Poetry and Music: How Each Word in a Poem Reflects an Emotion by Anna Delamerced

Life is full of joy and sorrow. The melodies of life involve not only high moments, but low ones, too. My grandmother has lived through more than ninety decades. In those years she has endured war, found love, mourned the loss of relatives, suffered illness, survived a train crash, and discovered new happiness in grandchildren.

 Each day carries a crossroads of pain and hope, suffering and healing. In my poem Evening Music, I sought to portray these crossroads. Words like “pillow”and “wooden bench” were written in the same line to juxtapose the softness and harshness of life. “Paper fan” and “electric fan” are used to show the fragility and strength in my grandmother. I wrote the final line, “She plays the piano even in the dark” to show that even if my grandmother has suffered much, she still sees light in the dark and makes something beautiful.

Ellen Sazzman’s poem Assisted Living Lullaby (Fall 2016 Intima) resonated with me and echoed similar sentiments. The words “lullaby” and “assisted living” brought together images of youth and old age in my mind. Life seems cyclical, as we sing lullabies to both infants and seniors. Music compels us to meditate on life, stirring memories of a wide breadth of emotions, from sad memories to happy ones.

Working in the medical world has reiterated the juxtaposition of the sorrows and joys of life. Each day in the hospital sees both life and death. How do we navigate all this? Do the sorrows make the joys all the sweeter? I do not have all the answers, but perhaps it is in poetry where I can wrestle with these thoughts and experiences. Writing allows us to wade in the gray, to make music in the dark.

Anna Delamerced is a medical student at the Warren Alpert Medical School of Brown University. She received funding through the Bray Medical Humanities Fellowship to pursue a year-long project, focusing on poetry for kids in the hospital. Her works have been published in KevinMD, Medscape, Abaton, Plexus, Murmur, Cornerstone and in-Training. She is passionate about listening to people tell their stories. Her poem “Evening Music” appears in the Spring 2020 Intima.

‘New Normal. Precious Normal.’ A Reflection about Loss and Love in the Wake of COVID-19 by poet Sophia Wilson

In her poem “Oxygen” (Fall 2018 Intima), Hollis Kurman captures how poignantly the proximity of illness or death can alter the way we view others and the world:

‘…he lies
wordless, feet stilled and arms bound.
His glasses have been removed,
His pockets emptied. A life fills

those pockets, the tokens and coins,
Addresses and appointments. Cash, still.
Hints of barter expired.’

Currently, here in New Zealand, the combination of a small population (total five million), and nationwide lockdown has flattened the initial COVID-19 curve. There have been no new cases for most days over the past two weeks. The country has re-opened schools and businesses. Domestic tourism is being aggressively encouraged. There’s been a rush on fast food. Traffic is back on the roads in force.

Simultaneously, there is a risk of complacency and resurgence of infection.

It’s almost hard to recall, how we felt at the beginning of lockdown. As circumstances brought about by the pandemic change rapidly, so too, do our emotions and responses.

While the focus in New Zealand is on a return to ‘normal,’ there is also a sense of the importance of moving forward differently, in particularly with regards to the environment and each another. Today, as it happens, is not only the release date of the Spring 2020 Intima, in which my poem “Don’t Leave” appears, but the day my husband (an essential worker and subject of the poem), moves back into our home—a cause for celebration. It’s also the day I receive news that a close relative is intubated in intensive care in a Sydney hospital, with suspected COVID-19 infection. He’s forty-five years old with no comorbidity. Our loved one was well when we spoke to him last week. It’s an acute reminder the nightmare is not over.

What wouldn’t we do to keep those we love safe and close? As Hollis Kurman so movingly writes:

‘Wait, we’ve not yet

spoken today; wait, take my oxygen;
wait, the policeman called you “sir” in the
middle of the night, carrying you back to bed.
Wait.’

Both our poems express an acute appreciation for the preciousness of other people, those so familiar to us we have come to take them for granted. In my case, as for so many of us right now,  this heightened appreciation has been catalysed forcefully by COVID-19.  I hope that, like the quiet, paused moments of lockdown, it does not slip away amid the hustle and bustle of a return to ‘normality.’

Thank you, Hollis. Your poem will stay with me. And thank you, Intima, for all the brave and inspiring work you support and share.

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Sophia Wilson is a New Zealand-based writer and mother of three with a background in arts, medicine and psychiatry. Her work has appeared in StylusLit, Not Very Quiet, Ars Medica, Hektoen International, Intima, Distāntia off topic poetics, NZ Poetry Shelf, Poems in the Waiting Room, Corpus, The Otago Daily Times and elsewhere. In 2019 the manuscript for her first children’s novel, “The Guardian of Whale Mountain” was selected in the top ten for the Green Stories Competition (UK). She was shortlisted for the Takahē Monica Taylor Prize and a finalist in the Robert Burns Poetry Competition. She was winner of the 2020 International Writers Workshop Flash Fiction Competition and is the recipient of a 2020 Creative New Zealand grant.