The Chase

It is a blind chase–

the riddle of a woman’s grace.

I would name myself a statue

but this stunted face could not construe

the subdued motion of my growth

through softest bond and yearning oaths.

Poetic Spotlight: I Am Not Yours

Public Domain image of Sara Teasdale. Image itself care of Wikimedia Commons.

This week, the spotlight falls on one Sara Teasdale, a lyrical poet of the early 20th century.

Sara Teasdale is a fine example of a tribulation many poets, writers, and other creative sorts have faced throughout history: depression. Many that pursue the arts seem to fall into it, as they fall into all emotions–heavily, for it seems often enough, this is the trade-off they must face for being able to tap those emotions and draw their power into their words, their art.

As such, Teasdale was a lonely woman. She found herself gripped by that, and by the darkness of her depression–it ate at her, and shone through in her works as often as the topic of love and the heart. There was such an undercurrent of longing…it should come as no surprise things ended for her the way they did.

Though a master of language, her words apparently were not enough to reach the world, and Teasdale committed suicide in 1933 by overdose on sleeping pills, just two years after the suicide of another famous poet–and friend of hers–that shall form next week’s spotlight. She is immortalized today in St. Louis’s Walk of Fame.

But today’s poem of hers showcases the heart, the love, and yes, that longing…the quality in her works that makes her so very human.

I Am Not Yours

 

I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

 

You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.

 

Oh plunge me deep in love — put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.

 

~Sara Teasdale

Dreams of Living

Heavy is the eventide disarray,

the walk that stretch into horizon’s wake—

flesh be weak, say men in dead dismay

the unknowing writhe of souls in company

stroking through the down-me-lay.

 

 

Shards line the tone,

men and women still for lack of heart

a dream of poets out from the world sewn—

not once content, too often bared:

Man was not meant to walk alone.

A few words on love

Victor Hugo, image care of Wikimedia Commons.

“The supreme happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved – loved for ourselves, or rather, loved in spite of ourselves.” 
~Victor Hugo

“Love doesn’t sit there like a stone, it has to be made, like bread; remade all of the time, made new.” 
~Ursula K. Le Guin

Across Space

Bridge beckons bright tides

Through eyes, the starlit twinkle—

Hearts, freely given.

* Technically not a Haiku, given the topic and the lack of seasonal groundings, and without the cynical or oft-humorous stylings of a Senryu, but done in the same style. A short work, but I hope it satisfies all the same!

Spring Haiku

I fade in secret

Heart with the rain and the leaves—

Wilting spring flowers.

Crutch

No dream may suffice

in lieu of waking glances.

Still life holds love destitute,

such that dreams become vision,

the lie on which heart relies.

* Oh I do so loathe my stomach, at times, for all its troubles.

Forgive this poet’s absence this evening. The above is my submission for One Stop Poetry, and it may not be my best work, but it was produced under a day of food poisoning…which consequently is the same reason you may detect a noticeable disappearing act from me tonight. I’ll likely read as I can, but I’ve been keeping quite to bed today, and given how my stomach’s still acting, I don’t foresee that changing shortly.

Midnight Moments

Supple crest,

Your song at midnight moon

dancing in the starlight

to Owl eyes

watching

predatory notions of existence

concealed in civility

the hands know not

the texture of your moment

for the breaths

they force between us.

Master or Mastered?

Master or mastered

youth drinks the twilight’s streaming—

spreads arms as wings in

fluttered flights

dreaming.

Of Longing

1869 Carbon print of Lord Tennyson, by Julia Margaret Cameron.

For this week’s quote, a sensual tidbit from the master poet of old, Alfred, Lord Tennyson…

“Half the night I waste in sighs,

Half in dreams I sorrow after

The delight of early skies;

In a wakeful dose I sorrow

For the hand, the lips, the eyes,

For the meeting of the morrow,

The delight of happy laughter,

The delight of low replies.”

~Alfred Lord Tennyson