When I said that all poems are love poems, I meant that the motor power, the electric current is love of one kind or another. The subject may be something quite impersonal

May Sarton

Our beloved poets are the people with whom one can have an ongoing conversation in head and heart, whether miles or eternities apart. I have regular conversations of that kind with May Sarton – who died on another continent in 1995. Poems – and such conversations – often reflect upon ourselves, and others, and the shared environment we all inhabit – physical, mental and spiritual.

If I close my eyes I can imagine May Sarton’s study into being (several of them, through her lifetime, of course); I can see the jug of flowers on a pedestal table, and a lamp lit at evening. And though I never met her, the odd photograph in her books here and there, her poetry and contemplative prose, have each contributed to my mind’s eye and are the stuff of the kinds of conversations I’ve always loved.

May Sarton could feel and write about heartache and joy simultaneously, while watching raindrops on a windowpane. And I think she was right … all poems are love poems – of one kind or another. Poetry, and love, for May Sarton, as for me, is LIFE – and I am thankful for her.