Turning today to the ever-reliable, ever-gorgeous, ever-evocative Anne Porter, who did not begin publishing poetry until she was 83 years old.
When I was a child
I once sat sobbing on the floor
Beside my mother’s piano
As she played and sang
For there was in her singing
A shy yet solemn glory
My smallness could not hold
....
(Read the rest here, at The Writer's Almanac.)
~~~~~
Linda has the round up today at TeacherDance.
8 comments:
Beautiful!
Isn't she wonderful, Ruth?
Stunning poem. Didn't realize she didn't publish poetry till she was 83! This reminds me of listening to music on my Dad's reel-to-reel tape recorder. There was a feeling of holiness.
So beautiful. I love that last line. I had no idea she didn't publish until so late in her life.
So if she didn't publish until that late in life, there is hope, right? Thanks for this wonderful poem, Karen. Music does make me so nostalgic that sometimes I can't listen. Love the final line, too: "And wanders where we wander."
Oh, Jama, a reel-to-reel! I remember my dad's, too.
Doraine and Linda, I love that final line, too, and yes.... hope for everyone. :)
83, eh? I've got PLENTY of time, then!!
Loads of time, Mary Lee! :)
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