Comments on: Illness and Poetry

By: Brian Salchert

Brian Salchert — Fri, 14 Mar 2008 20:54:10 +0000

“What, after all, would I be without a body, however frail and ailing?”
Yes, indeed, at least here/ as a caring human among other caring humans.
Made me think of Stephen Hawking; but I can not/ speak for others.
Although I/ cannot prove it, when I consider my inclinations, I conclude
my short weak body has been a blessing. Had I been tall and strong,
and yet had the same inclinations, I might have been expelled
from school, sent to prison, killed. Of course, there’s no way for me
to be sure my body will survive the next moment; but it has survived
into this moment of the incomprehensible mystery of its being,
and I–for all my imperfections–am in awe/ and ever grateful.
Safety and strength,
Brian Salchert
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By: Anonymous

Anonymous — Sun, 09 Mar 2008 16:44:55 +0000

A beautiful and honest essay, Reginald. My best friend in college in Detroit, Bill Hogg, a budding actor, playwright and poet, died of complications from AIDS (it was actually euthanasia–he lapsed into a coma ftom which his family decided to deliver him…) in 1991, five years after his diagnosis. He was working full-time for Blue Cross/Blue Shield, had just bought a new car and new computer–things were, as they say, looking up for him, Aside from a few poems, I;ve been trying to write an essay about him, about our friendship, and your piece just brought it all home for me. Thanks again.
Tyrone
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By: John Blackard

John Blackard — Sun, 09 Mar 2008 10:48:55 +0000

Here’s to you, Reginald.
Survivors Walk in Battleground Park
And the pale girl in the wig plays
the cancer card for Radio Nueva Vida.
Their dj spins live media sympathy
like cotton candy for the crowd gathered
at the registration shelter.
A bugle calls in the distance—
ironic anthem to her heroism today.
Confederate re-enactors overtake us
on their own shank’s mares, trot off
to the first historic skirmish of the day,
saber tips furrowing the ground behind them.
What a story of denial we make—
the survivors troop past beds of yellow tulips,
wearing t-shirts emblazoned with
the face of the ingénue,
who will be as cured of her innocence
as a country ham.
It was as if we’d all become toad-eaters
for a medicine show trailing Sherman’s March—
as if we believed the white-haired gentleman
wasn’t a fake and sold an elixir to cure anyone.
Our girl, exhausted now, sits on a bench
beneath the general’s statue—her bald head
shines with sweat, her wig balances on the bush
where she threw it.
Pinned down in crossfire or high-tailing it
in retreat, could those long-dead soldiers
have seen the beauty of these spring woods?
We want to see that beauty now in
the craven face of our Creator.
John Blackard
http://www.johnablackard.com
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By: Mary Meriam

Mary Meriam — Sun, 09 Mar 2008 03:16:27 +0000

Dear Reginald,
I’m so sorry that you have to suffer like this. May your “memoir” days begin very soon. I was lucky enough to reach my memoir days. It’s taken me years to find a way to even begin to write poems about the ordeals I’ve been through. You may find your ordeal tedious, but your essay here is far from tedious – it’s eloquent, open, and brave. If it’s any comfort to you, I imagine your essay will be comforting to other suffering people. I’ve come to think that comfort is the main purpose of poetry.
Please feel better soon,
Mary
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By: capps

capps — Sun, 09 Mar 2008 02:35:10 +0000

Reginald, your post put me in mind of this poem “Reasons” by Thomas James. It’s one that’s lingered with me for years. Do you know his work? Thank you for always preparing such smart, thoughtful posts throughout this trial by body. Your health–and cancer-free days– will remain in my wishes.
REASONS
By Thomas James
For our own private reasons
We live in each other for an hour.
Stranger, I take your body and its seasons,
Aware the moon has gone a little sour
For us. The moon hangs up there like a stone
Shaken out of its proper setting.
We lie down in each other. We lie down alone
And watch the moon’s flawed marble getting
Out of hand. What are the dead doing tonight?
The padlocks of their tongues embrace the black,
Each syllable locked in place, tucked out of sight.
Even this moon could never pull them back,
Even if it held them in its arms
And weighed them down with stones,
Took them entirely on their own terms
And piled the orchard’s blossom on their bones.
I am aware of your body and its dangers.
I spread my cloak for you in leafy weather
Where other fugitives and other strangers
Will put their mouths together.
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