Night in Arizona -- Sara Teasdale

(Poem #1856) Night in Arizona The moon is a charring ember Dying into the dark; Off in the crouching mountains Coyotes bark. The stars are heavy in heaven, Too great for the sky to hold -- What if they fell and shattered The earth with gold? No lights are over the mesa, The wind is hard and wild, I stand at the darkened window And cry like a child. -- Sara Teasdale

      (1915)

One of my favourite things about Teasdale's work is her ability to blend the
external and the internal, to choose, time and again, precisely the right
words to both evoke a vivid sensory image and an intense feeling of empathy
with the poet's emotional reaction.

Today's poem is an excellent example - the deceptively simple and minimalist
description of the Arizona night is at once haunting and evocative; the
images just the right blend of universality and specificity that every word
triggers a flood of associations. The final two lines, far from begin an
abrupt intrusion of the first person "I" into an otherwise detached poem,
feel completely natural - the narrator has in some sense cast her presence
over the poem all along.

Like my favourite Teasdale poem, "Morning" [Poem #113], today's poem is
ultimately about the resonance between the poet's spirit and the sweep of the
world around her. When done right (and few people do it better than
Teasdale), this renders a poem both powerful and intensely memorable - not
just for the specific lines and phrases, but for a very individual 'feel'
which is hard to put into words, but which is indisputably present.

martin

Wisdom -- Sara Teasdale

Guest poem submitted by Lieven Marchand :

(Poem #1677) Wisdom When I have ceased to break my wings Against the faultiness of things, And learned that compromises wait Behind each hardly opened gate, When I have looked Life in the eyes, Grown calm and very coldly wise, Life will have given me the Truth, And taken in exchange -- my youth. -- Sara Teasdale

Here's another one from Sara Teasdale. It's very simple and expresses
beautifully the involuntary bargain most of us make when growing up.

Lieven Marchand.

A Minuet of Mozart's -- Sara Teasdale

(Poem #1634) A Minuet of Mozart's Across the dimly lighted room The violin drew wefts of sound, Airily they wove and wound And glimmered gold against the gloom. I watched the music turn to light, But at the pausing of the bow, The web was broken and the glow Was drowned within the wave of night. -- Sara Teasdale

Today's poem, like many of Teasdale's, is both simple and beautiful in its
simplicity. Teasdale says nothing startling, nothing complex, but with a few
well chosen words paints a softly glowing piece that the reader is enriched
for having experienced. Rather than dissect or gild the poem, therefore, I'd
like to use it as a jumping-off point to discuss some of the more universal
metaphors it uses.

A metaphor is a surprisingly powerful thing - surprising, because many of
them have become so deeply entrenched in human language that it is possible
to use one without ever noticing it on the conscious level. This extends to
literature, where the relationship with metaphors is twofold. First, of
course, is the use of metaphor to add depth and colour, to increase concept
density and and draw on a shared worldview - indeed, metaphor is the very
lifeblood of poetry. But in addition - and, again, this is particularly true
of poetry - it often highlights and scrutinises those metaphors, and forces
the reader to do the same.

Returning to today's poem, the two primary metaphors are music as weaving
and music as light, and the interesting thing is how natural they both seem.
This makes more sense if you note that the metaphors are in some sense
*indirect* - music, light and pattern are three of a small set of 'tangible'
concepts that are consistently used to embody the Platonic Ideal[1], and
hence lend themselves naturally to comparison with each other. (Other
members of the set include mathematics, dance, flight, and, ultimately God -
notice how many poems rest on comparisons within that set. I do not include
Love because it is inevitably the left hand side of such a metaphor, and it
is the right hand side where the implicit metonymy takes place.)

There's also a nice secondary metaphor at the end - both of darkness as a
wave, and of light as a living entity; again, metaphors that have become so
common that we take them in without noticing, but used to very good effect
by Teasdale.

[1] appropriately, they are all shadows cast by the Platonic Ideal of a
Platonic Ideal

martin

[Links]

Some other metaphor-driven explorations of the Platonic and the numinous:

  Poem #276, "High Flight"
  Poem #599, "Geometry"
  Poem #604, "Euclid Alone has Looked on Beauty Bare"
  Poem #606, "God's Grandeur"

What Do I Care? -- Sara Teasdale

Guest poem sent in by atheos

(Poem #1210) What Do I Care? What do I care, in the dreams and the languor of spring, That my songs do not show me at all? For they are a fragrance, and I am a flint and a fire, I am an answer, they are only a call. But what do I care, for love will be over so soon, Let my heart have its say and my mind stand idly by, For my mind is proud and strong enough to be silent, It is my heart that makes my songs, not I. -- Sara Teasdale

I liked the poem of hers that featured in Minstrels, so I looked for more by
her. And I found this defiant, slightly sad poem. She seems to believe in the
evanescence of things... more, she seems to scorn them, and herself for having
truck with them.

What I love is the note of 'Yes, I am weak to feel/do this, but this isn't
really me - it's someone else that I indulge.' There is a sense of something
strong and beautiful that endures the passing foolishness of a weak spirit.

The Tree of Song -- Sara Teasdale

Guest poem sent in by Priscilla Jebaraj , who writes:

i just loved the last poem (Each in his own Tongue, Poem #1197): as you
said, both the imagery and attitude are lovely. i was looking for another
poem i once read on finding God in the world around us, in our daily lives;
but i just couldn't find it, even with a google search. i'm sure i've got a
hard copy somewhere, so maybe i'll send it some other time.

but when i did that google search, i discovered this other gem of a poem, and
just had to send it:

(Poem #1198) The Tree of Song I sang my songs for the rest, For you I am still; The tree of my song is bare On its shining hill. For you came like a lordly wind, And the leaves were whirled Far as forgotten things Past the rim of the world. The tree of my song stands bare Against the blue -- I gave my songs to the rest, Myself to you. -- Sara Teasdale

Something about this poem just struck a chord within me, but i'm not sure i
can explain WHY i like it in a very intelligible manner. there's just
something about it... of its image of a love that sweeps you off your feet,
so much so that the usual expressions of love seem insignificant. and a love
which requires the gift of oneself.

maybe i'm over-reacting to what is after all a simple love poem, (and no,
i'm *not* in love right now!) but i just liked the poem.

priscilla

i found lots more teasdale poems on the net, but precious little
biographical material. here's what i got from the mount holyoke college
archives:

  Sara Teasdale, an American poet, was born in 1884 in Saint Louis, Missouri
  to John W. Teasdale and Mary E. Willard. She was tutored at home and then
  graduated from a local private school in 1903. In 1905 she visited Europe
  and in 1907 she published her first collection of poems. In 1911, the
  publication of "Helen of Troy" introduced her to Louis Untermeyer, who,
  with his wife Jean, was to become a lifelong friend. On December 19, 1914,
  she married Ernst B. Filsinger. They divorced fifteen years later.
  Following the divorce, she published numerous volumes of poetry. Sara
  Teasdale committed suicide on January 29, 1933 in New York.

and here's a link to her poems:

  http://www.poemhunter.com/p/t/poet.asp?poet=3104

priscilla

Water Lilies -- Sara Teasdale

(Poem #1078) Water Lilies 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. -- Sara Teasdale

Today's poem addresses one of my favourite themes - that of the longing, not
for a place, but for a particular *kind* of place. Sea poems are perhaps the
most popular examples of the genre, but practically every form of terrain
from the teeming metropolis to the forest primeval has its 'poetic' aspects,
and most have been immortalised in at least one good poem.

'Water Lilies' is definitely one of the good poems. Teasdale's quiet,
understated style fits her subject beautifully - the "dark lake among
mountains in the afternoon shade" is a perfectly self-contained image that
draws the reader into an almost enchanted scene, and makes the last line not
just plausible but believable.

Links:

There's a biography of Teasdale at Poem #113

A random sampling of poems along the same lines:
  Poem #3, Gerard Manley Hopkins, "Inversnaid"
  Poem #29, Rudyard Kipling, "The Sea and the Hills"
  Poem #317, Edna St. Vincent Millay, "Inland"
  Poem #510, Lord Byron, "There is a pleasure in the pathless woods"

And on a somewhat related note:
  Poem #238, W. J. Turner, "Romance"

-martin

The Look -- Sara Teasdale

(Poem #937) The Look Strephon kissed me in the spring, Robin in the fall, But Colin only looked at me And never kissed at all. Strephon's kiss was lost in jest, Robin's lost in play, But the kiss in Colin's eyes Haunts me night and day. -- Sara Teasdale

A delicately beautiful little poem - I love both the central image, and the
light, sure touch with which Teasdale develops it. And, as usual with
Teasdale's poetry, the combination of quietness and power, both masked by an
apparent simplicity, is nothing short of impressive.

There is, however (and unusually enough that I wonder if I'm misscanning the
poem), a slight roughness to the seventh line - I keep wanting to insert an
'oh,' after the 'but' to restore the regular iambic pattern. Comments?

Links:

 Biography: See Poem #113

 Teasdale poems on Minstrels:
   Poem #464, "Central Park at Dusk"
   Poem #113, "Morning"
   Poem #223, "There Will Come Soft Rains"
   Poem #430, "Wild Asters"

-martin

Central Park at Dusk -- Sara Teasdale

(Poem #464) Central Park at Dusk Buildings above the leafless trees Loom high as castles in a dream, While one by one the lamps come out To thread the twilight with a gleam. There is no sign of leaf or bud, A hush is over everything-- Silent as women wait for love, The world is waiting for the spring. -- Sara Teasdale

A quietly beautiful little poem, and one that is deceptive in its simplicity
- the uncomplicated and unstartling progression of images and explicit
comparisons mask its economy and precision (I almost hesitate to use so
clinical a word), the subtle, seamless blending of each image into a
continuous whole.

The imagery from the start is reassuringly familiar, imbued with the soft,
dreamlike atmosphere of dusk. Teasdale makes explicit use of common,
evovcative symbols - 'castles in a dream', the lamps lighting one by one,
the twilight itself - to draw the reader into a sense of calm, so that by
the time she says 'a hush is over everything', we share in that hush, making
the conclusion - the one startlingly original note in the poem - doubly
effective.

Links:

This week's theme: poem #462

Teasdale biography: poem #113

-martin

p.s. 'thread the twilight with a gleam' - beautiful phrase, that.

Wild Asters -- Sara Teasdale

(Poem #430) Wild Asters In the spring I asked the daisies If his words were true, And the clever, clear-eyed daisies Always knew. Now the fields are brown and barren, Bitter autumn blows, And of all the stupid asters Not one knows. -- Sara Teasdale

A delightful poem - it's amazing how well the tone comes across. The
sentiment and phrasing are mildly reminiscent of Dorothy Parker (though not
as hard-edged). There isn't a whole lot to be said about it, but note how
well Teasdale blends a strictly controlled metre with varying line lengths -
her poetry is always a pleasure to read, whether for the imagery, the sound
or the sheer elegance of the writing.

Links:

For a collection of Teasdale's poems, see
[broken link] http://www.emule.com/poetry/works.cgi?author=33

For a biography, see poem #113

-martin

There Will Come Soft Rains -- Sara Teasdale

(Poem #223) There Will Come Soft Rains 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 is 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. -- Sara Teasdale

This is probably Teasdale's best-known poem, though, I feel, more for the
message than because it stands out as a poem. The notion that Man is rushing
headlong towards his own destruction is one that has embedded itself in the
racial consciousness ever since Hiroshima, and one that neither the cold war
nor an ever increasing sense of future shock have done anything to dispel.

Of course, one of the first writers to spring to mind is Bradbury, who has
written a number of stories on the theme, one of them[1] based explicitly on
the poem. However, there is a significant difference to be noted. Bradbury's
stories - and, indeed, those of a score of other sf writers - all convey a
profound sense of tragedy, of loss; which, of course, is hardly surprising.

Teasdale, on the other hand, manages to convey a sense of detachment, even
indifference. Indeed, one feels, the earth will neither know nor care that
mankind has come and gone. And that may be, in the final analysis, the most
disturbing prospect of all.

[1] 'There Will Come Soft Rains'; see
[broken link] http://home.earthlink.net/~hiflyer/APbradbury/twcsr.htm for an analysis of
the story

Biography etc:

See the previous Teasdale poem, Morning, poem #113

-martin

Morning -- Sara Teasdale

(Poem #113) Morning I went out on an April morning All alone, for my heart was high, I was a child of the shining meadow, I was a sister of the sky. There in the windy flood of morning Longing lifted its weight from me, Lost as a sob in the midst of cheering, Swept as a sea-bird out to sea. -- Sara Teasdale

Teasdale is perhaps best known for her love poetry, but what first attracted
me to her were her beautiful, lyrical nature poems like the one above (which
remains my favourite). Her nature poetry is reminiscent of Browning's, with
it's combination of apparent simplicity and unexpectedly powerful images,
and at it's best comaprable to it. Apart from the imagery, I love the
rhythms of this poem, and the way they reinforce its soaring, expansive
feel.

m.

Biography:

(1884-1933), poet

  Born in St. Louis, Missouri, on August 8, 1884, Sara Trevor Teasdale was
  educated privately and made frequent trips to Chicago, where she
  eventually became part of Harriet Monroe's Poetry magazine circle. Her
  first published poem appeared in the St. Louis weekly Reedy's Mirror in
  May 1907, and later that year she published her first volume of verse,
  Sonnets to Duse, and Other Poems. A second volume, Helen of Troy, and
  Other Poems, followed in 1911. She married in 1914 (having rejected
  another suitor, the poet Vachel Lindsay), and in 1915 her third collection
  of poems, Rivers to the Sea, was published. She moved with her husband to
  New York City in 1916. In 1918 she won the Columbia University Poetry
  Society prize (forerunner of the Pulitzer Prize for poetry) and the annual
  prize of the Poetry Society of America for Love Songs (1917). During this
  time she also edited two anthologies, The Answering Voice: One Hundred
  Love Lyrics by Women (1917), and Rainbow Gold for children (1922).

        -- EB

Assesment:

  Teasdale's poems are consistently classical in style. She wrote
  technically excellent, pure, openhearted lyrics usually in such
  conventional verse forms as quatrains or sonnets. Her growth as a poet is
  nonetheless evident in Flame and Shadow (1920), Dark of the Moon (1926),
  and Stars To-night (1930). The poems in these collections evince an
  increasing subtlety and economy of expression. Teasdale's marriage ended
  in divorce in 1929, and she lived thereafter the life of a semi-invalid.
  In frail health after a recent bout of pneumonia, she took an overdose of
  barbiturates and died on the night of January 29, 1933, in New York City.
  Her last and perhaps finest collection of verse, Strange Victory, was
  published later that year. Her Collected Poems appeared in 1937.

        -- EB