The Widows' Handbook

Poetic Reflections on Grief and Survival

Jacqueline Lapidus, Lise Menn

• Éditeur: The Kent State University Press
• Année: 2014
• ISBN:
  9781612778587
• Sujet: Littérature
• Sous-sujet: Poésie

Widows convey their feelings and survival strategies in this compelling anthology

The Widows' Handbook is the first anthology of poems by contemporary widows, many of whom have written their way out of solitude and despair, distilling their strongest feelings into poetry or memoir. This stirring collection celebrates the strategies widows learn and the resources they muster to deal with people, living space, possessions, social life, and especially themselves, once shock has turned to the realization that nothing will ever be the same. As Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg says in her foreword, losing one's partner is "a loss like no other."

The Widows' Handbook is a collection of poetry from 87 American women of all ages, legally married or not, straight and gay, whose partners or spouses have died. Some of the poets are already published widely—including more than a dozen prizewinners, four Pushcart nominees, and two regional poets laureate. Others are not as well known, and some appear in print for the first time here. With courage and wry humor, these women encounter insidious depression, poignant memories, bureaucratic nonsense, unfamiliar hardware, well-intentioned but thoughtless remarks, demanding work, spiritual revelation, and unexpected lust, navigating new relationships in the uncertain legacy of sexual liberation. They write frankly about being paralyzed and about going forward. Their poems are honest, beautiful, and accessible.

Only poetry can speak such difficult truths and incite such intense empathy. While both men and women understand the bewilderment, solitude, and change of status thrust upon the widowed, women suffer a particular social demotion and isolation. Anyone who has lost a loved one or is involved in helping the bereaved will be able to relate to the experiences conveyed in The Widows' Handbook.

I

Bereft, Mourning

Cross-Country Lines

JANE HAYMAN

You are leaving

changing into leaf

breath

slipping away in pale fires.

I barely hear you. The sheets

are louder than

your voice

—they flutter above you,

unfolding

like leaves in a book

falling from a shelf.

It is your self

falling, your self.

I wish I could

play with the wires

and put back the sound

that song

you sing in my sleep

Afterword

JANE HAYMAN

Last night I dreamed it all

in clear colors:

our house of weathered stone;

the sky, the river

blue and green as glass;

some lemon-colored mountains to the left

and, to the right, the rows

of golden lemon trees;

me in a long white dress, forever bridal

and you beside me, laughing,

your leopard face alive

(alive) in the lucid air.

Today the papers advertise your death.

The heart has failed

as it had failed so many times,

your heart, my heart.

Gone now, gone—

and gone that many-colored,

that elegant invention,

our unlived life.

Vigil

PATRICIA WELLINGHAM-JONES

The hospice nurse whispers

in your abandoned ear,

It’s all right to go,

Pat will be OK.

The cats hold their silent vigil.

Java hunches against your thigh,

Smudge crouches on your lap,

both watch my every move

without a twitch.

I pull up your desk chair, stretch

my arm between bed rails,

hold your frail flaccid hand,

gently stroke.

The afternoon sun

travels its course in the sky,

windows grow dim.

Just before full dark

the cats leap from your bed,

dash outside, disappear.

Your eyes flare open in a wild stare.

You gasp, take two spaced breaths.

Eyelids at half mast, you leave

on an exhalation.

Head bowed I sit,

your warm hand in mine,

and wait.

Minutes later, with a long sigh

I rise, close your eyes.

Press my lips to your forehead,

pick up the phone.

The cats don’t come back

until the next day.

Falling

MAUREEN TOLMAN FLANNERY

Coyote, wily as time, is used to pursuing

his swift nemesis off the edge of a cliff,

blurred legs spinning like wheels,

the momentum of chase propelling him

straight out over the canyon where his

being oblivious carries him, keeps him aloft.

Only when some vague sense of disequilibrium

suggest he check his ground does the looking down

send him plummeting through the nothing solid

where he is surprised to find himself.

For you the phone’s ring was the movement

forward—off the edge of the world,

that trajectory from which it almost seems

you should be able to reverse the propeller

of numb limbs spinning, flailing,

that they might carry you back to the rim

of something firm that would hold your weight.

But you were racing onto air and have looked down.

Now you are free falling

and cannot see the bottom.

Threshold

ANN SINCLAIR

The not-yet widow stands at the closet door,

Surveys the shirts suspended in dark air,

The shoes arranged in neat pairs on the floor.

Decisions must be made. From what he wore

Select the things his body and mind can bear.

The not-yet widow stands at the closet door.

His presence fills the space. Her memories soar

Though his are gone. She wishes he were here

To rearrange the shoes on the closet floor.

He’s not. One must decide. One can’t restore.

To give to charity is to declare.

The not-yet widow stands at the closet door.

This shirt with snaps, well washed, will suit him more,

These woolen slippers, familiar, soft with wear.

No more those well worn boots on the closet floor.

Who makes pronouncements? Who assumes the chore

Of stating what he comprehends or cares?

The not-yet widow stands at the closet door,

Surveys the shoes in neat pairs on the floor.

Ironing at Dawn

COOPER GALLEGOS

You stand here ironing before dawn

the long-sleeved white shirt

you make stiff with starch

stepping on the arm as it trails the floor

He didn’t come home last night

You expect the worst

certain the only thing

to keep him away

would be death

You imagine the funeral,

handing the fresh shirt to the mortician

Walking with grace like Jackie Kennedy

to view the body that looks back at you

with contempt buried beneath the full beard

His name in plastic letters on a sign at the door

like he always expected

Like a book signing

Ironing beneath the kitchen light at dawn

The first sense of widowhood hanging

comfortably like a shawl over

your shoulders

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