Inner Thoughts: A Book of Poetry
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Ballantyne believed that in this book, Sarton used gender stereotypes in portraying the marriage of an emotional, artistic woman and a cold, distant man. In the Washington Post Book World, however, Linda Barrett Osborne asserted that "the ideas developed in Anger reach beyond the conflict of men and women and consider the deeper questions of personal, emotional, and artistic growth"—these deeper questions being frequent themes of Sarton's.
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In addition to poetry and novels, Sarton wrote many journals, beginning with 's Journal of a Solitude. She had written memoirs previously, but turned to journal writing in a quest for "a more immediate, less controlled record," as Rockwell Gray put it in a Chicago Tribune Books review of Encore: A Journal of the Eightieth Year. Suzanne Owens, describing Journal of a Solitude as "a brooding work," pointed out the difference between memoirs and journals in an essay for May Sarton: Woman and Poet: "the daily and scrupulous recording of life through journal writing may be a much darker work than the memoir softened by memory.
Halpern termed Sarton's journals "reflective, honest, engaged and circumspect. Encore likewise devotes some space to the infirmities of Sarton's old age while also dealing with her interactions with friends and observations of current events. Nowhere does she push her observation beyond herself.
Selected and edited by Susan Sherman, a close friend of Sarton's, the material provides "a complex but seamless portrait," commented Phyllis F. There was more to come from Sarton, however; At Eighty-Two: A Journal was published the year of the writer's death, serving as a "poignantly intimate" look at the writer, according to a Publishers Weekly reviewer. Sarton died of breast cancer on July 16, , after what Mel Gussow, in an obituary for the New York Times, termed a "remarkably prolific career.
Reviewing this volume for Library Journal, David Kirby assured fans of Sarton that Sherman is "a model editor" who "footnotes lavishly. Contributor of poetry, short stories, and essays to periodicals. Prose Home Harriet Blog. Visit Home Events Exhibitions Library. Newsletter Subscribe Give. Poetry Foundation. Back to Previous. May Sarton. Don Cadoret. Poems by May Sarton. Poems by This Poet Bibliography. Appeared in Poetry Magazine. After the Long Enduring. August Third. Boulder Dam.
Creativity Exercises: 3 Ways to Awaken Your Mind to Poetic Thinking | Writer's Digest
Christmas Lights. A Country Incident. Difficult Scene. Encounter in April. First Love. Fruit of Loneliness. A Handful of Thyme. Homage to Flanders.
Humpty Dumpty. The Invocation to Kali. Let No Wind Come.
About Natalie D-Napoleon
Our Thoughts Are Free: Poems and Prose On Imprisonment and Exile
Click the Internet Zone. If you do not have to customize your Internet security settings, click Default Level. Then go to step 5. Click OK to close the Internet Options popup. Chrome On the Control button top right of browser , select Settings from dropdown. Our town, Oxford, like many in the south-east of England, has had huge influxes of migrants in the past 20 years and now our school includes, it seems, the whole world: students from Nepal and Brazil, Somalia and Lithuania, Portugal and the Philippines, Afghanistan and Australia and everywhere in between. Pakistani and white British students make up substantial minorities, but there is no majority group.
But a school full of migrants, refugees and difference also throws up questions about belonging. Complex questions, very often, about identity, nationality, art and money, but offered very personally: questions embodied in children and their stories and, in particular, the poetry they write; children like Shakila. After the hurdles. The poem is very fine: a variation on a theme I gave the group last week, contrasting the morning adhan from the mosque in her native Afghanistan with the morning alarm of her new life in England.
In this country? Like, you met him? It is hot, it is summer — I had a feeling, run away, run away from this guy. We run. I ran, I screamed, I ran, everyone ran. There was an explosion. I was hiding, behind a wall. He was in a bomb. He exploded. You heard it.
A frame. They have learned my mantra. A frame, I say every week. Try this poem-shape, this form, this bit of rhetoric, this frame. Never: tell me about… Certainly not: unload your trauma. And still, they tell me these terrible things. Shakila folds her hands on her bag, waits. I search my mind for the right frame for a poem about recognising a terrorist in the market place and then running away. You know, bombs. Miss, the worst thing is, they cut you. They cut off bits of you, Miss, like your feet, your leg! And when the bomb goes off, Miss, body parts, they land in the town around.
I look at the sunlight coming in the slats of the blinds and I suggest that the interrogative mood might be good for poems like this, and short lines probably, and regular stanzas. A ballad, perhaps, or a set of instructions. How to recognise a terrorist. Shakila says she will send me the poem, by email. And she leaves. I sit and stare, listen to the roar of the children finding their classrooms, the silence as the doors close and the register is taken.
This is an orderly school, I remind myself. A just one. A safe one. Then I think I will go to the staffroom and find someone to tell. There will be someone there, someone to listen and to counter with some equally horrifying tale and we will rehearse all the interventions available, all the help school extends, which is good help, the best anyone can do.
We will remind each other this is why we work here, why our school does so well. Our multicultural intake, our refugee pupils, so motivated, so very often brilliant, so, in the modern parlance, vibrant. Here in my ears is the sound of a bomb, a homemade one, a glass and fertiliser one, in a small town in Afghanistan, and it sounds like the school bell.
And here on the desk, disguised as a sheet of A4 paper, is a head cut off at the neck, its eyes shut, its bloodstains minimal, its skin greenish, like John the Baptist on a plate.
Creativity Exercises: 3 Ways to Awaken Your Mind to Poetic Thinking
Does she feel the lighter of it, I wonder, now it is me who has to carry the head home? Or will it be equally heavy, however often it is passed, just as much a head? Well, we can find out.
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Here you are. Heya, a year-old Syrian girl arrives in school, part of a job lot of government-sponsored refugees from camps in Lebanon, Jordan and Calais. The last stanza is more conventional, a series of invocations to Allah, but these first lines are, as Shakila says, proper poetry.