My third Pushcart nomination! And then

Walter watches the ducks

Walter and Betty collaborate

Walter in winter

Thank you thank you to Dale Wisely, F. John Sharp, Annie Stenzel, Bill McCloud, Steve Klepetar, Ina Roy-Faderman, and F. J. Bergmann for nominating my poem "And then" for the 2023 Pushcart awards. Right Hand Pointing is champion of the small but mighty and I am always honored to appear there. But this is much more. My other two Pushcart nominations I could rationalize away:  it was a new journal; I had done the editor a kindness, blah blah. This one has no such handle. And, really, this is a double endorsement: the same group nominated the poem also for Best of the Net.

And we are on the verge of the five-year anniversary of his death. I am on the verge of the five-year anniversary of his death. I will never be done grieving, just as I will never be done loving him, but I am moving through grief, and continuing to live.

 

The Beautiful Leaves, the book arrives

 

You’ve been hearing me talk about this collection for a few years, and now it is about to see light of day. The Beautiful Leaves , the collection of my poems about my beloved last husband Walter, will be published on August 8 by Pelekinesis Press (specifically, the Bamboo Dart division). Usually, I feel somewhat constrained about promoting my collections, but not this time. I feel that I am honoring Walter as he deserves. I feel also that my particular take on death and dying is not one you commonly encounter, and that my approach might strike a chord with other bereaved folk.

If you would like me to sign a copy and send it to you, please send $12 ($9 for the book, $3 for packaging and mailing, to my PayPal account, pieplate8@yahoo.com. Be sure to include your address in the notes. If you prefer Zelle, send me an email to the above address, or leave a comment, and I’ll send you the account number. Venmo also works:  @karen-greenbaum-maya. Of course, if we will see each other soon, or if you are planning on attending my book launch, or any of my readings, then just the $9.

I am so happy to have this collection come out. Walter loved the poems I wrote before his death, and I am glad to leave testimony about him.

Long Time Gone, but Well-Remembered

The first photo shows Walter breaking bread for breakfast in the flat we rented in Paris. Breakfast is baguette tradition, some chevre, Normandy butter, and a tangerine. Cafe au lait to come, in the nice little footed bowl. The second photo shows the locks of love mounted on the Pont des Arts, before everyone from all over the world started leaving locks, locks upon locks linked to locks, and the whole thing became too heavy and started peeling away from the bridge itself. Now the bridge is faced with thick pale green glass? or some kind of plastic? not unattractive, but nothing like the panoply of locks. Ours is the tiny black one at the upper left.

I have been working on a collection of my poems about Walter, sending it out to publishers. This week, The Beautiful Leaves was accepted by Bamboo Dart Press. They hope to have it printed by August 2023. The poems encompass Walter's aging and my grief about losing him. The poems themselves date from 2012 to 2022. I know that there is nothing new about loving someone who then dies, but I do believe that I have something unusual to say about that experience, namely, looking at the pain and the beauty directly of losing someone you have loved deeply and who loved you that way as well. I wrote these pieces partly to be honest about the horror and pity, but also to honor him as he deserved.

I had expected that getting the manuscript accepted would leave me joyous. This is not so. I have felt confused and weirdly relieved. I believe that, as glad as I always am when my work is appreciated by someone else, wrapping up this particular project means also wrapping up a chapter in my life. Ready or not, there it goes.

Joyeux Quatorze Juillet

Walter and I always wished that we could have managed to be in Paris, or anywhere in France, for Quatorze Juillet, or Bastille Day as we know it in English. We could afford once a year, and that in the spring, when prices and temperatures were kinder, but we'd always heard great things about the joy of the community celebration. 

We admired the way that dead soldiers were in the national consciousness.

We were moved by the ready understanding that loss and grief are part of life.

We were tickled by the way that the Eiffel Tower peeked in and out and around public life in Paris, enjoyed and mocked, ready to be bought by tourists who were not us.

So much pleasure in the reliable breakfast in the local café, where the waiter greeted us with "Bonjour madam, m'sieur, comme d'habitude?" [Good morning, folks, the usual?]

We adored the way people of all ages met in public for deep conversation. Probably these two were also 'comme d'habitude'.

I was tickled all to hell that the French national bird (unofficially) is the rooster, symbol of an agricultural nation where food matters.

We'd always heard that the local fire departments threw parties for their neighborhoods, with music, food, wine, and dancing. I'd have loved to have taken part in one of those, especially with Walter in his better days.

You can find the French flag, displayed sparingly and respectfully, not draped around people's asses and plooped on their heads. Le Petit Nicolas was the bearer of the security of the French middle class for many years.

Happy birthday, France. Happy birthday, nation of Méthode D, of making things work, of looking out for as many as possible, young and old, of endless discussion and veneration of mathematics, of belles lettres, of living well every day.

I love you, goodbye, I love you

My beloved husband of 35 years, Walter Maya, died on December 16 of lung cancer. He died at home on hospice, free of needles or tubes or any of the futile torments to keep him 'alive' without the capacity to live. His death leaves a vast emptiness in my life, the more so as I had spent most of the last three years taking him to medical appointments, helping him manage activities that he had previously performed independently, taking over all the running of the household and of our lives, and generally loving and reassuring him that I did not love him less as I cared for him more. He was--he was flat-out wonderful, a man of integrity, passion, and wit, with a sly sense of the ridiculous and a love of beauty that extended far beyond his field, organic chemistry. He was my soulmate and companion and dearest friend. (Not incidentally, he was also gorgeous!) I never met anyone else like him, and I doubt I will again. Goodbye, dear love. Goodbye.

The thing is, during his last four months, I essentially stopped writing. I couldn't encompass processing what I was living into poetry. Revision seemed trivial, submitting poems even more so.  I don't yet have time--not really--not with a memorial service and the godforsaken holidays and the notifications and all. Yet somehow, some energy has been freed up. I don't have poems yet, but I do have writing:  fragments, ideas, metaphors. I haven't worked on any of it yet, but I'm making notes. We'll see what comes.

Meredith Burton Mitchell, 1927-2017

My dear friend, my former analyst and supervisor, my mentor and quasi-father, Meredith Burton Mitchell, died today, two months short of his ninetieth birthday. He had suffered increasingly poor health over the last several years. His first heart attack came 35 years ago, late for the men in his family, most of whom died before they were 50. He labored mightily to support his health, his heart, despite several other miserable conditions. His big conceptual contribution to Jungian psychology was to recognize that the opposite of the hero is the victim, and he was determined not to be a victim. Here he is at the left, rejoicing at my wedding, where he was one of the chuppah bearers. The chuppah is the traditional canopy under which the bridal pair stands, and Meredith joyfully helped consecrate my union with my husband.

 Here are Meredith and my husband talking about life--children, retirement, deep and playful thoughts--in Meredith's airy home. I was so happy that they got along so well together.

Roberta, Meredith's wife/widow, and Meredith. They found each other after much travail, and were such a loving couple.

I've been grieving him all day today, and probably will be grieving for some time yet. I met him when I was 17, and he saw me into adulthood and launched me into psychology. What strength, what empathy, what all he overcame himself. Very much a human being, but so aware of the power of the transference and of his responsibility to hold that projection until the patient is ready to re-integrate its power. Thank you. Thank you. We love you. Good-bye.