By May Sarton
In could Sarton's 17th and ultimate choice of poetry, the author displays on existence, getting older, and mortalityComing into 80 provides a poet's examine age. Herein, Sarton provides readers a glimpse into her quotidian initiatives, her thoughts, her losses, and her triumphs. the amount explores themes starting from the warfare in Iraq to the fight of taking a cat to the vet. darkish and speedy, this paintings catalogues either the tedium and the elegance of lifestyles with equivalent wit and wonder. Winner of the Levinson Prize.
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Extra info for Coming into Eighty: Poems
Picking up a dash, which becomes a warm beam in your hand, you arrange them on a board, oblivious to the sky, because you conceive of yourself now, moving on the board or behind the board. A square of the board lights up and becomes the single headlight of a car, indicating another person. If the gravity of this moment outweighs your knowledge of where you are, that is pathetic. That is what makes the space above the ocean so attractive, but you still know enough to travel in a straight line through a patch of fog, and continue to walk when you emerge, with some fog clinging to you, up to your waist.
Since water is 800 times denser than air, investigators were long puzzled as to why fogs did not quickly disappear through fallout of water particles to the ground. 38 It turns out that the drops do fall, but in fog creating conditions, they are buoyed up by rising currents, or they are continually replaced by new drops condensing from water vapor in the air. Their realism is enhanced by smoothing away or ignoring discontinuities in the fog, for images of what we really see when we travel. Beautiful, unrepeatable, fleeting impressions can be framed only within the contradicting ambition of her consciousness to acquire impressions and to retain her feeling, a way of repeating a dream.
And any stick or straight line you hold can be your spine, like a map she is following in French of Tan Tien. She wants space to fall to each side of her like traction, not weight dispersed within a mirror. At any time, an echo of what she says will multiply against the walls in balanced, dizzying jumps like a gyroscope in the heat, but she is alone. 22 Later, she would remember herself as a carved figure and its shadow on a blank board, but she is her balancing stick, and the ground to each side of her is its length, disordered once by an armored car, and once by an urn of flowers at a crossing.
Coming into Eighty: Poems by May Sarton