 Poetry: April 26, 2017 Issue [#8255] |
  Poetry
This week: Sara Teasdale Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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“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.
On August 8, 1884 John W. Teasdale and Mary E. Willard from Saint Louis, Missouri welcomed their daughter Sarah Teasdale into their family. Sarah’s parents were already middle aged by the time Sarah was born. Her early childhood was spent at home being tutored. Her health did not allow her to attend school like a normal child. At the age of ten she was finally healthy enough to attend school. Even with all her health setbacks Sarah graduated from Hosmer Hall in 1903.
With all of her health issues Sarah ended up living at home until her late twenties. She was able to travel some with family despite her health and she went to Europe in 1905. During this time Sarah worked on her poetry and perfecting her skills. Sarah published her first collection of poems in 1907. Upon its publication, Sarah dropped the ‘h’ in her name.
In 1911 she published “Helen of Troy.” Sara spent a lot time battling not only her health problems but her constant feelings of being lonely. Her health kept her from so many things, that even though she was living what some would see a full life, she felt isolated and alone. By 1913 Sara began to contemplate suicide to end her loneliness.
As Sara’s self esteem plummeted from failed relationships, her thoughts of suicide grew. The tone of her poetry began to reflect her unhappiness. It wasn't until the age of thirty, that Sara would find some happiness and marry Ernst B Filsinger on December 19, 1914. Sara produced three collections of poetry in all. Even winning a Pulitzer prize in 1917 for “Love Songs.” Despite her growing professional success, Sara still seemed very empty inside. Ernst spent a lot of time travelling for business and this left Sara alone most of the time. After twelve years Sara divorced Ernst. Her depression grew and her health began to decline.
At 48, Sara Teasdale took an overdose of sleeping pills to end her own life. She was never able to find the fulfillment in her person life as she found in her professional one. Sara died on January 29, 1933 in New York City.
Alone
By Sara Teasdale
I am alone, in spite of love,
In spite of all I take and give—
In spite of all your tenderness,
Sometimes I am not glad to live.
I am alone, as though I stood
On the highest peak of the tired gray world,
About me only swirling snow,
Above me, endless space unfurled;
With earth hidden and heaven hidden,
And only my own spirit's pride
To keep me from the peace of those
Who are not lonely, having died.
"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.
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.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winner of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] is:
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Night Glyphs
Kathleen McNamara
Late night, another city
A flash of blue-white lightning
Skyscrapers now in silhouette
Black concrete creatures,
Brooding, sightless,
Sentries of the empty streets
Silence all around me
Only scattered traces of humans
Echoes the only answer to my calls
I am alone
It will soon be daybreak
I must find a place to hide
To shelter from the deadly rays
Of the swelling dwarf star,
The dying sun
I am a creature of the night now
But know not how much longer
The Nova will come soon
No more darkness to protect me
I was right to heed the warnings
To take shelter in the caverns
I take little solace in that knowledge
I am lonely
Still I search
Wandering the nights
Hoping to find another
Still I write
Leaving evidence of my existence
Hoping these messages will be found
I understand the Ancient Ones now
With chisels and stone
They left their history
My story I will tell
With pen, ink, paper
The glyphs of the Last
Honorable mention:
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Good luck to all 
