From the Side of A Mountain

When 2025 comes to a close, it will mark seven years PSM has been up and running, and by then I will have turned 80. Along with the privilege and great rewards of editing poetry for this literary health care journal, I have been navigating aging and its challenges. After reading all the poetry that was submitted, then selecting the poets that you will read in this our 16th issue, I had surgery with a recuperation that required my full attention. The surgery was relatively low risk, not life threatening, but it was necessary and brought my mortality up close to my windshield. My sympathetic pre-op nurse, in responding to my nervous state regarding anesthesia, joked, “Young people worry about waking up during surgery, older people about not waking up at all.” But here I am five weeks later doing something I love—trying to find the words that will connect me to you, our audience, and once again humbled to have read about the pain and suffering of many contributors, and to be able to introduce those poets chosen for you to read here.

The theme What if, Then inspired many to write freely and imaginatively about an idealized world where care is given to patients in the hands of professionals and loved ones who respect the worth of each life, attention given with patience and compassion—sometimes under great duress. In this group, be sure to read Joe Bisicchia, Victoria Mack, Shawn Aveningo-Sanders, Kristen Camitta Zimet, Susan Shea. From Bisicchia, this:

Says the frail dying doctor on the deathbed to the resident, If I weren’t a doctor
maybe I’d be a bus driver. What if, then? You’d be here, and I’d be here. All of us
somehow together here, everywhere shared. Going somewhere. And when you step off
this bus, please give me that bedpan over there. In the end, all that matters is simple.
That we cared.

And from Mack’s “We Run Like Trees”:

Here, we keep our heads.
Our brains are fast as trains.

And yes, some have their chairs still.
We know what you think.

You’re wrong as rain. We zoom, we tear,
fast as bullets. Others run, if they want,

if we want, with bare feet. Here,
the sun is cool as water.

And no one’s name is Pity.
And no one’s eyes say, Shame.

For many poets the What if, Then theme triggered a presentation of elements that can defy human remedy—such as genetic markers for debilitating conditions or the seeming randomness of fatal events. Their poems feature speakers who respond in a variety of ways to devastating outcomes—with unresolved grief, stoic resignation, admirable courage, grim or sardonic humor. You will find a range of voices and points of view in engaging poems by Shakira Croce, Judith Shapiro, Frances Grossman, Lou Ventura, and Joe Cottonwood. In her poem about the tragic loss of her daughter, Grossman lists the circumstances that accrued to end her college age daughter’s life in a small plane crash, the central irony being her decision to take the ride home because of a simple, relatable triumph: she had passed organic chemistry:

what if she had been                   less a risk taker
what if she had not loved           adventure more than safety
what if she had known today      had no more tomorrows

Her loss is still raw, but the details she includes individualize her daughter while evoking the depth, the fierce power, of a mother’s love steadfastly memorialized. For an interesting contrast, be sure to read Bart Edelman’s poem, “Night of the Gorillas,” where the individual portrayed in this exquisite representation of Nature as a benevolent force is isolated by his fear of what seems alien and threatening.

During this same period I happened to read an inspiring memoir by the talented writer Sebastian Junger. The central event was his near death from a ruptured pancreatic aneurysm. During the innovative surgery that saved his life, he had a vivid vison—perhaps a dream induced by the anesthesia—of his deceased father hovering above him and motioning to him—as if, Junger surmised, his father was beckoning him to join him. That became his motivation to explore in his memoir the possibility of another world, a supernatural dimension that might provide a comforting balm for the pangs of human mortality. I hope you will find in his conclusion a meaningful answer:

We’re all on the side of a mountain shocked by how fast it’s gotten dark; the only question is whether we’re with people we love or not. There is no other thing—no belief or religion or faith—there is just that. Just the knowledge that when we finally close our eyes, someone will be there to watch over us as we head out into that great, soaring night. (from Junger’s In my Dying Time)

Over the past seven years and 16 issues of Please See Me, we have tried to provide you our readers reassurance that, while we all are patients, we all deserve to be well cared for. We also hope for something more. That you take away a renewed resolve to be a nurturing presence in the lives of others–whether loved ones or strangers, people of all creeds and races, including now, especially, those who come from lands beyond our borders, many fleeing untenable living conditions, often seeking renewed health and solace in our welcoming spirit. Over the four generations of my life, this to me is what has defined our country’s greatness. Because of the abiding care I have been the beneficiary of, recently—and over these many years–I look forward to our next issue.

Stephen Granzyk is the Poetry editor of Please See Me.