With bared feet and sadness in my soul I walk in the shallows the waves rippling to my bare feet I follow the ribs of the sand to their end in the swell of the next wave and by their disappearance I recognise the promise of their continuation for the world is in flux a life beginning as another ends memory fading at first soon settles into expectation an affirmation as the embers of all that cease to be are carried forward in the seeds of a future hope
A gentle love poem by the American lyric poet, Sara Teasdale (1884-1933). After her marriage in 1914, she used the name Sara Teasdale Filsinger. As the sea-grass lives in and is sustained by the sea, so the poet wishes her life to be consumed and given wholly to her love. The images created belie her own love story when it would appear that she married largely to meet with the wishes of her parents. The marriage ended in divorce in 1929 and just four years later Sarah was found dead in her bath. Although denied at the time, it is believed that the death was suicide.
I weep my truths in poetry And from my unconscious mind In the borderlands there Where the finite And the incomprehensible meet My secrets are torn Crying to be freed To be revealed In poured out singing words Shed in images Subtle revelatory pictures My art telling of those wondrous places Secreted within my core Which for good or ill I never will Access in any other way Than through my weeping soul
A brief meditation on Macbeth’s predicament, following a reading of a book review on ‘Why We Sleep’ by Matthew Walker (Pub. Allen Lane) – December 2017 …
‘Sleep that knits up the raveled sleave of care, The death of each day’s life, sore labor’s bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course, Chief nourisher in life’s feast.’ Macbeth: Act 2, Scene 2,
‘Methought I heard a voice cry “Sleep no more… Macbeth does murder sleep! – – The innocent sleep.” ‘ Macbeth: Act 2, scene 2.
Sleep, being dead What life is left to live But one unfitted to the name Rest denied is constant woe No respite from dread No safe house from fear Unnourished now What hope can ever be Even contrition Affording no escape Confession no solace Macbeth’s endowment To the innocent But afflicted soul