May Sarton: A Self-Portrait
May Sarton: A Self-Portrait
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This book presents the distinguished poet talking about herself and her work and reading from her poems, with a section of poems accompanied by the poet's commentary on each.
A transcript from the successful film,World of Light: A Portrait of May Sarton, this book contains an additional section of Sarton's poems and her commentary on each. It celebrates love, solitude, creation, joy, and even pain. Photos and drawings.
when my first book of poems came out, but I was always writing poetry even in the theatre years … If you are a poet at all, this is a gift like the musical gift or the mathematical gift. You have it very young. Especially if you are lucky enough as I was to have a great teacher when you’re young. But as far as being a novelist, that, I think, at least for me, it was a matter of choice. So I think that you are to some extent chosen as a poet and it’s a tremendous responsibility. You have to be
difference does it make if somebody unearths that I had so many love affairs or that I said this or that to somebody; it doesn’t matter because there it is, the living work.” I’m willing to give myself away and take the consequences, whatever they are. And after Mrs. Stevens came out, they were considerable. I lost one big job as a result. It was fifteen years ago and people did not come out, you see. I think I have a kind of balance and discretion in the journals and in my work in general that
taken for granted that one has these passions and that it was part of growth to have them. I think that partly the fear of death is because people aren’t ready. They haven’t had their lives. They suddenly think, but it’s limited. What have I done? I’ve missed everything. I never went to Japan, I never fell in love with anybody, or with anybody outside my marriage, or whatever it may be. I think if you live your life fully, it is exactly like a tree or anything else—you flower, you come into
because of the finding of one’s own secret and terrible self through encounter is “The Muse as Medusa.” In this case the Muse was a woman whom I hardly every saw, so it was not a love affair: The Muse as Medusa I saw you once, Medusa; we were alone. I looked you straight in the cold eye, cold. I was not punished, was not turned to stone— How to believe the legends I am told? I came as naked as any little fish. Prepared to be hooked, gutted, caught; But I saw you, Medusa, made my wish,
answer, “Wait, When all is so in peril, and so delicate!” Talking about sound, the particular sound of poetry, I’d like to read a poem which might be called a pure lyric. These are poems which come rarely, I think, to any poet, and which are always very precious. They somehow seem like gifts. So here it is. This is a picnic in Italy, under olive trees, that wonderful silvery light, silvery leaves. It is called “The Olive Grove:” The Olive Grove Here in the olive grove, Under the cobalt dome,