First Draft of a Poem

I wrote this poem a few weeks ago, as Winter took over again after a late winter Buffalo heatwave.  It may need some working through, but I'll let it go out into the world as-is.

This Year
by
Susan Harris-Gamard

This year

The buds of the magnolia have browned

Like a half-charged memory growing ill

                                                And withered in the new light.

Extinguished by the faceted brilliance

 Of Sir Frost’s shocking freeze.

The sonorous footfalls of his size 12 boots

Echo long beyond any welcome.

This mere shadow of a bloom heals me

With its smothered vow of surety

And the soft cry of hope within

Its withering frame.

As the brown petals meet the ground

My own arms unfurl to greet

Master Spring as He Leaps Forward

In grassy slippers as delicate as breath.

Mrs. Dalloway Revisited

The following story is my response to Michael Cunningham's own response to Virginia Woolf's novel Mrs. Dalloway:

“Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself,”   Richard most heartily proclaimed at the edge of the diving board, expectedly drunk.  “But, she has yet to return, the miserable whore!” as he careens backwards, nearly missing a bikini-clad nymphette, languorously lounging on a diaphanous silver pool float.  As 3 satyrs proceed to save him from the bottom of the pool, “Mrs. Dalloway” finally returns, irises in hand along with a bottle of Scotch most earnestly requested by her long-time love.

            The party is in full swing, women already topless, men lapsing into lasciviousness.  Mrs. Dalloway, otherwise known as Clarissa, hands the bottle to a gasping Richard, and proceeds to enter the doors leading to their villa.  She wafts in like a cool breeze and breathes a sigh of relief to escape the madness of Richard and his notorious parties.  She begins to chop, swiftly slicing some onions, as if they were her own tightly knotted apron strings.  Cooking is her escape, her creative outlet, the Tuscan air, her muse.  She merely needs to float through these days, like a lark wisping through the treetops, descending only when safety has been secured.

            Clarissa could block out the sounds of the party.  She had been doing this for years and is now quite good at it.  Her home, her haven, will not be penetrated, even by Richard for whom she had thrown away everything.  Clarissa thinks of Peter sometimes, vaguely, remembering only those moments when she felt safe and secure.  Peter was always the reliable one, someone everyone could count on for a helping hand, a small loan, or, if all else failed, a shoulder to cry on.  Sometimes she wished for that shoulder again, but Peter is seemingly thousands, if not millions, of miles away now, somewhere.  Clarissa never knew where Peter ended up—is he married with 2 or 3 children now with a wife who could only deserve him? 
             She opens the French doors to the North side of the house to feel the air and to catch the smell coming off the fields of basil and lavender just past the next hill.  How she prefers this to the smells of stale booze and rancid suntan oil on sweaty bodies.  Closing the doors to the South, she returns to her chopping and escapism.  Peter.  If she had only followed his lead, allowed him to direct her path in life, surrendered.  Right now, it sounds idyllic:  a life of never having to worry, a life of certainty.  But, what about freedom?  How would she feel to have that taken away?  Or the pleasure of being here, living in paradise, instead of the streets of Detroit and its smells of burning coal and solemn sewer drains, a few cabbages planted in the side yard?  Or being without Richard whom she loves beyond all else and more?  Richard has his quirkiness, his addictions, but Clarissa can be herself with him.  A full, complete self, not a self only present because of another.  The South doors open, and Richard enters the room, a bit of vomit snaking onto his cheek.  “Clarissa, where are you?  Come join us.  We saved the best float for you!”  He plants a messy kiss on her cheek and grabs her rump.  “Just have to finish the pork,” breathlessly subtracting herself from his grasp.  “I will come.”  What is this terror?  What is this ecstasy?  What is it that fills me with this extraordinary excitement?*   It is Richard, for there he is, in all his earth bound, revelatory glory. 

* From Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway, Harcourt edition, pg. 194.    

The Esquiline Hill: A Short, Short Story

I know it is here somewhere.  Guido said to look just past Vittorio Emmanuele, the wedding cake monstrosity monument that will always be part of my unwished for first impression of Rome.  Well, I passed it five minutes ago, but still no sign of the Esquiline Hill.  I have passed many churches-most very Baroque, very Italian, but none living up to the grandiosity of Santa Maria Maggiore.  I’ve never actually seen it, just studied its non-memorable mosaics in Art History 101.  Alright, let’s get the map out again.  What intersection am I at anyway?  Come on, I am an American already, used to the simple grid system of streets.  Roman streets are on a grid yet not a logical grid—as illogical as anyone could imagine.  I start to notice the ground rising ahead of me—slightly.  Could this be the Hill?  I ascend gradually, flowing into the populace around me.  People are more numerous, livelier, somehow different.  Younger?  Possibly.

  I enter a group of young people, presumably college students, laughing and speaking the Italian language faster than ever before, hands moving in time with the torrent of words.  We begin our ascent up a steep and rugged set of stairs, single file like a line of soldiers marching towards someone else’s battle.  I drop backwards a pace as their younger thighs bring them closer to the top.  As I conquer the final step, a vast garden greets me, the sun warming my chilled hands as I stand amazed at the sight of my destination.   Santa Maria Maggiore is here, and so must Guido be.  A massive structure has appeared before my eyes, like magic. The sun almost avoiding its mere presence as it is draped in shadows. 

My anticipation blends with a sense of anxiety as I scan the crowd for his face. I do remember him.  In fact, I’ve been thinking of him for days—his white T-shirt, most likely carefully ironed by his devoted mama, his black hair, carefully coiffed like a neat cloud within the atmospheric vapors of Acqua di Gio cologne.  A slightly mysterious man, for an Italian, he roped me right in with his knowledge of America, his ease with the English language, and his empathy for my tourist identity within such a vast city.  The gardens carry me to what appears to be the apse end of the church.  People around me are taking in the warmth from sun, enjoying a Roman early spring. The cool air being infused with a burning heat, a premonition of what is to come as the weeks progress towards summer. 

I reluctantly pass the sun-drenched spectators to become enveloped in shade and taken over by the underlying cold of the air coming out of the church doors.  I see a man standing deep in the shadows of one of the archways.  I do not recognize him.  Since there is no one else around to identify as my beloved Guido, I take a seat on the stone bench next to the doors.  The man slowly moves towards me, studying my features.  He asks, “Scusi, are you named Sonya?”  Why yes I am?”, I say hesitantly, wondering suddenly about Guido’s absence.  “Hello, very nice to meet you, my name is Reno.  I am a friend of Guido.  He wanted me to apologize.  His wife is home and so he could not come.”  I freeze.  “His wife?”, I reply, both shocked and befuddled.  “Oh, you did not know?  I am here to take you for some pasta.  I promised Guido I would.  Come.  Let’s get out of this cold place and feel the sun.”  He pauses.  “By the way, I am not married.”  He smiles, teeth as white as his t-shirt, and offers me his arm, as we descend the sunny side of Esquiline Hill.  We take each step down, legs extending in unison, with a rhythm only a conductor could fully appreciate.  We reach the base of the hill, meeting as two separate people with an as yet unknown bond uniting us.   

It all began with a kiss.  Seemingly out of nowhere, Guido descended into my life like a grenade, willfully deposited right next to me, to go off some time in the future.  He must have been watching me for a while.  Everyday, my route was the same:  take my cappuccino from the neighborhood café into the park next door.  I would bring my journal with me for the slim chance I may be inspired to write something.  One random day without any significance, he sat down next to me and talked.  I felt like I had met him before and had known him for many years.  The things we spoke of on that bench could not have been spontaneous or unplanned.  He had to have a motive somewhere in those words.  How he knew me so well, I’m not sure.  The fact that he knew so much never crossed my mind.  When he kissed me, I felt myself coming undone, a part of me unzipping from myself to merge with a part of him.  Seeing this as some kind of loss was not an option.  It was only a gain in my mind, my very precious souvenir of my short sojourn in Italy. 

When he brought me back to his apartment, caution was not on the agenda.  My brain was shut off by passion, the only thought I had was feeling his skin against mine, those lips entering me to touch my innermost reaches. Like a modern day Goldilocks, I would not notice the two sets of shoes, the woman’s trench coat strewn over the back of the chair, the carefully tended house with a woman’s touch.  The bed was much too comfortable, but all the more for my pleasure.  My back touched those crisply ironed sheets, my hair touching the same blankets that she nestled within that very morning before leaving on business. The robe he gave me after my shower fit my own form just right, but never did I question this.  I only thought how perfect this moment was and how perfect he was for me, with me.

I'm Still Here

Funny, but I have been so incredibly busy lately that I haven't thought of my blog in a long, long time.  Just wanted to let you know I am still here:  trudging through the final weeks of grad school, still trying to write in between seemingly insurmountable reading assignments.  I have actually started writing some fiction, and I hope to continue to get deeper into some of the stories I have started recently.  I have 3 1/2 weeks left of coursework, but I hope to return soon to bring out some of my writing and some of the things that have inspired me these days.   

Until then, here is a quote by Virginia Woolf that has got me thinking as of late, and amazingly reflects my own life:

"I have no time to describe my plans.  I should say a good deal about The Hours, and my discovery; how I dig out beautiful caves behind my characters; I think that gives exactly what I want; humanity, humour, depth. The idea is that the caves shall connect, & each comes to daylight at the present moment.” 

I have carved out a little niche for myself here at home, my own cave, a room of my own, and I am anxious to get all those words down on paper.  The novel The Hours by Michael Cunningham inspires me to try my hand at fiction and perhaps a novel, someday.  Here is one of my favorite passages:

"Venture too far for love, she tells herself, and you renounce citzenship in the country you've made for yourself. You end up just sailing from port to port. Still, there is this sense of missed opportunity. Maybe there is nothing, ever, that can equal the recollection of having been young together. Maybe it's as simple as that. Richard was the person Clarissa loved at her most optimistic moment...It had seemed like the beginning of happiness, and Clarissa is still sometimes shocked, more than thirty years later, to realize that it was happiness; that the entire experience lay in a kiss and a walk, the anticipation of dinner and a book...What lives undimmed in Clarissa's mind more than three decades later is a kiss at dusk on a patch of dead grass, and a walk around a pond as mosquitoes droned in the darkening air. There is still that singular perfection, and it's perfect in part because it seemed, at the time, so clearly to promise more. Now she knows: That was the moment, right then. There has been no other." The Hours, Michael Cunningham

A Tetrad: To Celebrate the End of My Treatments for Breast Cancer

The following series of poems represents months of work through the most difficult time of my life as of yet. I wish to dedicate these poems to all the wonderful people involved in my care: the surgeons, medical oncologists, radiation oncologists, physician assistants, radiation therapists, nurses, and anyone else who has touched my world these last few months, both in private practice and at Roswell Park Memorial Institute. And to all of the cancer patients, both whom I have met personally and on the online support groups. Your strength never ceases to amaze me. Thank you to all. I couldn't begin to fully express my gratitude.

A TETRAD

It's Not Up to Him

Tell me that I can stay,
A little longer.
A life formed out of bits of thread and spilled blood
Is just a moment, a flash.
My creative clutter the only proof that I breathe.

Flesh plundered, compromised, sight unseen,
By one bad seed waiting,
For that slim circumstance
To strike and grow in a moment,
Interrupting a long-awaited dream.
We never know until we know,
We are not a given, even if we are forgiven.

I’d love to speak to that cell,
Lone invader of my own universe,
Travel the rivers and canyons of this divide,
Confront him and my swept-up fear.
To understand what he’s after,
Stealing my breath in order to live,
And perish with me.

I'd love to debrief that cell,
Make him squirm,
Will he have one noble reason?
Will I even comprehend why,
He means to use my body as his own,
Home Sweet Home,
For a little while?

I’d love to speak to that cell,
To tell him that I will stay,
A little longer.

It’s not up to him.

....................................




Ode to Awareness

Does tomorrow melt in your mouth,
Not in your hands,
Like Desire pulling you along by a taut, silken harness,
Only to nestle and caress you within the jaws of the famished world?

Do you tell your Prince to wake you later,
As you languishly linger within the folds
Of a sleep, unblemished by potion?
But, sooner than later, you will need those eyes open wide,
That breath strong and able,
Expanding and contracting for life.

Do you gaze across an open, fertile landscape,
Only to while away in longing,
For that noble Youth,
When all bitter Beauty has is these petals in her void?
All the while, the leaves rustle amongst us, calling out for Winter,
Awaiting to hear his step on the porch boards.

Do your dreams recall a listless longing,
Lying limp and open on the forest floor,
White flood rising from your cool gown,
A sad stream echoing your delirious sleep?
A cold wind blows, suddenly,
harsh and heavy upon your parched skin.

Shivering with eyes aflutter,
You think,
Perhaps, there is another way,
To conceive of this future,
Without falling through the cracks and chasms,
Of a life lived by another.

As you grasp the reins,
You navigate your way,
Slowly, ever so slowly,
Forward.

........................................


One Good Rain

All we need is one good rain
To wash these sins away.
Too bad it’s not so easy
To become clean again.

In the beginning,
There was sword and shield,
To keep us fully clothed.
Then we had witness protection,
To keep away all our foes.

Now it’s just a crapshoot,
We have nowhere to hide.
For me it’s just a walk on the beach,
But I am not too sure of the tide.

There really is no use,
I can duck in every doorjamb,
But I will always be looking backward,
A weapon filling each hand.

Protect both the chest and head
With armor reinforced.
Not once, but twice,
To withstand the force
An army of 100 men.
The battle cry sounds with a rush,
Of arrows emerging swiftly,
Over the cries of lonely voices
A raging fireball arcs,
And turns this armor to ashen dust,
This hope to smoke.

The fallen counted as we pass
Through these years
To days, not less dangerous.
It is not within the integrity of the body,
But in its own stealthiness.
We can disappear into thin air,
But still find invasion from within.
Crossing the crime of the organized
Will only leave you
With a neck forever cricked
a gaze directed behind those eyes,
A throat not quite nicked.

Night falls over the bustling bar,
A glow arises from the corner.
An enticing circle of fire emerges,
From the dimness
Beyond, the face slowly becoming visible
In the darkness.
A world alive at dusk,
A youth riveting and vibrant,
Confident in her ignorance.

A tinkle of ice as the whiskey
Flows, the smell wafts over me,
Like a banana freshly peeled,
It passes my lips like a fantasy.
That numb little confidence I love
Has entered my skin.
I coast down its river through days
And months
And eventually years
To where I am right now.

Here in this room
Whiskey long forgotten
Yet still a part of me.
Is it really
A mere cellular memory?

That’s it.
The deed is done.
I’ve unsheathed the sword,
Released my own ball of fire,
Submitted my body to flame and forge.
I’ve opened the gate to chaos,
I’ve started this holey war.
I’ve crossed the mafia cell at its own game,
And I will always be looking back.
With a crick in my neck,
A dislocated shoulder,
Waiting for that next attack.

And I owe it all to those whiskey years,
And that marvelous carelessness.
In my innocence of youth,
I had grasped a light,
That has lingered ever since.
And it’s true.
It is still near,
Burning strong and very much
Alive.

..........................................


A Perfect 84

42 years of a life,
Lived well and full,
Is not enough to wrap,
My weary arms around the world.

42 more would do,
Let’s make it symmetrical.
42 more would do very well.
My social calendar,
Is much too full.

84 years you say?
You’d be lucky.
I know.
But, 84 years in the scope of things,
Is just a drop on the great agar plate
Of the world.

84 years is all I ask,
A perfect number seemingly.
Keats got only 25,
And I’m no Keats,
That’s what I see.

We’ll call him Gabe,
My angel
Alarmed me of what’s to come.
He tapped me on the shoulder ,
Changed my curfew to some,
Night I never dreamed of,
Then changed it once again so I’d learn.

Then I knew,
That I was strong enough.
I knew when I saw you in my room,
That night, of all nights,
Mr.Gabriel.
Thank you for coming so soon.

I only wish,
That you were less frightening,
With your perfectly trimmed beard.
And eyes of clay and sinfulness,
Here on hallowed ground, so rare.

We are less earthy than you think,
Bring your white robes, I don’t care.
But I forgive you, Gabriel,
Your message was loud and clear:

These hands have more,
Comfort to give.
This left hand more to write.
This right hand more peace to share,
With those I encounter each night.

This hair much more,
Than vanity,
A frank expression of who I am.
This brain to compute and rationalize,
My relation to earth as it stands.

These eyes,
They are a window,
To a soul,
Not clean, but bright.
These bulky arms,
Which I lament,
Have held my child so tight.

These ears to listen caringly,
To those whom need me most.
This mouth with which to kiss goodnight,
All those whom are not lost.
These teeth to chew
The chocolate, most delicious and so fine.
This nose to smell the springtime air,
As it wispily leaves the vine.


This neck,
To accept,
Kisses and caresses,
All the same.
These shoulders
To shoulder the gardening,
Creating life along the way.

These breasts create a line,
From me to my
Beloved and his stare.
My waist encompassed by those arms
Who really, truly care.
My hips contain my power,
Of life and femininity.
Those thighs that I wish smaller,
Have gotten me from sea to sea.

These old calves are
Not so bad,
But shaving them gets routine.
My feet, oh my woeful feet,
You can kiss them,
But not this week.

My heart,
I save the best for last,
It holds so many dear.
Although I may not express myself,
Hear me loud and clear.

84 years,
Almost a century,
Of life to give and share,
This body with the great wide world,
I’ll do it, if you dare.

Knowing that I love you all,
Sleep silently,
Knowing that I care,
And never for a minute dream
Of when you will not be here.
Leave that worry all to me,
I’ve seen it all before.
To me it’s just a path I’m on,
And I’ve just opened the great big door.


This is my one wish for you,
Life can be so unfair.
For I have people looking out for me,
Some white dove--down here, up there.
Oh No! I’ve lost my shoes again,
Radiation is a bear.

I Keep Chipping Away

I've been working on a series of poems about breast cancer for months now. Writing, rewriting, and finding my muse in many places that I never even thought to look. This particular poem caused me many nights of lost sleep and moments of frustration, and the members of my writing group, who watched me as I brought a new version in each week, can attest to this. I was initially inspired by the Chronicles of Narnia exhibit at the Buffalo Museum of Science. I began reflecting on this idea of children at war and how perhaps we have some kind of innate strength that is present, even since birth. I used the idea of light as a symbol of my own strength, from which I was able to tap into many times over the last 6 months. This poem lay in its beginning stages for at least a couple months until one night, inspiration came to me. The title came to me in a half asleep-half awake state, after throwing off my blankets in the heat. I pictured a computer file labeled with the title One Good Rain, and I began to write and eventually finish this poem in this state of "in-between" consciousness. As I coast through my last few radiation treatments, I am very happy to present to you my latest literary creation and to say that the series is,at long last, complete.

One Good Rain

All we need is one good rain
To wash these sins away.
Too bad it’s not so easy
To become clean again.

In the beginning,
There was sword and shield,
To keep us fully clothed.
Then we had witness protection,
To keep away all our foes.

Now it’s just a crapshoot,
We have nowhere to hide.
For me it’s just a walk on the beach,
But I am not too sure of the tide.

There really is no use,
I can duck in every doorjamb,
But I will always be looking backward,
A weapon filling each hand.

Protect both the chest and head
With armor reinforced.
Not once, but twice,
To withstand the force
An army of 100 men.
The battle cry sounds with a rush,
Of arrows emerging swiftly,
Over the cries of lonely voices
A raging fireball arcs,
And turns this armor to ashen dust,
This hope to smoke.

The fallen counted as we pass
Through these years
To days, not less dangerous.
It is not within the integrity of the body,
But in its own stealthiness.
We can disappear into thin air,
But still find invasion from within.
Crossing the crime of the organized
Will only leave you
With a neck forever cricked
a gaze directed behind those eyes,
A throat not quite nicked.

Night falls over the bustling bar,
A glow arises from the corner.
An enticing circle of fire emerges,
From the dimness
Beyond, the face slowly becoming visible
In the darkness.
A world alive at dusk,
A youth riveting and vibrant,
Confident in her ignorance.

A tinkle of ice as the whiskey
Flows, the smell wafts over me,
Like a banana freshly peeled,
It passes my lips like a fantasy.
That numb little confidence I love
Has entered my skin.
I coast down its river through days
And months
And eventually years
To where I am right now.

Here in this room
Whiskey long forgotten
Yet still a part of me.
Is it really
A mere cellular memory?

That’s it.
The deed is done.
I’ve unsheathed the sword,
Released my own ball of fire,
Submitted my body to flame and forge.
I’ve opened the gate to chaos,
I’ve started this holey war.
I’ve crossed the mafia cell at its own game,
And I will always be looking back.
With a crick in my neck,
A dislocated shoulder,
Waiting for that next attack.

And I owe it all to those whiskey years,
And that marvelous carelessness.
In my innocence of youth,
I had grasped a light,
That has lingered ever since.
And it’s true.
It is still near,
Burning strong and very much
Alive.

A Mother's Day Wish: A Poem by Me

"Poetry is a record of the life around us and in us, and you'll get a better idea from poetry what it was like to be alive in 2011 than you will from the New York Times." ~Garrison Keillor

If this is so, I only hope my own poetry can live up to the task.  This poem was written this week, May 2011:

 

 A Perfect 84

42 years of a life,

Lived well and full,

Is not enough to wrap,

My weary arms around the world.

42 more would do,

Let’s make it symmetrical.

42 more would do very well.

My social calendar,

Is much too full.

84 years you say?

You’d be lucky.

I know.

But, 84 years in the scope of things,

Is just a drop on the great agar plate

Of the world.

84 years is all I ask,

A perfect number seemingly.

Keats got only 25,

And I’m no Keats,

That’s what I see.

We’ll call him Gabe,

My angel

Alarmed me of what’s to come.

He tapped me on the shoulder ,

Changed my curfew to some,

Night I never dreamed of,

Then changed it once again so I’d learn.

Then I knew,

That I was strong enough.

I knew when I saw you in my room,

That night, of all nights,

Mr.Gabriel.

Thank you for coming so soon.

I only wish,

That you were less frightening,

With your perfectly trimmed beard.

And eyes of clay and sinfulness,

Here on hallowed ground, so rare.

We are less earthy than you think,

Bring your white robes, I don’t care.

But I forgive you, Gabriel,

Your message was loud and clear:

These hands have more,

Comfort to give.

This left hand more to write.

This right hand more peace to share,

With those I encounter each night.

This hair much more,

Than vanity,

A frank expression of who I am.

This brain to compute and rationalize,

My relation to earth as it stands.

These eyes,

They are a window,

To a soul,

Not clean, but bright.

These bulky arms,

Which I lament,

Have held my child so tight.

These ears to listen caringly,

To those whom need me most.

This mouth with which to kiss goodnight,

All those whom are not lost.

These teeth to chew

The chocolate, most delicious and so fine.

This nose to smell the springtime air,

As it wispily leaves the vine.

This neck,

To accept,

Kisses and caresses,

All the same.

These shoulders

To shoulder the gardening,

Creating life along the way.

These breasts create a line,

From me to my

Beloved and his stare.

My waist encompassed by those arms

Who really, truly care.

My hips contain my power,

Of life and femininity.

Those thighs that I wish smaller,

Have gotten me from sea to sea.

These old calves are

Not so bad,

But shaving them gets routine.

My feet, oh my woeful feet,

You can kiss them,

But not this week.

My heart,

I save the best for last,

It holds so many dear.

Although I may not express myself,

Hear me loud and clear.

84 years,

Almost a century,

Of life to give and share,

This body with the great wide world,

I’ll do it, if you dare.

Knowing that I love you all,

Sleep silently,

Knowing that I care,

And never for a minute dream

Of when you will not be here.

Leave that worry all to me,

I’ve seen it all before.

To me it’s just a path I’m on,

And I’ve just opened the great big door.

This is my one wish for you,

Life can be so unfair.

For I have people looking out for me,

Some white dove--down here, up there.

Oh No!  I’ve lost my shoes again,

Radiation is a bear.