SAMANTHA TERRELL - POET / EIC, SHINE Poetry Series
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BETTY WOLCOTT SANDALL - a National Poetry Month special

4/26/2024

 
Poetry Lovers,
Welcome back to SHINE - Featured Poets Series! Though I typically feature contemporary poets, as a special treat for National Poetry Month, today, it is my honor to posthumously publish the work of mid-20th century poet, Betty Wolcott Sandall. It is with the permission of Wolcott Sandall's family, that I share with you from a small chapbook called, Remembering. Please enjoy her beatiful lyric poems "Appointment for Spring," "Note of Challenge," and "I Could Not Speak a Word" -- the last of which addresses a core American social issue that was as relevant in Wolcott Sandall's day, as it was a century earlier when Emma Lazarus wrote "The New Colossus," or as it is in our own. Thank you, Candy Carlson, for keeping your grandmother's lovely words and legacy alive.

Appointment for Spring

I’ll wait where pale, green willows dream
Through idle hours
Above a trembling April stream.
Come sun or showers

I’ll wait for you where quickened buds awake
To startled wonder;
Till suddenly my breast will shake
With strange, sweet thunder.

Note of Challenge

Better no words were said, today, of Spring –
No whisper spoken. Wisely, the skeptic fears
To mention miracles, remembering
How hearts are rent by wraiths of happier years.

Better to leave assurance to the pale
Unfolding green of swamps; to birds which break
Cold silences. For should these signs all fail,
Such wild immortal beauty might not shake

The wold again. Wiser that we inure
Our hearts to meet the chill, the dark which lies
About; yet when Spring comes, undaunted, sure,
Could any human wish that he were wise?

I Could Not Speak a Word

She beamed and ushered me across the sill.
“A nursery,” I cried and counted twelve,
Twelve dimpled roguish tots.
“This one is mine” –
She pointed to a cherub in a crib.
“And this” – it was a blue-eyed boy of two –
“And Jean,” a lovely child with curly hair;
“But all the rest are refugees.”
She paused
Expectantly. The room was far too still.
Somehow I could not speak a single word.
She was a sturdy ten-year-old and they –

Were paper dolls.

Picture
Betty Wolcott Sandall,
of the American Northeast (who resided for a time in Burlington, Vermont), was an early/mid-20th century poet. Wolcott Sandall wrote under the psuedonym Mike O'Shay, and at least two of her poems were published in The New York Times during World War II. A chapbook of her poems, Remembering (depicted at Left), was compiled by her family.


    SHINE - International Poetry Series

    Picture
    From the international poetry community, we have a "luxury of stars," as Sylvia Plath might say, and it is my honor to provide a home for their words through SHINE Poetry Series.
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    NOW IN PRINT!

    Stars Over the Dordogne
    BY SYLVIA PLATH
    Stars are dropping thick as stones into the twiggy
    Picket of trees whose silhouette is darker
    Than the dark of the sky because it is quite starless.
    The woods are a well. The stars drop silently.
    They seem large, yet they drop, and no gap is visible.
    Nor do they send up fires where they fall
    Or any signal of distress or anxiousness.
    They are eaten immediately by the pines.

    Where I am at home, only the sparsest stars
    Arrive at twilight, and then after some effort.
    And they are wan, dulled by much travelling.
    The smaller and more timid never arrive at all
    But stay, sitting far out, in their own dust.
    They are orphans. I cannot see them. They are lost.
    But tonight they have discovered this river with no trouble,
    They are scrubbed and self-assured as the great planets.

    The Big Dipper is my only familiar.
    I miss Orion and Cassiopeia's Chair. Maybe they are
    Hanging shyly under the studded horizon
    Like a child's too-simple mathematical problem.
    Infinite number seems to be the issue up there.
    Or else they are present, and their disguise so bright
    I am overlooking them by looking too hard.
    Perhaps it is the season that is not right.

    And what if the sky here is no different,
    And it is my eyes that have been sharpening themselves?
    Such a luxury of stars would embarrass me.
    The few I am used to are plain and durable;
    I think they would not wish for this dressy backcloth
    Or much company, or the mildness of the south.
    They are too puritan and solitary for that--
    When one of them falls it leaves a space,

    A sense of absence in its old shining place.
    And where I lie now, back to my own dark star,
    I see those constellations in my head,
    Unwarmed by the sweet air of this peach orchard.
    There is too much ease here; these stars treat me too well.
    On this hill, with its view of lit castles, each swung bell
    Is accounting for its cow. I shut my eyes
    And drink the small night chill like news of home.

    ~~~

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  • ABOUT
  • PUBLICATIONS
  • SHINE Poetry Series
    • SUBMISSIONS
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    • CONNECT
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