  Poetry
This week: Sara Teasdale Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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| This is poetry from the minds and the hearts of poets on Writing.Com. The poems I am going to be exposing throughout this newsletter are ones that I have found to be, very visual, mood setting and uniquely done. Stormy Lady |
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My Heart Is Heavy
by Sara Teasdale
My heart is heavy with many a song
Like ripe fruit bearing down the tree,
But I can never give you one --
My songs do not belong to me.
Yet in the evening, in the dusk
When moths go to and fro,
In the gray hour if the fruit has fallen,
Take it, no one will know.
Water Lilies
By Sara Teasdale
If you have forgotten water lilies floating
On a dark lake among mountains in the afternoon shade,
If you have forgotten their wet, sleepy fragrance,
Then you can return and not be afraid.
But if you remember, then turn away forever
To the plains and the prairies where pools are far apart,
There you will not come at dusk on closing water lilies,
And the shadow of mountains will not fall on your heart.
Sarah Teasdale was born to John W. Teasdale and Mary E. Willard in Saint Louis, Missouri on August 8, 1884. John and Mary were already middle aged by the time Sarah was born. Sarah had many health issues from birth, she was always sick. Her health helped contribute to her being tutored at home until she was nine. She eventually graduated from Mary Institute, which was an all girl's school in 1903.
She lived at home until her late twenties with travels to Europe in 1905. Sara perfected her skillson her travels and in turn her poetry grew. Her first poem Reedy's Mirror, was published in a local newspaper, in 1907, followed by the publication of her first volume of potery, Sonnets to Duse and Other Poems. Sarah dropped the 'h' in her name before her next publication "Helen of Troy" which was published in 1911. Teasdale's third volume of poetry was, Rivers to the Sea, and was published in 1915. It became a best seller, and has been in reprinted several times, over the years.
It was in 1913 that Sara started contemplating suicide, her love life had not turned out the way she was hoping and someone she had loved dearly, walked out of her life. Sara's self-esteem plummeted with this rejection and it was reflected in her poetry. In 1917, her fourth volume for poetry was published, ii}ove Songs. It won three different awards: including the 1918 Pulitzer Prize for poetry.
On December 19, 1914, Sara married Ernst B. Filsinger. Filsinger was a business man and spent almost all of his time traveling. This left Sara alone and her depression grew. After fifteen years of marriage the couple divorced. Following the divorce, she published some more poetry here and there but nothing that had the success of her previous work. Sara Teasdale committed suicide on January 29, 1933 in New York.
"There Will Come Soft Rains"
by Sara Teasdale
There will come soft rains and the
smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their
shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at
night,
And wild plum-trees in tremulous
white;
Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low
fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war,
not one
Will care at last when it done.
Not one would mind, neither bird
nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke
at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
"It Is Not a Word"
by Sara Teasdale
It is not a word spoken,
Few words are said;
Nor even a look of the eyes
Nor a bend of the head,
But only a hush of the heart
That has too much to keep,
Only memories waking
That sleep so light a sleep.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winner of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] is:
| |  | Invalid Item
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#1862772 by Not Available. |
Peddle to the metal,
fast is the only speed I know.
Rushing thru the valleys,
because I don't want to feel the lows.
I dare say that I don't allow
the grass to grow beneath my feet,
and of the same token,
I rarely hear the birds sing.
The concrete jungle is no place to smell roses,
lay in a field of wildflowers, or be
oblivious to time as it passes.
Here you watch the squirrels play
when they dare to cross the street.
Their playmates are the cars they dodge
and more than half the time they admit defeat.
When spring arrives and the sun is so bright
I want to take my foot off the peddle,
take in the pretty columbine and elegant lilies,
and smell the country air; fresh and peaceful.
I want to take a dip in a real stream
instead of the one the sprinkler leaves
when my neighbor waters the grass and the concrete.
Rush, rush, rush...
go, go, go...
that is all my life consists of anymore.
I need to take the time and enjoy nature
because time will surely pass me by,
and I could miss it all
with a quick blink of an eye.
Honorable mention:
| | | Invalid Item
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#1860869 by Not Available. |
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Poetry: May 09, 2012 Issue [#5034]
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