I really appreciated Dennis Greene's fine poem, and can't help but
feel there are many other good poets out there with Parkinson's. I'm new
on the list. Still have a strong interest in Parkinson's as I was a
caretaker for my wife, Margaret, who was diagnosed with PD at age 69 in
1993. Her PD developed so rapidly that she could not feed herself or
walk unassisted in the year before she died in December, 1997.
Margaret had written poetry all her life, and her poems had been
praised by such outstanding writers as Robert Penn Warren, Marianne
Moore, and Dorothy Day. Even after her PD became severe, she never
stopped writing, and even managed to turn out two poems in painfully
scrawled, tiny handwriting about Parkinson's in the year before her
death. I know writing poetry sustained her, and helped her maintain her
astonishing grace and courage. I was moved when Maryland poets published
a memorial book about her called "Margaret: A Life That Was Poetry,"
which contains many of her best poems, as well as poems about her. If
you would like more info about this book and her poetry, please send me
an E-mail at [log in to unmask]
I'd encourage anyone with PD who likes to write poetry to keep at
it -- it will not only help sustain your own spirits, but also bring joy
to others.
Below are two poems by Margaret. The first is pre-Parkinson's; the
second written months before her death.
Lost Boy
Acadia Park, August,
Mt. Cadillac, Maine.
A boy is lost
as my son was years ago.
His mother distraught,
asks if I saw him,
in a blue striped shirt.
I share her need to
call out his name
through the fir forests,
alongside streams.
A rustling of aspens,
hawks, chipmunks.
Late afternoon.
The whole weight
of the mountains
plunges into a world
of nightmares.
Owls watch
lured by a full moon,
low stars, roots of mint,
Dark coming on;
ovberhead a helicopter.
Suddenly, he pedals into view.
He did not know he was lost.
For a long time he stood
listening for dear.
PARKINSON'S
Every morning it is so hard to know
what to wear
I dress so slowly
talk so slowly
My feet stick to the floor
I can't rise from a chair.
My body trembles inwardly.
Rasping voice,
Mouth wet with saliva,
I dry with kleenex.
Hallucinations often
trip me up, cats and dogs,
children playing with a hat,
strangers appear and disappear
mysteriously in our living room.
I want to know why.
Who brought me to this condition?
