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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
In "Fires of Driftwood," Isabel Ecclestone Mackay weaves a haunting tapestry of early 20th-century life on the fringes of society, deftly employing rich, evocative prose that captures the interplay between nature and human emotion. The narrative follows a diverse cast of characters living in a coastal community, exploring themes of isolation, longing, and the transformative power of nature. Set against the backdrop of the Canadian wilderness, Mackay's lyrical style reflects her fascination with both the beauty and brutality of the environment, allowing readers to experience the profound connection between the characters and their land. Isabel Ecclestone Mackay was not only a poet and novelist but also a prominent figure in the early feminist movement, deeply influenced by her own experiences as a woman navigating a patriarchal society. Her passion for the natural world and her empathetic understanding of marginalized voices shine through in this work. Mackay's commitment to illuminating the struggles of her contemporaries propelled her to create a narrative that speaks volumes about resilience and the human spirit in the face of adversity. "Fires of Driftwood" is a deeply moving exploration of shared human experiences that resonate beyond its time. Readers seeking a poignant, beautifully written story that reflects on the complexities of life, identity, and the transformative power of nature will find much to admire in Mackay's masterful storytelling.
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Fires of Driftwood
Table of Contents
Fires of Driftwood
ON what long tides Do you drift to my fire, You waifs of strange waters? From what far seas, What murmurous sands, What desolate beaches— Flotsam of those glories that were ships!
I gather you, Bitter with salt, Sun-bleached, rock-scarred, moon-harried, Fuel for my fire.
You are Pride’s end. Through all to-morrows you are yesterday. You are waste, You are ruin, For where is that which once you were?
I gather you. See! I set free the fire within you— You awake in thin flame! Tremulous, mistlike, your soul aspires, Blue, beautiful, Up and up to the clouds which are its kindred! What is left is nothing— Ashes blown along the shore!
When as a Lad
WHEN, as a lad, at break of day I watched the fishers sail away, My thoughts, like flocking birds, would follow Across the curving sky’s blue hollow, And on and on— Into the very heart of dawn!
For long I searched the world—ah, me! I searched the sky, I searched the sea, With much of useless grief and rueing Those wingéd thoughts of mine pursuing— So dear were they, So lovely and so far away!
I seek them still and always must Until my laggard heart is dust And I am free to follow, follow, Across the curving sky’s blue hollow, Those thoughts too fleet For any save the soul’s swift feet!
Laureate
DEATH met a little child who cried For a bright star which earth denied, And Death, so sympathetic, kissed it, Saying: “With me All bright things be!”— And only the child’s mother missed it.
Death met a maiden on the brae, Her eyes held dreams life would betray, And gallant Death was greatly taken— “Leave,” whispered he, “Your dream with me And I will see you never waken.”
Death met an old man in a lane; So gnarled was he and full of pain That kindly Death was struck with pity— “Come you with me, Old man,” said he, “I’ll set you down in a fair city.”
So, kingly Death along the way Scatters rare gifts and asks no pay— Yet who to Death will write a sonnet? If any dare, Let him take care No foolish tear be spilled upon it!
Out of Babylon
THEIR looks for me are bitter, And bitter is their word— I may not glance behind unseen, I may not sigh unheard.
So fare we forth from Babylon, Along the road of stone; And no one looks to Babylon Save I—save I alone!
My mother’s eyes are glory-filled (Save when they fall on me) The shining of my father’s face I tremble when I see,
For they were slaves in Babylon, And now they’re walking free— They leave their chains in Babylon, I bear my chains with me!
At night a sound of singing The vast encampment fills;“Jerusalem! Jerusalem!” It sweeps the nearing hills—
But no one sings of Babylon (Their home of yesterday) And no one prays for Babylon, And I—I dare not pray!
Last night the Prophet saw me; And, while he held me there, The holy fire within his eyes Burned all my secret bare.
“What! Sigh you so for Babylon?” (I turned away my face) “Here’s one who turns to Babylon, Heart traitor to her race!”
I follow and I follow! My heart upon the rack; I follow to Jerusalem— The long road stretches back
