Sharon Mesmer Writes to History's Tormented, Lost Women Writers

At American Poetry Review, Sharon Mesmer writes about recovering the lives and work of women poets whose lives ended tragically too soon. She found inspiration in their words while recovering from a mental breakdown. But she encountered her first subject's poetry while perusing books at AWP. "A big literary conference is probably not the best place for a poet dealing with a mental breakdown," Mesmer writes. "But there I was at AWP, skittishly perusing tables at the book fair, under the garish lights of the Minneapolis Convention Center." From there:

For two years, paralyzed by depression and anxiety, I was barely able to leave my apartment. Staying inside was also a problem because the TV, phone and microwave seemed to be emitting high-pitched whines. I’d contemplated suicide. But with the help of my husband, a good shrink and poetry, I was slowly recovering. I still wasn’t 100% myself, but just being in that crowd felt like a great victory.

At the Tavern Books table, I picked up a poetry collection with a striking title: The Fire’s Journey. As I paged through it, I read these words:

I cast myself in a hollow of shadow
from the highest contour of the blood
 
from the skin to the light entering through dawn
climbing up through the syllable
 

The voice, a combination of Sappho, Dickinson, Whitman and Blake, felt both ancient and contemporary. The poet told how creation began with sacred speech from the mouth of a poet-god. Then, like a shaman, the deity embarked upon a perilous Underworld journey to bring back wisdom and healing to humanity. I was especially attracted to the idea of descending into darkness for the benefit of others. I’d walked my own painful path; what knowledge could I share?

I looked at the cover again: The Fire’s Journey by Eunice Odio.

I’d never heard of her. A quick search on my phone revealed a stunning, movie star face: long dark hair framing a high forehead, eyebrows like black wings above fierce, luminous eyes. A visionary. However, her biography told a different story. Born in 1919, Odio was “the mother of Costa Rican poetry in the twentieth century.” But her work never saw publication in her home country until after she’d died, alone and undiscovered for days, in Mexico City at age 54. There were only a few examples of her work on the Internet, despite an impressive publication record. The book I’d just been reading was making its English language debut, the first volume of a 456-page epic that Odio had completed in 1957. As a poet myself, I felt desperate to know this brilliant, neglected woman — and how she’d come to that tragic end.

Continue reading at American Poetry Review.