We write because we must. Poetry is born of sorrow and joy, love and loss, triumph and disaster. It is inspired by sunset and sunrise, by spring flowers and winter snow, and it comes to us, almost painfully, seeking a way out, a way forward, a way towards and we wrestle with words, with images, with rhyme and intense feelings until suddenly, there it is, on the page, the poem – our poem, eager to be read, anxious to be felt.
Poem of the Month
Through Darkness to Light
By Miriam del Banco
(1932 -)
Far in the vaults of the deep-blue heaven,
Up near the glow of the gates of light,
Fair as the dream to a poet given,
Angels were watching the dark-robed night;
Watching her glide through the realms of shadow,
Kindling and placing each glittering star;
Flinging her veil from the flowery meadow,
Off to the snow on the peaks afar.
Long had they watched, since the grey-robed twilight,
Sighing to winds o’er the dying day,
Hiding her face in her long, wild tresses,
Weepingly knelt in the sun’s last ray;
Watched since the Day in her dying splendor,
Sank to her rest on her cloudy bed.
Kissed by the sun, who with glowing fingers,
Braided a crown for her golden head.
Now as the hours were onward trooping,
Now as the breeze its magic lent,
Sobbing anon like a heart in sorrow,
Moaning forever a solemn chant,
Forth to the east in the dim, grey shadows,
Forth to the east in the moon’s last ray,
Off swept the angels to crowd the curtains
Back from the face of the new-born day.
Gaily she came in her azure garments,
Spangling with dewdrops her golden hair;
Laughingly kissing her rosy fingers,
Lading with perfume the morning air;
Far in the vaults of the deep-blue heaven
Up near the glow of the gates of light,
Fair as the dream to a poet given,
Angels were chanting “The death of night.”