May Sarton 1912 - 1995

During the last week I've written a ghost story which could be a prose poem and following a recommendation on R4 I'm reading 'Binocular Vision' a book of inspirational short stories by Edith Pearlman. Also I've re-read May Sarton's poetry collection  'Letters from Maine'. Perhaps May Sarton isn't as celebrated as she should be. Her poems don't shout they speak with insight and quiet intelligence and are well worth seeking out.

 Here's a poem for the start of the New Year.

 For Monet

 Poets, too, are crazed by light,
How to capture its changes,
How to be accurate in seizing
What has been caught by the eye
In an instant's flash -
Light through a petal,
Iridescence of clouds before sunrise.
They, too, are haunted by the need
To hold the fleeting still
In a design -
That vermillion under the haystack,
Struck at sunset,
Melting into the golden air
Yet perfectly defined,
An illuminated transience.

 Today my house is lost in milk,
The milky veils of a blizzard.
The trees have turned pale.
There are no shadows.
That is the problem - no shadows
At all.

 It is harder to see what one sees
Than anyone knows.
Monet knew, spent a lifetime
Trying to undazzle the light
And pin it down.

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