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Saturday, May 4, 2019

The Power of Words

“The more articulate one is, the more dangerous words become.” – May Sarton

Born on May 3, 1912, Sarton is often called a "poet's poet.”   Lauded for her works addressing themes of gender and sexuality, she had a 70-year career, starting writing as a teen.   She authored 17 books of poetry, 19 novels, 15 nonfiction works, 2 children's books, a play, and several screenplays, writing right up to her death in 1995.  For Saturday’s Poem, here is Sarton’s, 

                                Now I Become Myself

                             Now I become myself. It's taken
                             Time, many years and places;
                             I have been dissolved and shaken,
                             Worn other people's faces,
                             Run madly, as if Time were there,
                             Terribly old, crying a warning,
                             'Hurry, you will be dead before-'
                             (What? Before you reach the morning?
                             Or the end of the poem is clear?
                             Or love safe in the walled city?)

                           Now to stand still, to be here,
                           Feel my own weight and density!
                           The black shadow on the paper
                           Is my hand; the shadow of a word
                           Falls heavy on the page, is heard.
                           All fuses now, falls into place
                           From wish to action, word to silence,
                           My work, my love, my time, my face
                           Gathered into one intense
                           Gesture of growing like a plant.
                           As slowly as the ripening fruit
                           Fertile, detached, and always spent,
                           Falls but does not exhaust the root,
                           So all the poem is, can give,
                           Grows in me to become the song,
                           Made so and rooted by love.
                           Now there is time and Time is young.

                            O, in this single hour I live
                            All of myself and do not move.
                            I, the pursued, who madly ran,
                            Stand still, stand still, and stop the sun!

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