By Sara Teasdale
My soul is a dark ploughed field
In the cold rain;
My soul is a broken field
Ploughed by pain.
Where windy grass and flowers
Were growing,
The field lies broken now
For another sowing.
Great Sower, when you tread
My field again,
Scatter the furrows there
With better grain
=======================
Today is Sara Teasdale's birthday. She was born in 1884. Ms. Teasdale is one of my favorite poets. I began reading her poetry when I was 13 years old and became hooked for life. I credit her for starting my early love affair with poetry.
In 1931, an old suitor of Ms. Teasdale, the poet Vachel Lindsay, killed himself. Sara was devastated. Sadly, in 1933, she committed suicide with an overdose of sleeping pills.
You can get many of her early works free at Amazon.com if you have a Kindle or other wireless device. I love her book, "Rivers to the Sea".
6 comments:
oh, what a beautiful story - hers individually and her love story - this image reminds me of the female subject in the angel at the tomb of margaret julia cameron and also mjc's beatrice - anyway, beautifully poignant story and the image, more beautiful! thanks so much for remembering ms. teasdale - and mr. lindsay -
This is a haunting, yet lovely poem, Marion.
That's one powerful poem. I hope you're doing well way down there in Louisiana. It's coolish here in Oregon today, but I won't mention it for fearing of bumming you out.
Teasdale's poetry is so quietly beautiful, I always thought she was of another century. Thank you for sharing this, Marion.
strange
the poem itself seems nearly a call to suicide
and yet there's beauty in the field
i learn much from your teachings marion
thanks
rick
A word for this, haunting.
Thanks for opening my eyes (yet again).
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