Letters from Maine

Poems

May Sarton

• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Year: 2014
• ISBN:
  9781497689527
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Women in Poetry
• Index: Literature

The poetic tale of a fleeting love affair In her sixty years in literature, May Sarton has taken her readers through all of her emotions and pushed us to explore new places within ourselves. But her feelings are never more raw or exposed than in Letters from Maine. The rugged coast provides a stark background for Sarton's images of a tragically brief and newfound love. She describes the willingness to give anything and devote everything to a new love, as well as the despair at the memory of what is left over. As Sarton grew older, time became an increasingly prominent factor in her life, but as Letters from Maine shows, it is never too late to love.

Part I

Letters from Maine

A Farewell

For a while I shall still be leaving,

Looking back at you as you slip away

Into the magic islands of the mind.

But for a while now all alive, believing

That in a single poignant hour

We did say all that we could ever say

In a great flowing out of radiant power.

It was like seeing and then going blind.

After a while we shall be cut in two

Between real islands where you live

And a far shore where I’ll no longer keep

The haunting image of your eyes, and you,

As pupils widen, widen to deep black

And I am able neither to love or grieve

Between fulfillment and heartbreak.

The time will come when I can go to sleep.

But for a while still, centered at last,

Contemplate a brief amazing union,

Then watch you leave and then let you go.

I must not go back to the murderous past

Nor force a passage through to some safe landing,

But float upon this moment of communion

Entranced, astonished by pure understanding—

Passionate love dissolved like summer snow.

Letters from Maine

1

Yes, I am home again, and alone.

Today wrote letters then took my dog

Out through the sad November woods.

The leaves have fallen while I was away,

The ground is golden while above

The maples are stripped of all color.

The ornamental cherries, red when I left,

Have paled now to translucent yellow.

Yes, I am home again, but home has changed.

And I within this cultivated space

That I have made my own, feel at a loss,

Disoriented. All the safe doors

Have come unlocked and too much light

Has flooded every room. Where can I go?

Not toward you three thousand miles away

Lost in your own rich life, given me

For an hour.

Read between the lines.

Then meet me in the silence if you can,

The long silence of winter when I shall

Make poems out of nothing, out of loss,

And at times hear your healing laughter.

2

November opens the sky. I look out

On an immense perimeter of ocean, blue

On every side, through the great oak

That screens it off all summer, see surf

Edging the rocks white on the other side.

The November muse who is with me now

Gives me wisdom and laughter, also clarity.

Aware of old age for the first time, accept

That I am old, and this sudden passion must be

A single sharp cry, torn out of me, as when

A few days ago on the ferry to Vancouver

I saw an eagle fly down in a great arc,

His fierce head flashing white among the gulls.

The ardor of seventy years seizes the moment

And must be held free, outside time,

Must learn to bear with the cleared space,

The futureless flame, and use it well,

Must rejoice in the still, quiet air

And this ineluctable solitude.

3

No letter from the muse. Time out.

Nevertheless I am floated on her presence,

Her strong reality, swung out above

Everything else that happens. In the mail

News of two brutal murders, and a wedding,

News of a poet friend in deep depression,

News from strangers reading my poems

And comforted, they say. I am suspended,

Wake before dawn to watch the sun come

Up from leaden waters every morning.

Turning the whole sky orange as it rises.

Slowly I learn the self who is emerging

As though newborn after a sterile summer.

Alone? Perhaps. But filled to the brim

With all that comes and goes, rejoicing.

Now there is someone to hold the kite

As it is tossed by the wind, keep it floating.

I manage better than I have for months to be

Open and balanced. The muse is there

To let the kite fly as high as it can,

Then slowly draw it in when there is peril.

So many times this summer it was broken,

Caught up in a tree or unable to fly.

The kite, marvelous muse, is in your hands.

4

There was your voice, astonishment,

Falling into the silence suddenly

As though there were no continent

Between its warmth and me at my desk,

Bringing joy to the roots, a giant gift

Across time. Five in the morning there.

Three thousand miles to cover instantly.

How is it done? How for that matter

Did it all happen when we met?

Time telescoped, years cast away,

And primal being finding this present

Where we were lifted beyond age,

Outside responsibilities, newfound,

In a way stranded, in a way home at last?

And in your tender laughter at me

Some total acceptance of all that I am,

Of all that is to be or not ever to be

As time goes on and we are lost

Or found in it over and over again.

5

From a distance the ocean looks calm,

Gray and unbroken stretching out to Spain,

But it is seamed with hidden tumult.

The long swells come in slowly from below

And build to immense fluid walls

Driven in by some deep pulse far away,

Ominous while they stand suspended

Then at the rock edge tumble, broken,

And send up shattered towers of white foam.

Muse, do you feel the tumult over there?

Or is it only steadfastness of mountains

Today that holds you still and silent?

While I, like one of the black ducks

Bobbing out there, must keep my balance,

Stay clear of the rocks as they do

Who know how to ride this tumult safely

And play its perils like a game.

6

“When a woman feels alone, when the room

Is full of daemons,” the Nootka tribe

Tells us, “The Old Woman will be there.”

She has come to me over three thousand miles

And what does she have to tell me, troubled

“by phantoms in the night?” Is she really here?

What is the saving word from so deep in the past,

From ...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• Contents
• Publisher’s Note
• Contemplation of Poussin
• Part I Letters from Maine
• Part II A Winter Garland
• Part III Letters to Myself
• Index of Titles and First Lines
• A Biography of May Sarton
• Copyright Page