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CHAPTER 1

Part One

MYSELF TO ME

"Set the table and sweep the floor —
Love will not come back to this door.

Plant your bulbs, sow summer flowers.
These be your joys, these your powers.

A cat for comfort, wood to burn,
And changing light as seasons turn.

Long hours alone and work to do —
These are your strength. These are for you."

So spoke myself. I listened well;
I thought that self had truth to tell.

But love came back after many a year,
Love all unasked knocked at the door,

Love all unasked broke down the door,
To bring me pain as it did before,

To bring me back lost poetry,
And all I'd meant alone to be.

What does myself now say to me?
"Open the door to Mystery.

Gather the grapes from any vine,
And make rich wine, and make rich wine.

Out of the passion comes the form,
And only passion keeps it warm.

Set the table, sweep the floor —
Forget the lies you told before."


DEAR SOLID EARTH

Dear solid earth after ambiguous seas!
Oh gentle sand, incarnate mystery,
The body all at rest!

I battled waves, the depths of black and green,
Almost went down, heavy with death alone,
Now comforted and blest.

Goodbye to dangerous undertows, dispelled For this calm wisdom never to be told Where two souls melt.

We lie now all forgiven and enclosed After the dispersed years when we supposed All had been lost — and felt.

The nearly drowned, exhausted swimmer lies,
A shell in her clasped hand, salt in her eyes,
On this strange friendly shore.

It is enough simply to breathe again,
To breathe an easy long breath after pain,
Nor ask for more.


THE RETURN OF APHRODITE

Under the wave it is altogether still,
Alive and still, as nourishing as sleep,
Down below conflict, beyond need or will,
Where love flows on and yet is there to keep,
As unconstrained as waves that lift and break And their bright foam neither to give nor take.

Listen to the long rising curve and stress,
Murmur of ocean that brings us the goddess.

From deep she rises, poised upon her shell.
Oh guiltless Aphrodite so long absent!
The green waves part. There is no sound at all As she advances, tranquil and transparent,
To lay on mortal flesh her sacred mantle.

The wave recedes — she is drawn back again Into the ocean where light leaves a stain.


INNER SPACE

We reach the area of no more hiding,
An inner space as open as the palm.
This is no ambience of childish confiding,
Exchange of lives, however great that charm.
Where we live now is far more exposed,
Not even to each other's need or gift,
But to the region love has proposed,
Open as a huge sky where planets lift,
Mysterious order, all shining and all clear —
No ambiguity to be refined In a neurotic, dangerous atmosphere.
All is new here. We are to be defined.
We come together in an inner space As rigorous, as deep as outer space.


THINGS SEEN

A bluebird sudden as the flash of thought,
Embodied azure never to be caught.

The flowing white-on-white transparency Of light through petals of a peony.

The shining ripple through tall meadow grass Under the wind's invisible caress.

Unshadowed, vulnerable, smiling peace Caught in one glance at a sleeping face.

Within love's new-sprung, light-shot, vivid green My eyes are open. Angels can be seen.

They come and go as natural as you please —
What stirs? What wing there in the silent trees?


MOZART AGAIN

Now it is Mozart who comes back again All garlanded in green.
Flute, harp, and trumpet, the sweet violin —
Each sound is seen.

Spring is a phrase, repeated green refrain,
Sound of new leaves springing.
I see the wind flowing like slanted rain,
Wind winging.

I learn this loving fresh, in ancient style
(Lightly time flows),
And mine a green world for pure joy awhile.
Listen, a rose!

Leaves are glissando. A long haunting phrase Ripples the air —
This harpsichord of light that the wind plays,
Mozart is there.


MAY WALK

We stepped through light-and-shadow dapple Stalking elusive intermittent song Under fresh pink and green of flowering maple And through white birch leaves newly sprung,
On to a spring snow fallen from the apple.

Redstart was first caught in our roving glasses,
And on we went, now warblering, now thrushing.
Is that an oven bird who flits and scratches?
Intent we scanned the woods for wings uprushing From dank wet leaves and still watery grasses,

Till in the last hour of that walk in May We caught a blue flash as you turned to go,
And radiant wings set their seal on the day.
What more could lovers ask than bluebird blue?
It felt like hope though you were on your way.


THE TREE PEONY

The old tree peony I had almost given up Today presented a huge single flower.
Slowly, one by one, white petals,
Serrated, translucent,
Opened to the shaggy golden crown At the heart.
My green world stood still Around that presence,
Godlike, gathering the light.

How innocent the flesh that is born again Like some awesome flower the Chinese sages Devote a lifetime to contemplate and render,
Or I in my garden wait four years to see —
The pristine act of loving and being loved!


A CHINESE LANDSCAPE

I drove home through the morning, rich and still,
Where cloudy dragons floated every hill,
And winding rivers glittered and were lost In the green haze of trees and rising mist,
The earth enfolded all around and blest By autumn light, the fertile earth at rest.

As rich and gentled I after this harvest Where every power fulfilled has come to rest,
And passionate love has learned a quiet ease Like rivers winding through lyrical trees,
In time as spacious as early autumn light When the mists rise and all is calm and bright.

For the first time I left you without woe,
So filled with wisdom I could even go Holding our love at rest within my mind,
A Chinese painting where rich rivers wind And lovers on a bridge over a small ravine With their sole presence focus the huge scene.


THE GIFTED

From our joined selves long rivers start We cannot find alone. The deepest sources Well to the surface where we meet and part To double all our singular resources.

My gifts are given and I leave you, gifted,
Filled with fresh powers and intimations.
So we are nourished; so, parting, we are lifted Beyond the multitude of new sensations —

Transparent waters and soft shining sands,
Bermudas of the soul — but not for rest.
Love flows out from the rivers in our hands Toward children, poems; each is doubly blest.


REEDS AND WATER

We look out, dazzled, at a shining lake And up at light under long branches flowing Along the silvery bark, a supple snake,
And leaves still dappled green before their going.

The background, ragged trees at water's edge,
But close at hand the pointed reeds define And punctuate the glitter, a black wedge That gives the casual scene a firm design.

Water and reeds — pure joy ran its course,
Compelling joy that drew us home, who now Recapture the same light and feel its force Flowing under the flesh as if a bough.

Reeds and still water — what better image spoken For us, these autumn lovers, who must part Over and over, the moment's shining broken,
Only to feel light flow back through the heart?


MOTH IN THE SCHOOLROOM

Over night it had emerged From the contorted bisque shell Of its cocoon In a small cage In the schoolroom.

We watched it,
Fragile furred antennae,
Wings still damp and wrinkled Feeling their way Toward this new incarnation,
And their slow, slow Pulsation.

I stood there beside you After another meeting,
Close to another parting,
And thought of our mothlike love —
The cocoons of separation,
The cramped hard times,
And wings pulsing slowly After we come together.

How long has love to live So close to hope,
So close to caged?
Now it is death again In the cocoon That limits and contorts.
The exquisite moth,
Its velvet softness,
Is a slow worm Waiting and suffering Toward huge quiet wings.


THE SNOW LIGHT

In the snow light,
In the swan light,
In the white-on-white light Of a winter storm,
My delight and your delight Kept each other warm.

The next afternoon —
And love gone so soon! —
I met myself alone In a windless calm,
Silenced at the bone After the white storm.

What more was to come?
Out from the cocoon,
In the silent room,
Pouring out white light,
Amaryllis bloom Opened in the night.

The cool petals shone Like some winter moon Or shadow of a swan,
Echoing the light After you were gone Of our white-on-white.


WARNING

Now, in the brilliant sun,
In the winter cold,
Under this blazing sky,
We have had warning.
No one escapes. No one.
The brilliant young grow old.
The heart's frightening cry Is heard at borning.
Accept, remember: all,
Even strong trees, die.
The whole world's burning.

Now in the brilliant day,
In the living blue,
Under this tent of Now,
We grasp hard truth,
Grasp it, not turn away —
You too, beloved, you.
Because today I know,
Don't speak to me of death,
But speak to me. Write often —
Your work, your joy, the snow.
Warm me with your breath.


SURFERS

Now we are balanced On the high tide of the hour Taking the wave with ease As it breaks under us,
The tug and heave under our feet,
Flowing with, poised on The dangerous power —
Experienced surfers who can ride it.

And then the landing,
To heave a heavy board Onto hard wet sand,
The change of elements We learn again at every parting When we lie alone And feel the long reverberation Slowly dying down.

I have fought impermanence and change,
All my life tried to hold time still;
Now I must learn a new thing —
To take parting like a surfer,
Resume myself alone on the sand.
No rider now, a contemplative,
Permitting love its eloquent changes,
Glad to have ridden the big waves,
Glad to be very quiet now.


ALL DAY I WAS WITH TREES

Across wild country on solitary roads Within a fugue of parting, I was consoled By birches' sovereign whiteness in sad woods,
Dark glow of pines, a single elm's distinction —
I was consoled by trees.

In February we see the structure change —
Or the light change, and so the way we see it.
Tensile and delicate, the trees stand now Against the early skies, the frail fresh blue,
In an attentive stillness.

Naked, the trees are singularly present,
Although their secret force is still locked in.
Who could believe that the new sap is rising And soon we shall draw up amazing sweetness From stark maples?

All day I was with trees, a fugue of parting,
All day lived in long cycles, not brief hours.
A tenderness of light before new falls of snow Lay on the barren landscape like a promise.
Love nourished every vein.


A STORM OF ANGELS

Anarchic anger came to beat us down,
Until from all that battering we went numb Like ravaged trees after a hurricane.
But in its wake we saw fierce angels come —
Not gentle and not kind — who threshed the grain With their harsh wings, winnowed from waste.
They brought love to its knees in fearful pain.
Such angels come after the storm is past As messengers of a true power denied.
They beat us down. For love, they thrash us free,
Down to the truth itself, stripped of our pride.
On those harsh wings they bring us agony.
Theirs is an act of grace, and it is given To those in Hell who can imagine Heaven.


THE ANGELS AND THE FURIES

"Ange plein de gaîté connaissez-vous l'angoisse?"

— BAUDELAIRE


1

Have you not wounded yourself And battered those you love By sudden motions of evil,
Black rage in the blood When the soul, premier danseur,
Spins toward a murderous fall?
The furies possess you.


2

Have you not surprised yourself Sometimes by sudden motions Or intimations of goodness,
When the soul, premier danseur,
Perfectly poised,
Could shower blessings With a graceful turn of the head?
The angels are there.


3

The angels, the furies Are never far away While we dance, we dance,
Trying to keep a balance To be perfectly human
(Not perfect, never perfect,
Never an end to growth and peril),
Able to bless and forgive Ourselves.
This is what is asked of us.


4

It is light that matters,
The light of understanding.
Who has ever reached it Who has not met the furies again and again?
Who has reached it without Those sudden acts of grace?


THE COUNTRY OF SILENCE

To the country of silence Welcome home, my love.
This is what we have to hold ...

The leaves stitched by the wings of birds,
The skies inhabited by clouds That lay their shadows on water and on distant hills,
The sudden shafts of light among the trees,
And the soft sifting fall of gold, for it is autumn,
Autumn again as the earth turns.

Welcome home, my soul,
To the country of silence Where the soles of the feet are comforted And the palms of the hands.

Forget the words.
They are torn raw out of another country,
The country where I live now Trying to become myself without you.

They are torn harsh Out of the country where you live,
Clawed at by human needs, boxed in time,
Till the whole being buzzes with this continuum Of words, words as the only language.

Let us trust to silence;
It is healing.
And in that country where love is the genius We make each other whole —
If only for a moment.
But it reverberates, that moment,
Its echoes are forever.

All that I know is that I leave you,
Always leave you in that white pain of loss,
Inhabited by poetry ...
Are hands wings that we feel them brush our eyelids With such poignance?


AFTER AN ISLAND

What the child saw with dazzled eyes And ran to meet In a fury of exploration —
The radiant skies,
Blue over blue, blue over green,
Blue over white sand,
Changing light, clouds,
Shells, birds,
Sand under bare feet,
Sun on chilled skin,
And the plunge into lucid green Beyond the broken wave Dragging its treasure ...

What the child plundered With eyes, mouth, hands,
We bring home now With a handful of shells To sort and think over.
What can we discard From an island week?
What can we keep?
What happened there?

All that we shared Must be free to roam,
Not held too close,
Given to the singular mind To explore alone In that deep place Where the sensuous image Marries the soul.

Now it is the intermittent descent Of roseate wings As, one by one,
The spoonbills float down —
At sunset, rose against rose —
To rest on still water.

Now the sudden vision,
Explosive,
Of the sharp red crest,
The staccato hammer Of the pileated woodpecker.

Now the solitary hawk at dusk,
His great presence Ominous, intense,
Watching.

Now the flittering, darting Of shore birds in and out of the foam,
The sharp practical eyes,
The swift, skittering legs.

This is an Easter Of the intensely visual Translated to the inmost being,
Where we shall learn (perhaps)
To float the mind as if on wings,
Supported by currents of memory Above the thickets of all that stops the flow Between us,
Our disparate lives.

Apart, we meet on these calm memories,
Among essences and absolutes —
Long draughts of sky,
Attentive looks At the detail of bill, webbed foot,
Or small black line Above a warbler's eye.
An Easter strangely bare Of our human sorrow,
Complexity, irritations;
Love this time Wind-threshed, wave-beaten To impersonal joy.

After the fervor,
This new detachment.
Hold them in balance And we come to the wisdom That says "forever,"
To the Easter of human love,
Or, if you will, an island.

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Excerpted from "The Poetry of May Sarton Volume Two"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Open Road Integrated Media, Inc..
Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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