Flowers For Socrates

by NONA BLYTH CLOUD

May Sarton (1912-1995) wrote in her Journal of a Solitude: “There is no doubt that solitude is a challenge and to maintain balance within it a precarious business. But I must not forget that, for me, being with people or even with one beloved person for any length of time without solitude is even worse. I lose my center. I feel dispersed, scattered, in pieces. I must have time alone in which to mull over my encounter, and to extract its juice, its essence, to  understand what has really happened to me as a consequence of it.”

The ever-increasing cacophony of modern civilization, our instantaneous connection to events large and small at home and abroad, often make me feel overwhelmed, unable to hear the “still, small voice” within my mind. At such times, I turn to poetry written by authors like May Sarton, who show the value of taking time away from all the noise.

May Sarton (born Eleanore Marie Sarton), was an only child. Her parents fled with their two-year-old daughter from their Belgian homeland when the Germans invaded in 1914, first to Britain, and then on to America. Her father, who was a chemist, went to work at Harvard, and got a grant from the Carnegie Foundation. He became one of the notable 20th century historians of science. Her mother was English artist Mabel Eleanor Elwes.

At the beginning of the Great Depression, Sarton won a scholarship to Vassar, but disappointed her scholarly father by becoming an apprentice at the Civic Repertory Theatre, founded by the legendary actress Eva Le Gallienne. Later, Sarton founded her own company, the Associated Actors Theatre, but it failed in 1935, so she exited from the stage to concentrate on her writing. For the rest of her life, she earned her living as an author, and from teaching others about writing. She published her first poetry collection, Encounter in April, in 1937.  

May Sarton started in “civilization,” passed through the theatre into writing, traveled in Europe, spent some time in New Mexico, where she found love with college professor Judy Matlack, then went off to live in a New Hampshire village, and finally still farther out into an isolated house at the end of a long dirt road on the Maine coast. She was the consummate Writer, as notable for her wonderful memoirs and journals as for her poetry. She was ‘full of honors’ by the time old age crippled her. Even after a serious stroke, she continued her work by dictation, working on At Eighty-Two the year before she died.

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August Third

These days
Lifting myself up
Like a heavy weight,
Old camel getting to her knees,
I think of my mother
And the inexhaustible flame
That kept her alive
Until she died.

She knew all about fatigue
And how one pushes it aside
For staking up the lilies
Early in the morning,
The way one pushes it aside
For a friend in need,
For a hungry cat.

Mother, be with me.
Today on your birthday
I am older than you were
When you died
Thirty-five years ago.
Thinking of you
The old camel gets to her knees,
Stands up,
Moves forward slowly
Into the new day.

If you taught me one thing
It was never to fail life.

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