Jeff McCallum

Strange thing. My cancer has moved to the other lung and I am again waiting for it to grow or slow. Four years, three surgeries and much waiting, yet this time, while I wait I am not so often writing of the illness or the attending cast of characters. I am more, oh, I don't know exactly, more adrift perhaps. More curious about the touch of hand, the brush of my lover's fine, soft hair on my cheek, the wonder of it all. I still wonder how I can help the world be a better place, why I failed at this or that, how to climb at least one more mountaintain or say I love you with every fiber of my being, and of course, I still rant and rave about the world.

Daydreams and Nightmares

When I dream of a home,

it is a house I see,

not a land.

I make assumptions:

there will be no bombs falling in the neighbourhood,

there will be a neighbourhood.

I will be allowed its quiet enjoyment.

I assume it will not be

a cardboard box and yesterday’s newspapers,

or  tin walls  and a brown, rusting roof, salvaged from somewhere,

bars on the windows in place of glass.

It will have a bathroom,

more than one.

I do not have this dream because I am living

in a camp for displaced persons

or a FEMA trailer.

I do not have this dream because someone took my house

in a new kind of ethnic cleansing,

whitewashing the eviction with political rhetoric.

I do not have this dream because there are five or twelve or twenty

in a single room with an earthen floor,

or I long to escape the tyranny of my foster home.

I have this dream because I can.

I have this dream because it is as it should be,

here, in America.

If I have this dream,

the time to dream,

the gall to dream,

by what name do I call those who dream for all the reasons I do not?

Assume neither breakfast nor breakfast room.

Dwellers of the realm of the nightmare,

realists, the poor, the victims of war,

brother?

I have this dream because I do not take each day for the gift it is.

They have this dream because some days are not gifts.

I am afraid I have been on a lengthy political rampage, but during the quiet times when I share poems with my fellow poets, friends or fellow cancer survivors I am always refreshed by the healing power and love released by the miracle a poem can be.

I have written earlier about the wonderful fulfillment that is the week long Writing the Medical Experience held each July at Sarah Lawrence College. My friend and fellow poet John Fox is on the faculty and I have neglected to mention the wonder and power of his healing touch.

I was fortune enough to be a guest at John’s presentation last spring at the University of Minnesota’s Center for Spirituality and Healing (the same people who brought Thomas Moore to the Twin Cities) and his two day workshop at Macalester College. I witnessed the healing power of poetry in action and would highly recommend any of his workshops for individuals and institutions in search of that little something extra, that intangible magic which enables human beings to step into themselves and thereby step outside of themselves.

John’s web site is www.poeticmedicine.org

I dedicate the following poems to John and his healing work.

Poetry Therapy

and when we need to speak of pain
of trial
of fear and trepidation
when knowingly or not
our tongues are tied
our voices
lost
befuddle us with silence
strange miracle
a single perfect note
upon some other instrument
heard
will prompt the volume of our story

Silent Words

There is something terrifying in silence

in the after shock of being told

you are no longer a part of something

soon will not be of this earth

are no longer loved

or needed

in some way different from what it is

you desire

More terrifying

is the silence that hangs in the air we breathe

the heavy

deep

disorienting fog

that descends when words are unsaid

and we assume their sound

and the shape of their meaning

struggle to live under the weighty blanket

of what is not said

or cease to live fully

carrying the burden of not saying

what is in our heart

such things as we need to say

to give voice to our intention

the intention of our soul

the desires of our heart

Thanks to All

Thinking of writing what I was thinking of writing,

compiling the notes,

painting the picture,

I found I was fighting,

in a struggle to release the demons,

and triumphant,

gallop homeward with the prize.

Attempting to confront the truth,

to sketch each hill and berm

imagine the surprise

of finding canvas burned

and note pad water soaked.

My steed had balked,

deciding to stay home.

Depression?

Pressure?

After all,

I ‘m ill,

though not in a terrible way,

not like the sure footed step of MS

or some other inexorable slow march of doom disease,

simply a third bout with cancer.

(which they manage to manage with a wondrous ease and frequency today)

Still able, if not capable of setting my own time table for life

however I may manage to mismanage it.

Life is so much more intrusive,

causing far more strife than any illness.

So,

why the handcuffs,

the mental block,

the weight,

the hesititant inability to chronicle?

Waiting neared the threshold several times,

failed to cross, to enter creativity’s studio

and while I waited,

waiting plain out waited me.

Waiting for the tests,

pathology,

the surgery,

again,

pathology,

then consultations.

Putting everything on hold,

philosophy reduced to wait and see.

Wait for questions to be answered,

blanks filled in,

illumination to flood the room.

Foolish.

Foolish to be stuck,

to wallow,

never reach the starting line;

to let the clouds obscure the moon.

I remember remembering to breathe,

relax,

listen.

In between those breaths,

those conscious gasps of life,

of trying not to be afraid

or think the worst,

of death

or worrying about unchanging facts,

I remember something touching at the heart of me.

Ashamed at pausing for so brief a time

I thought of others.

There’s the start!

Thought of those around me, surrounding me,

sending prayers, hugs, white light

caring for me.

Not like remembering to pack deodorant,

to water plants,

to check and see if there were lights left on.

My friend,

forgive poor simile,

draw no conclusions,

don’t bog down in analogy regarding you or me

but more like

remembering the dog.

Not was he fed, watered, cared for,

rather who was loving him,

would comfort him,

assure him in dog speak

I would be returning soon.

Explaining, while scratching the poor dear behind an ear,

that I was only briefly delayed,

unavoidable really,

thinking often of our soon to be walks in the park.

Like that you see.

Oh,

I clearly listed people wishing to be called,

informed,

updated.

I thought of them as I’d compile the names, make the calls,

send e-mails,

re-write the will,

complete the standard stuff one does while waiting.

(I’m way passed teary-eyed you know)

But,

the ones who nurture

those who care,

the ones who love me

shine in the night.

They’d help a stranger change a tire in pouring rain.

Share their soul without reward

and hope full,

rise each day to gift again.

What small comfort have I neglected in my need

to offer them?

Later

A journal

they said

these poems are more a short story

too short

but perhaps extended…

Me

I like the freedom of free verse

the unshackled flight

of no punctuation police

no rhyme

Makes it easier to tell a story

almost any one

and almost anyone can

Easy

Just look

listen

hear the heart beat in the night

trace the history of hysteria

confront what frightens you

them

all of us

except

maybe

the politicians

they only worry about getting votes enough to stay

most of them any way

Beauty

that’s another thing altogether

in the eye of the beholder

so they say

Like god

I suppose

Everyone feels something different

some feel nothing at all

and sometimes a dying flower is beautiful

A Bit More Time has Passed

I hope you believed me when I said

Life is more intrusive

causes far more strife then the illness

Illness is an event

like the sunrise

or to the more macabre

or fatalistic

the glass half empty guys

a sunset

It comes when it comes

like the tides

We could argue

you and I

about the self inflicted things

the definition of disease

the uncaused cause and the fatal car accident

It won’t change a thing for the victim

Poetry Lesson

I sent the poem immediately above to a mentoring friend, G.F.E. McGuiness. He decided it was lesson time. Like this according to G:

OK. Time for an exercise.
Take this same poem and rewrite it about something else.
A wedding, a stolen car, a traffic ticket, a broken family heirloom vase, not getting into Oxford - whatever.
get it clean and make me believe whatever it is you want to convey.
Then part II will follow.

I hope you believe me when I say

I didn’t run over the cat

on purpose

Sure

I was a little upset over the wedding

didn’t want it

didn’t want it at the house

and when your cousin got drunk

balancing grandma’s vase on his nose

for all of half a second before it shattered

well

I just had to get some air

Sure

we could argue about the careless way I left

slamming the car into gear

pulling out right over the cat

and into the squad car

but it won’t bring Fluffy back

repair the vase

or make Jerome

that law school drop out

a better match for our Helen

but listen

it sure gets lonely on that coach

Well done! he exclaimed

and again

OK. What was this exercise? Remember Greeking? Getting a pace or kind of sound rhythm going (which fills a certain mood or feeling) then finding the words that fit that? Similar.
Take something VERY personal. Wherein the details are sooo strong but only to you and those who know you (empathetic circle). Use that as a blue print for a more universal subject. The power of the specific but now in the general.
In this case the humor was amplified by a really palpable punch (which came from the original).
OK. Now part II will be harder. Pull the stuff you put into this second version into the first ( to make a third version). It will vacillate There will be contrasts. Go forth...
May the forth be with you

I hope you believe me when I say

there’s more than one way to skin a cat

figuratively

what with PETA and all

The very thought of it makes me ill

intrudes upon my sensibilities

Life is a stressful event

even the macabre image

of skinning the cat

pales in relationship to fear of death

or initiation into the law school fraternity

What a night that was

standing naked on the beach

grandmother’s vase half full of salt water

in the other hand

a whip for self flagellation

as I ran into the tide at the setting of the sun

You and I could argue that I should have saved that damn cat

joined the fraternity

but after all

aren’t we still together

The reason he is the master

Life is subject to manipulation

The Master Completes

by G.F.E. McGuiness

I hope you believe me when I say

there’s more than one way to pull a cat

from its skin

figuratively

to be sure

what with PETA and all

dwelling on it makes me ill

intruding to my sensibilities

Life, a strife ridden steam of events

macabre picture -skinning the cat

pales to death fear

an initiation into a new fraternity

What a night that was

naked on the beach

holding only my grandmother's vase

half full of salt water

and a whip for flagellation

I charged the tide

at the setting of the sun

we could argue, you and I

ought I have saved that damn cat

joined the fraternity

but after all

aren’t we brothers?