|THE HOSPICE BUBBLE|
Witnessing the decline and eventual death of a parent is the surest way to send any of us into the deepest well of depression and morbid reflection. Few of us handles it with quite the grace we might have hoped for. Shock, grief, guilt, recrimination are only some aspects the lot of us go through when our parents are suddenly, rudely absent in our lives. We try to make sense of it all, of the choices we've made and the things we've done. There is, it seems, no meaning to find behind it all other than the acceptance of the fact the clan is smaller now and that our lives go on.
Winter Solstice 2017on the longest night of the yearmy father said he was ready to diehis decision was both shocking & comfortingwe had talked on the phone earlierhe
was desperately tiredit was different thanother timessitting beside him in his hospital room …my mom on the other side, he said,“I’ve made a decision.”I took his hand, his skin soft & thin,“I want to go home, be donewith this,”…he gestured with his other hand to showhospital, machines, gowns, fluorescence“I want you to talk to them tomorrow.”
This could seem a cold observation of Wann’s way of writing through these momentous events, but I think it’s a worth mentioning this writer’s efficiency. No casual word- slinger throwing words at a page to see what sticks to the wall, she avoids easy allure of wallowing in her misery. Blessedly,
Lizzie Wann as well doesn’t of offer unrefined introspection more appropriate for private journals rather than a poetry volume. Like a fine musician who has learned the art of note choice, she chooses her words wisely. Knowingly or not, she is composing with Ezra Pound’s notion of writing to the rhythm of the musical phrase and not the metronome. This makes her poems powerful and lyric, poetic in ways a reader doesn’t expect. Pound’s fellow poet William Carlos Williams worked for a verbal quality to his poems, as close to Spoken Language as the imagination would allow. Wann has that in her poems, a rhythm and a flexible emphasis that conveys a mind’s hesitation, the rush of sensation, a sudden flash or sorrow or swift and brief elation. What I’ve always admired about Lizzie Wann’s poems is the sense of something bristling under the surface of the written lines, a confession, a fleeting insight, a secret struggling to emerge. “Winter Solstice 2017”, she accounts for speaking with the family, the doctors, conversations matters intimate and private with her father. She returns home finally, still processing the profundity of her father’s request. At end of day, she slips into needed sleep. Wann is at her best her, deeply, lyrically moving , beautiful in its elegantly unadorned honesty:
…that night, I slept in his bed,but not before I examined his room,opened closet doorstook a picture of his shirtstried to sleep but could only seea family vacation to Yellowstonewhere he threw my child body into the airso I could see higher, how I was surprisedthen delighted by his spontaneitythe thrill of the toss, how he caught medid it again, laughing my daddy laughingunburdenedbut not before I examined his room,opened closet doorstook a picture of his shirtstried to sleep but could only seea family vacation to Yellowstonewhere he threw my child body into the airso I could see higher, how I was surprisedthen delighted by his spontaneitythe thrill of the toss, how he caught medid it again, laughing my daddy laughingunburdened
I ought to emphasize that the 25 poems that make up the title suite of
The Hospice Bubble and Other Devastating Affirmations aren't relentlessly dour or respectively bittersweet in tone. The sequence is not necessarily in order, and have the quality of a mosaic, poems composed as different memories sparked different ideas and moods. Meals, chats, frustrations small and big, the irritations minor and major which stress the limits of one’s willingness to go on, area highlighted in the selected poems. There is a subtle wit that underscores the pilgrimage
, suggested in this volume’s subtle by the phrase “Devastating Affirmations”; this passage is both curse and blessing, a tragedy that transforms a life with a blunt inevitability, but an event that provides the opportunity for every woman and man to become the adults in their expanded household. Samuel Beckett, the poet laureate of perennial stasis, moaned famously, to paraphrase, ”… I can’t go on… I’ll go on,” a phrase mimicking the collective grunt of a common man getting out of bed with a conviction that the crushing burden of life on its own terms, the daily grind, is insurmountable and unending: they can’t take it anymore. And yet man, the woman, showers, shaves, has coffee and leaves the house to do battle again, finding, for a moment, the will to engage again. I believe Wann has a more interesting journey; through her efforts to aid her father with his pain and eventual death, she becomes who she is.
Other affirmations, not so devastating,
with in his potent book, those being deaths, depression, writing, love, matters she writes her way through. I sense a writer who picks up the pen to find out what she thinks about the people, places and thinks which continue to make days and nights something less than serene glide. What arises as I read the poems was the faint but pulsing rhythm of hope, not so much the typical glad tidings imprinted on bumper stickers and corporate greeting cards, but are also dealt rather a recognition that all this misery, labour, all the toiling in attending to final days and hours of a parent's life is a process of discovery of one's aptitude to navigate personal tragedy's rocky stream. Life continues, one's wits were , one's eyes have adjusted to the dark that shrouded their life for a time, and the sun arises again, the wind blows, the air smells sweet. Wann writes about many small things in a big way, a writer fascinated with being alive in the world. sharpened
end lets consider a short poem, the last piece in the book: ,
Emergencea fingertipa strand of hairan eyelashmy pinkie toeever so slowlyit seems I may just findmy way out
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