By Mary Maxwell
Published by Thistledown Press
$17.95 ISBN 978-1-77187-100-6
I read Saskatoon poet (and nurse) Mary Maxwell鈥檚 first book, Wind Leaves Absence, with interest and no small amount of admiration. Many first books of what鈥檚 often called confessional poetry 鈥� I prefer the word intimate 鈥� are a compendium of high\low events experienced over the writer鈥檚 lifetime, and what results is a wildly disparate package. While diversity can make for a lively read, we often see more seasoned writers tackle exclusive subjects, examining from multiple angles and probing more deeply to illuminate, better understand and process. Maxwell daringly takes on the landscape of grief, specifically the pain experienced upon the deaths of her father, two brothers (who died in car accidents two years apart), friends and patients. Religion 鈥� in particular the Catholicism she grew up with and appears to wrestle with (鈥渕iserable prayers鈥�) 鈥� is also front and centre in this collection.
In the first few poems the writer establishes mood with phrases that emotionally thrum, like bells in a deserted monastery: 鈥渢he wilderness between words,鈥� 鈥淭rousers fall from hangers\collapse on the floor,鈥� and 鈥淧ushing his walker through wet matted leaves.鈥� She does a spot on job of portraying the hopelessness of dementia. Her father must navigate 鈥渢he daily maze of the kitchen.鈥�
I found two memory-loss poems particularly moving. In 鈥淟ine on Paper,鈥� when her father tries to draw a beloved horse, Sandy, he manages the initial line to indicate the horse鈥檚 neck, then 鈥淗e puts the pencil down, looks at me\doesn鈥檛 know\what the next line should be鈥�. In the five-line poem 鈥淏irthday,鈥� he is signing a card for his wife and pauses because he 鈥� [doesn鈥檛] remember how to spell wonderful 鈥�. This is powerful because it objectively shows her father鈥檚 decline. I expect that Maxwell鈥檚 nursing background鈥搕hose in the medical field cannot dwell on the inevitable losses鈥揾as had a positive influence on her poetry: there鈥檚 no melodrama here. This is just the way it is. But sometimes the medical frankness is rattling, ie: in 鈥淥ld Man鈥檚 Friend,鈥� after the poet鈥檚 father chokes and is admitted to hospital, the presiding doctor declares that pneumonia will move in. He 鈥渃loses the chart,鈥� and says 鈥� 鈥� We call it the old man鈥檚 friend鈥欌��.
These mostly quiet poems often reveal life鈥檚 disquieting ironies, ie: funeral orchids have 鈥渃hoked\fallen over\gone dry鈥� while in another room 鈥渂irthday flowers\loudly proclaim spring鈥�. After a night of summer joy-riding a friend鈥檚 daughter remains unresponsive in hospital. When the poet walks home from this scene, 鈥淐ars roar past, music\blaring, girls laughing鈥�. In 鈥淪weet Old Lady,鈥� the author\nurse finds a diabetic woman鈥檚 apartment filled with candy while her feet have 鈥済one black,鈥� the 鈥渟weetness eating [her] alive鈥�.
Maxwell does not obscure the raw realities of death, nor does she makes saints of her dead. In a poem titled 鈥淔ool,鈥� she writes 鈥淚鈥檓 standing in line at The Bay to buy\a pair of pants for my brother鈥檚 corpse鈥�. She shows us that just as winter 鈥渇alters into spring,鈥� so must we move on after unfathomable grief, and writing it all out is good medicine.
This book is available at your local bookstore or from www.skbooks.com.
