a window is solid, holds a picture like a movie screen. The doctors have undone a lifetime of darkness— for what? You still close your eyes, won’t turn on lamps at home. The city seems a mirage, dishonest with constant movement, or so shy it flattens into image, then shimmers. Seeing is strange! Free of the …
Froggy's Class
Callaloo - Volume 19, Number 2, Spring 1996
The Body
The Body Sharan Strange (bio) The man who is dying of AIDS calls it a sensual experience—dying—feeling his body as a newness. The throbbing in his leg is the beat of his heart. And the shallow breathing. His body slowly gives itself over to death, like easing into sleep or a full warm bath. Only sex has ever made him sense his corporeal self, now this. But it knows, he says, how to die. The body tells us when it’s time. After her lover died the p…
The Factory
The Factory Sharan Strange (bio) Talking about silkscreening, my aunt remembers her first job in New York, decades ago, at the Sample Co. near Chambers St., where she pressed glue through screens and stuck fabric pieces to boards. She was 18, scrawny, and no one’s idea of an employee. In the employment office week after week, she met an ugly girl who made her laugh, and so went home with her. The city was full of people and, forgetting caution, s…
Ash
Ash Sharan Strange (bio) Today sun warms the snow. It melts and comes apart, running off in streams, cross-hatching its way downhill. Water has a destination always— home, to all other water. Standing in its path, I’m closed, a knot of grief, a stone. I’m remembering your words: I didn’t choose this, and Now survive. I hoard my losses against the chance that more will be taken from me. I want what babies want, sustenance when I call out. I want b…
Dorothy
Dorothy Sharan Strange (bio) Being a foster kid gave her second-class status, but she was still our hero. An outcast like us, she was an ally against school bullies and neighborhood brats. Though we were all poor, she was rejected for more simple-minded, human reasons. With smoke-dark skin, hair no longer than a snap, and legs covered with sores, any hope she nursed of being found desirable or cherished was revoked. She retaliated with a physical…
Hunger
Hunger Sharan Strange (bio) 1 Combing the papers for summer jobs nothing that seems absurd now, or the obvious hustle, was beneath us; our need was rampant as newsprint, those endless columns of pulp dreams. Not old enough for hire, I fantasized my fortune in stuffing envelopes. Seductive ads beckoned: Make $$$!No experience needed! (Just gut- wrenching desire for anything more . . . ) I’d make thousands, save the family, buy my way out of loneli…
Mule
Mule Sharan Strange (bio) I sat in the high-back chair facing your bed, silence and the long day between us. I listened for a sound of need from you, grown smaller, almost lost to the shadows enclosing the room. I was nine and brave, they said, to do this. The cancer had attacked your throat and stomach. I didn’t know the pain you felt, just that you were weak, could eat only liquids drawn through a tube. How it reduced you from the tough, angry …
February 19,1994
The Unintended Life
Callaloo - Volume 19, Number 2, Spring 1996
The Stranger
The Stranger Sharan Strange (bio) The one I like most is about her—a story with so few details it became mystery, with so few versions it remains myth. This much I can tell you. She was married, had a family. I know this because her granddaughter-in-law told the story to her daughter, who told it to me. What was she like? I picture her small and lean, brown as pines, with hair like bare branches in winter. Did she grow very old? How did she die? …
An Interview with Sharan Strange
Callaloo - Volume 19, Number 2, Spring 1996
Last Supper
Sharan Strange teaches at the Parkmont School in Washington, D.C., and has recently been writer-in-residence at Fisk University, Spelman College and the California Institute of the Arts. Her poetry has been widely published in journals and anthologies, and her first collection of poetry Ash (Beacon Press) was published in 2001
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