A sky of stars flung down as daisies

 Late Mowing

Neighbors have come to mow my ragged field,

And three old horses bring the autumn home.

Now the blond waving grasses must come down,

And all the tasseled splendor has to yield.

Goodby to summer's feasts and variations:

Two months ago there burst into great praises.

White as enamel, in rich constellations,

A sky of stars flung down to earth as daisies.

When they went out, the fireflies were showing;

The green field pulsed with intermittent fire,

And the cats crept a jungle of desire

After these softest stars within the mowing.

Goodbye to ringing of the sumptuous changes --

To black-eyed Susans, paintbrushes and plantain,

Clear buttercups and cloudy asters, mullein.

Goodbye and praise to the high-summer ranges.

Now all those stars are altered in their course,

And the rich field cut back to rock and root;

My neighbors with three autumnal horses

Cut down the ghosts of summer with the fruit.

 

Winter, be gentle to the earth you keep,

To buried root and all that creeps and flies,

While overhead your dazzling daisy skies

Flower in the cold, bright mowing that will keep.

May Sarton,  As Does New Hampshire

Say it slow

Stand still, stand still; stop the sun!

Now I Become Myself

Now I become myself.
It's taken Time, many years and places;
I have been dissolved and shaken,
Worn other people's faces,
Run madly, as if Time were there,
Terribly old, crying a warning,
"Hurry, you will be dead before--

"(What? Before you reach the morning?

Or the end of the poem is clear?

Or love safe in the walled city?)
Now to stand still, to be here, Feel my own weight and density!

The black shadow on the paper
Is my hand; the shadow of a word
As thought shapes the shaper
Falls heavy on the page, is heard.

All fuses now, falls into place
From wish to action, word to silence,
My work, my love, my time, my face
Gathered into one intense
Gesture of growing like a plant.

As slowly as the ripening fruit
Fertile, detached, and always spent,
Falls but does not exhaust the root,
So all the poem is, can give,
Grows in me to become the song,
Made so and rooted by love.

Now there is time and Time is young.
O, in this single hour I live
All of myself and do not move.
I, the pursued, who madly ran,
Stand still, stand still, and stop the sun!

May Sarton

I am re-playing this post

from several years ago.

It's a favorite among favorites;

it fits this time in my life.

And, I hope, your's as well.

A Tribute

May Sarton, 1936
Painted by Polly Thayer Starr

May Sarton was born in Belgium on May 3, 1912. She spent most of her life in the United States and lived for many years in Boston, Massachusetts; Nelson, New Hampshire; and York, Maine where she died in 1995.

She was a young actress and theatrical director for a short while after landing a job in Eva Le Gallianne's Civic Repertory Theator. Of course, she is best known as a prolific writer of prose and poetry.

Often readers come to know May first through the journals and then move on to her fiction. In the journals, May explores important themes: living alone, the artist's need for solitude juxtaposed against the need for companionship and society. In Plant Dreaming Deep, Journal of A Solitude, and House by The Sea she writes openly and intimately of her personal life, her life in letters and her personal demons.

A GLASS OF WATER
Here is a glass of water from my well.

It tastes of rock and root and earth and rain;

It is the best I have, my only spell,

And it is cold, and better than champagne.

Perhaps someone will pass this house one day

To drink, and be restored, and go his way,
Someone in dark confusion as I was

When I drank down cold water in a glass,

Drank a transparent health to keep me sane,

After the bitter mood had gone again.
-May Sarton

My first taste from May's deep well was nearly 40 years ago when as the mother of two young children, both under 4 years of age we lived in a tiny village in the northeastern corner of Massachusettes where Vermont, New Hampshire and Massachusetts meet. The town, Warwick had a small population of about 300 souls and we lived on the village green in a house that was always referred to as "The Anderson House". No matter how long we'd lived there, it would always have been "the Anderson House".

The village green was surrounded by a general store, the town hall, a Congregational Church that was only open for services in the summer, an elementary school, a rather down-at-heel country inn, and of course, the library which became very important to me as a young stay-at-home mom.

There were few external diversions in those days of early motherhood: we chose not to own a television; Dick took the only vehicle to work every day; the library was only open one and a half days a week. I literally could not keep enough books in supply to last out the time between open days.

One day, while at the library unable to find books that interested me, I asked Grace Morse, the librarian to recommend a title and author. Grace, in her infinite wisdom, said "have you read May Sarton". I hadn't and she went on to explain that if one did not choose to read about sex and violence or profanity, then May Sarton would be just right.

And May was, in fact, just right and has been all the years hence. I believe I've read everything May ever wrote and most of what has been written about her. I love her short novels: Joanna and the Donkey; The Poet and the Donkey; Mrs. Pickthorn and Mr. Hare; and, the Fur Person and have read and re-read them. Of her longer works, my special favorites are: Kinds of Love, Faithful Are The Wounds, Birth Of A Grandfather, Walk In The Spring Rain and Anger. And yes, I do return to them nearly every year, usually during the long New England winter. (My sister, Michelle, always wonders how I can re-read any book saying: "so many books, so little time".

Through the journals, I came to know May, her quirks and foibles, her drama and passions, her tempers and remorse. I began to see where and how her fictional work was autobiographical. Once, Larry and I rode up to Nelson long after she had moved to Maine; I wanted to see her home, which like my former Warwick home, was on the village green diagonally across from the town hall: it was just as sweet as I'd imagined. The big rock at the front door. The garden. It was easy to see her, in my mind's eye, planting flowers and bulbs or moving about within house. Many times I tried finding her home in York driving in and out of little streets and private lanes but without finding 'Windy Knoll'.

I came to know her daily delights, too: her need for fresh flowers daily throughout the seasons and her favorite York florist. Her love of champagne and strawberries, scotch and lobster. And favorite restaurants. I know she loved the Whistling Oyster in Perkins Cove and once while a tourist in Perkins Cove, I said to the hostess, "I understand that May Sarton is a frequest guest here". . . .

"Oh, yes," she said. "Would like to see where she always sits?" I did. I was her fan club of 1; her # 1 groupie!

I mourned her death in 1995 but knew it brought her peace .

And now, a tribute is being planned and I am on the committee. I feel I've come full circle: here I am. Retired. 65. Living in York. And having the opportunity to work on a 100th birthday tribute with former friends of May's and scholars who have published about May. We are starting with a small group of 7 but I have no doubt that our number will grow. As I am certain we will create a stellar tribute to the woman that I have loved for 40 years.

Some Play; Pure Foolishness

Each day, and the living of it,
has to be a conscious creation
in which discipline and order
are relieved with some play
and pure foolishness.

May Sarton

It's a daily challenge

Have you ever felt like a cultural stereotype?

I do now.

It's this lay-off thing. Being part of the 10% of unemployed Americans who are out of work because their positions were eliminated or their company down-sized them out of a job.

Workers are dropping like flies around me:

• the 24 others from my school who were let go during this deep deep cut
• a librarian friend with one year left before retirement and who discovered 3 weeks ago that her position was eliminated along with 53 other municipal positions.
• my brother-in-law's position eliminated along with his entire department after being told a lay-off was coming but 'not too worry' your job is secure. Yeah right.
  
• Amy, my daughter, emailed two days ago with the news that she and every other teacher in her school district with less than 3 years service were being let go.
• a neighbor - no, not yet unemployed -- he's a self-employed contractor but with lots and lots of time on his hands these days.
  

A la Woody Allen, I feel like I've been reduced to a cultural stereotype.

And like Woody,
I hate being reduced to a cultural stereotype!

It's been just about a month since my former school eliminated 25 positions, mine among them. To say I was surprised that it happened would be insincere. I'd known there was a large deficit and that more students were leaving than entering but until that fateful day it wasn't real. If you know what I mean: it was still a shock. And really it is still reverberating ...... I am still working through the process of not working and what it means on an emotional level.

In the initial days, I chose to refer to this as my "Gift of Time": time to quilt and sew; knit and embellish; alter books and make fabric journals; and garden. All activities that I always fit into and around my work life.

But here I am one month out of work and finding it hard to create a structure for my day. You know, for so many years, I rose to greet the day and immediately went off to work. Now I can make my own schedule and perform for myself; but I am finding it difficult.

I have been thinking a lot about certain authors who have a routine for their work and who set a goal of writing so many words or pages each day and I wonder if that sort of structure appeals to me.

May Sarton who has been my favorite writer for many years created a rhythm to her days: she rose early and made a breakfast of eggs and toast and tea which she brought to her bed to eat. She fed her cat and filled her birdfeeders.
And then she wrote.

Morning was desk time to work on her journal, her current novel or poems. She always made time for correspondence; she was an avid letter-writer. After lunch she worked in her garden in season. She always napped. She always transitioned between day and the evening meal with a scotch.

Well, I have no pets; I don't want to eat eggs in bed; and, I hate scotch. But I do like the feel of her day.

It is a struggle. How does one create a rhythm, a structure for the day when all of one's adult life was about rising and getting to work. And performing on demand. The post-industrial clock. The scheduled lunch.

Perhaps this, the unstructured day, is the most difficult for the newly unemployed or retired. How does one go about this task? Does it evolve? Or does one 'force' the structure, create the patterns.

Right at the moment, it feels a mystery to me.

Note:
This is original work
created and uploaded
by PatStudio.
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Do not use without
permission.