I came to poetry by way of music—the quarter, half, and whole notes I learned to “read” while taking piano lessons; by way of a retired Chilean banker who in 1971 won a Nobel prize but long before then filled my ears with his cantos and odes and love poems; and by way of the death of my brother Patrick.
I have no memory of sitting in anyone’s lap and being read to—in fact, I don’t remember even being a child—but I do recall the day my mother went piano shopping and came home with an upright with 88 keys. Mother had been hoarding dollars (one for every dollar my father spent for beer and chewing tobacco), and to have a piano in the house was, I think, a wish not expressed but fully realized. (She, who could not play, bought the piano without knowing if any of her seven children might ever play it.) I wanted to learn, and began lessons with a stout Italian woman who awarded or withheld various colored stars based on weekly performance on her Steinway concert grand. I was perhaps nine or 10 and, as the back inside covers of my lesson books filled mostly with stars, certainly not all gold, I decided I would become a musician. I even entered a Mattel essay contest in which I declared my love of all things music, only later to realize that what excited me was not playing music but finding music in the words I could write. While my love of music has lasted, my piano lessons did not; yet, the lessons of those lessons—what could be created with tone and color, rhythm, repetition, consonance and dissonance, the through line—still serve me well as a writer.
Around the same time as I began lessons, I started investigating the dozens and dozens of books Mother kept on shelves, some behind glass. One in particular, which I haven’t thought of in years, claimed my attention:
The Walrus and the Carpenter / Were walking close a hand; / They wept like anything to see / Such quantities of sand: . . .
The lines come from the poem “The Walrus and the Carpenter” in Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There. That book, which was wonderfully illustrated, also contained “Jabberwocky” and its unforgettable opening, “’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves/ Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:…” The first poem left me saddened at the fate of the oysters; the second showed me how even nonsense can be meaningful: It’s all in how you read it.
I recall neither reading nor hearing other poems until I began studying Spanish in intermediate school and found my way to Federico Garcia Lorca, Antonio Machado, Ruben Dario, Octavio Paz, Gabriela Mistral, and especially Pablo Neruda.
Neruda enchanted me (he still does!). He is earthy, romantic, lyrical, political, surreal, in communion with the ordinary and the elemental, the lofty and the common. He said of his collection “Residence on Earth” that his poems “do not help people to live, but rather help them to die.”
Is there anything in the world sadder
Than a train standing in the rain?
—from The Book of Questions, III, trans. by William O’Daly
Little of the poetry in high school holds so firm a place in my memory as does that initial experience of Neruda. I did study poetry in college, as a sophomore in a seminar with juniors and seniors and as a senior who opted into “creative writing” in lieu of the usual English major thesis. I had a marvelous professor that last year who gave me reason to continue writing and whose best piece of advice was, “Write from what you know.” Subsequently, though I continued to read widely, I eventually abandoned poetry writing, mostly because I spent too many hours editing others’ words and had little energy after work for creative pursuits.
Until the day I received a phone call from my brother, who told me he had cancer and, according to his doctor, maybe six weeks to live.
Soon after that call, which came just before Thanksgiving of 2007, I started writing poetry again, poetry for members of an online cancer-support group and poetry that became, for me, the only means to understanding what my brother was experiencing, what loss my family was about to share, and how I could make sense of the unfathomable.
There are cemeteries that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness. . . .
—from “Nothing But Death” in Neruda & Vallejo, trans. by Robert Bly
As it turned out, my brother did not die until May 2009. And it was poetry writing
that helped pushed me through the tunnel and back into light.
Poetry writing saved me.
Photo by Michael Schrempp. Creative Commons license via Flickr. Post by Maureen Doallas, author of Neruda’s Memoirs: poems.
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Matthew Kreider says
This is so beautiful, Maureen. Like a determined mother, poetry transforms our “train standing in the rain” into a track of 88 keys, a journey to unlock doors, get us moving again, and “make sense of the unfathomable”.
Thank you for sharing this with us.
Maureen Doallas says
Thank you so much, Matt, for your own lovely and generous words.
Sandra Heska King says
I loved reading about your journey, Maureen..how you found the music in your words and how poetry saved you as it pushed you through the tunnel.
I wish I’d come to poetry sooner–but maybe I hadn’t tunneled through enough grief before.
Maureen Doallas says
Thank you, Sandra, and that’s a perceptive observation, acknowledging what pushes us toward and into one place or another.
I’ve come to see how very apt the title “Neruda’s Memoirs” is, because not only do the poems look back and still in the moments of my awareness of my brother’s dying but they conclude (in “Spring’s Thaw”) by seeing the light again.
SimplyDarlene says
Maureen,
What part of the process is it, do you think, that comforts (or clarifies) as a person writes poetry?
she inks
across pages
high, low, swirls – or maybe jagged slashes –
punctuation
marks sometimes
emphasize sometimes
drop
lonely
heartstrings
plucked
Maureen Doallas says
In some ways, Darlene, it’s all a mystery; I do think, however, that concision through image begins to uncover it. Thank you for reading and offering your own poem here.
Richard Maxson says
Maureen, what a heartfelt journey. I purchased Neruda’s Memoirs a few months ago and have been savoring the poems in your book. Neruda, Vallejo, and Lorca have been favorites of mine for many years. Your journey is filled with the many unlikely elements and events in one’s life that lead them to poetry; hardly ever, it seems, is it a straight line. Thanks for sharing your story.
Maureen Doallas says
It delights me deeply to know that “Neruda’s Memoirs” is meaningful, Richard.
Recently, I’ve been going back through my bilingual editions and I just bought – and love – Neruda’s “On the blue shore of silence: Poems of the Sea”, illustrated with Mary Heebner’s gorgeous paintings. It’s beautiful just to look at.
I’m pleased you found some of those same writers. Lorca’s astonishing.
Thank you for reading and commenting here.
Marcy Terwilliger says
Maureen,
You are such an awesome writer. Every word played out in my mind like a black and white movie. Thank you for sharing how you found your love for writing but I believe it was within you the entire time. Like the train it just needed a push to get it out. Your lovely when you write, it’s the elegance of your words.
I have a copy of Pablo Neruda Absence and Presence that I love to read and look at. To me he loved life, was funny and different. The objects he choose to surround him for life were the true heart of a man who loved the sea.
For today I read an article that made me think more, stirred within me thoughts of you, such a grand Lady. Thank You, Marcy
Maureen Doallas says
Marcy,
I’m bowled over by your incredibly generous words. Thank you.
It’s amazing how the sea is a Neruda signature, given that his country is Chile. I love that he named his home “Isla Negra”, which was neither. It’s a museum now, and stuffed with the stuff of his nautical inclinations. I hope one day to visit it.
Marcy Terwilliger says
Maureen,
I read every article that this site shares, each is different, rare, open, fresh. For me, this was the first one about you, the person, who you are, where you came from. Like sitting in the round, each person sharing a private moment. Do you remember when you rewrote for me the poem “Pink?” They were my words but you made them beautiful. That beauty comes from within a talented, beautiful person who happens to be you. I’ve accepted the fact I’ll never attain that quality of writing so I’ll just write for myself since that is what makes my heart happy.
Maureen Doallas says
Marcy,
You’re a sweetheart.
My little secret is that I almost never talk about myself.
I do remember “Pink”, and, you know, if it hadn’t been for your words, I couldn’t have written that particular poem.
I came across a good quote from Ann Patchett about practicing writing “not to come up with a story you can publish, but because. . . there is something that you alone can say….” What’s a better reason than that?! Writing that makes your heart happy is the best.
Linda says
Thank you for sharing this beautiful journey Maureen. I am captivated by the miracle of words, and you use them so well.
Maureen Doallas says
Linda, I so appreciate your words. Thank you for reading and commenting on my essay.
Donna says
Maureen, I loved every word and pause. Thank you for sharing your story, and for walking me back through my own. I’m sorry you lost your brother, and I’m glad you had poetry to help you. I remember those stars, and the tunnel… oh the tunnel. <3
Maureen Doallas says
Thank you, Donna. I appreciate your poetic comment very much.
Peggy Rosenthal says
Maureen, I’ve known of your journey into poetry during your brothers’ dying, and have treasured those poems in Neruda’s Memoirs. But I loved learning here about your childhood experience with music, and how that grounded you in the possibilities of poetry. (I, too, had a childhood of piano lessons, which I kept at until I realized that I really had no musical talent! But I think you’re right: the rhythms and pauses, dissonances and harmonies, of music are akin to poetry’s.)
Maureen Doallas says
Oh, Peggy, thank you so much for reading and commenting on my essay. (My publisher nudged me gently to write the journey down after realizing I had not contributed yet to the series. I’m glad she did.) I took lessons for two years at college but finances did not permit further study; I took them again in the late ’70s/early ’80s before stopping formal lessons altogether. Last year I gave away my childhood piano. Perhaps it will foster another budding musician or poet. I do think the lessons really were good for poetry writing.
Megan Willome says
How interesting, Maureen, that the cancer of a loved one and their death led both of us into poetry. And at about the same time, too.
Maureen Doallas says
Thank you for sharing that, Megan. There is a book by John Fox titled “Poetic Medicine: The Healing Art of Poem-Making”; it’s like a workshop in book form. Fox, who is a certified poetry therapist (yes, the vocation exists), describes poetry as “a natural medicine; it is like a homeopathy tincture derived from the stuff of life itself – your experience….”
Donna says
Poetry Therapy is fascinating. I’ve looked into it and attended a workshop. They have a national association you can google your way to. I was just at a workshop with poet Maria Mazzioti (sp?)….Writing Poetry To Save Your Life. This is the title of her book, full of prompts and guidance.
Such a powerful healing path.
Maureen Doallas says
Donna, have you written about your experience with poetry therapy? Let us know.
Donna says
I only have a very basic sense of what it is, but it looks wonderful and have actually considered becoming trained some day if I can manage it! I’ll let you know if I do. 🙂 Here is the association, though, if you’re curious. http://www.poetrytherapy.org/
Jerry says
Thanks for sharing. This encourages me to put my hand back to the poetry plough. Some of my best poems are from when my mother was dying and after her death.
Maureen Doallas says
Thank you, Jerry. So pleased you stopped by to read and take the time to comment.
Donna says
Jerry, it’s so nice to see you here at Tweetspeak. I loved Maureen’s piece too… it really took me back to times when poetry has helped me live. Are you new here at Tweetspeak? If you are (and even if you’re not), you might really enjoy the Mischief Cafe! https://www.tweetspeakpoetry.com/mischief-cafe/
Marjorie Maddox says
Just lovely, Maureen. Thank you!
Maureen Doallas says
Thank you so much for reading and commenting, Marjorie.
Jody Lee Collins says
Maureen, there was much about this post that resonated, the redemption of your childhood via writing–I hope that’s not too strong a word, in the middle of not being able to remember BEING a child or being read to, even your mention of entering a contest with Mattel–all of it.
These lines made me say, ‘yes, me too!’
“the lessons of those lessons—what could be created with tone and color, rhythm, repetition, consonance and dissonance, the through line”.
I read on my own for many, many years to escape my brothers and sisters (4 of them) and my not-so-happy home. That foundation of a love affair with the sounds of language drives me to attempt writing down some of that beauty of my own.
Your story inspires; thank you for sharing it.
Maureen Doallas says
Jody, thank you for your heart-felt words and insights.
Heather Eure says
Enjoyed this, Maureen. I can relate to pushing through the tunnel, clutching poetry. It reminds me of something Leonard Cohen said: “Poetry is just the evidence of life.” Forgive the thought hallucination, but maybe one reason poetry is a life-saving thing because it keeps us from forgetting the mystery of flesh and bone.
Maureen Doallas says
Thank you for your kind words, Heather. Love the Cohen quote and your own insight about poetry and why it’s life-saving.
Dolly@Soulstops says
Maureen,
Thank you for sharing how poetry saved you out of the tunnel of darkness…it was an honor to read the poetry in your words and to hear its music.
Maureen Doallas says
Dolly, I so appreciate your comment. Thank you for reading my essay.
michelle ortega says
This is a beautiful piece, Maureen. You have such a way of drawing readers into your soul-space without it feeling like an intrusion. In reading this, I also came to realize that it was YOU who led me to Neruda not so long ago, when I connected to your blog through Tweetspeak. Thank you! I recently purchased “Neruda’s Memoirs” and am taking it in slowly, line by line and work by work. I remember our conversations in NYC and am so pleased to have shared those thoughts with you as I read. Brava! 🙂
Maureen Doallas says
Michelle, thank you for such wonderful words. I’m so pleased you’re enjoying ‘Neruda’s Memoirs’. I, too, remember our NYC conversations; meeting you was a highlight of that memorable trip.