This Poem was Submitted By: Jana Buck Hanks On Date: 2004-07-16 19:53:27 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!To Listen to Music While Reading this Poem, just Click Here!
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Oh, Silent Sleep fat-assed women in white
sat smokin’ and jokin’
playin’ card, swillin’ coke-a-cola
the nursery not their reality
sanity raveled at the edges
like a prayer shawl caught
on barbed wire
incubator code blue, tiny fingers and toes
the spittin’ image with black hair
nobody cared to check
the news wasn’t new
death has a way of sharpenin’
the senses and forcin’ me
away from livin’ mothers
an ironic event turnin’ hysterics inside out
instead guilt consumed character consummation
of thirty-nine weeks work in progress
part of me died with you
leavin’ me to wonder at the punishment
for not wantin’ children fourteen months apart
why did you believe me?
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Copyright © July 2004 Jana Buck Hanks
Additional Notes:
For Daniel Drake Hanks, Jr.
This Poem was Critiqued By: marilyn terwilleger On Date: 2004-08-05 18:01:14
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.40000
Hi Jana,
I am on vactaion but had a minute to check the link and found this doleful poem. It affected me
so and I just have to tell you that it did. I have never lost a child and even though I have lost my
parents and my husband I think the loss of a child is the very most sorrow. Even if that child was a
premie that you were neve allowed to know it is still the ultimate grief. Your description of the nurses
'fat-assed women in white sat smokin and jokin' is unfortunately accuratee of some nurses. Personally I
can't imagine being so callous that they can't see a mother's fear and grief. Those kind should never be
an R.N. in the first place....medical perfessionals always need to be kind and understanding. I work in
a hospital and I have seen the scene you so aptly describe. The words you wrote that hit me the hardest
are...'incubater cold blue, tiny fingers and toes...death has a way of sharpin the senses...turnin hysterics
inside out...guilt consumed...thirty-nine weeks work in progress...part of me died with you leavin me to
wonder at the punisment for not wantin children fourteen months apart'...the most sorrowful words of the
entire poem are...'why did you believe me?' When I became pregnant with our third child I felt much the
same way about another baby. We could not afford another at the time and I was so upset. But then I
hemmorraged and almost lost him and I thought the same thing...that I was being punished. Thank heavens
I did not lose him and he was born two weeks late and healthy. My heart goes out to you for your loss and
applaude you for writing such a besutiful poem about a very sad event.
Blessings....Marilyn
This Poem was Critiqued By: Joanne M Uppendahl On Date: 2004-07-31 14:39:03
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Jana:
This is a tough one. I didn't realize that you'd lost an infant. My heart
goes out to you, for as a mother I know the intense pain of the loss of
a child can never be fully assuaged. Perhaps less so, because the mother
in this poem didn't even have the opportunity to get to know her child. A
son unknown, a lifetime pain carried. My sympathies on the loss of Daniel.
The poem assumes a kind of tough bravado which belies the extreme anguish
felt. The careless nurses, "smokin' and jokin'" don't seem alert to the
needs of the tiny infant. Of course, at the end of the poem, the speaker
reveals that she feels that *she* is responsible for the little one's
passing. Because of the closely spaced pregnancy. I want to argue with
her, to say that I doubt if there is a mother living who welcomes new
pregnancy folded upon another one immediately. With two in diapers,
two teething, two to lug about, the burden is immense. Yet most of the
babies seem to arrive and thrive. It isn't the mother's fault for not
immediately feeling the welcome she might have had things been different.
There are babies born, I might argue -- products of rape, conceived in
brutality, in the midst of war and dire poverty to mothers who have so
little to spare that one would think no child could survive. But most
do. This is all by way of saying -- it wasn't her (the speaker's)
fault! Perhaps it is in something which could not have been anticipated,
a tiny chromosome, or some other unknown factor that fault may be found.
I tend to think in terms of destiny. This child went from fetus to
newborn, to angel - skipping the intermediate residence on Earth to take
up once more among the stars. I think he probably peeks in on you, from
time to time, and if he could, I think he might say, "Mommy, don't feel
sad anymore! I am pure spirit, free of the tethers of earth and here with
grandma and grandpa (or others already in spirit of the family).
sanity raveled at the edges
like a prayer shawl caught
on barbed wire
I cannot image a better description of extreme anguish following the death
of a newborn than you have given above.
incubator code blue, tiny fingers and toes
the spittin’ image with black hair
nobody cared to check
I am so very, very sorry. It infuriates me that somehow, someone may have missed
a symptom or clue that this tiny one needed help.
the news wasn’t new
death has a way of sharpenin’
the senses and forcin’ me
away from livin’ mothers
Is it "sleep" that evades the new mother, her senses unbearably sharp, as if
to reach back and hear the tiny cry that may have gone unheard? Oh, the
pain of these lines!
an ironic event turnin’ hysterics inside out
instead guilt consumed character consummation
of thirty-nine weeks work in progress
part of me died with you
leavin’ me to wonder at the punishment
for not wantin’ children fourteen months apart
I hope the writer has since realized that she wasn't being punished - that another
destiny was written for this little one. I do understand that this wound never
completely heals, and marvel at your ability to write this stunning poem, which
completely knocks the wind out of me, and leaves me with tears making vision
blurry.
why did you believe me?
The final line finishes the poem with utmost clarity and the agonized question.
These recall, at least for this reader, these words: "Of all the words of tongue or pen,
the saddest are these... it might have been" by John Greenleaf Whittier. Having lost a
son, (I realize the huge difference in age and cause of death) I feel we share this
sadness - of this child's children which will not be born, of his laughter and tears
unheard, of his accomplishments unrealized. There's not much more I can say, except
that you are one incredible writer/woman, and I am proud to meet you here, in this
poem. Brave, brave poem.
Brava for courage, for strength! Kudos for opening the door so that others, too, may
grieve along with you.
All my best, always
Joanne
This Poem was Critiqued By: Turner Lee Williams On Date: 2004-07-18 13:11:45
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Jana--This is truely dark and written from an eclectic emotional place. Excellent
descriptors/verbiage used to express angry/remorse/regret for a personal and painful
loss. Furthermore, the speaker infers that their thoughts somehow may have caused the
fateful results to transpire.
I can not imagine what agony this event has put you through, but I will say that unless
you forgive yourself and or seek some assistance, your other family members may be/feel
neglected. Your free verse poem produces an emotional elegy that touches those areas
reserved for only the most somber events.
I hope I have not misstated your vivid rendering of a sad and heartwrenching tragedy.
Thanks for sharing-maybe this will serve as a catharsis. TLW
This Poem was Critiqued By: Claire H. Currier On Date: 2004-07-17 19:58:54
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Oh Jana how difficult this poem must have been to write yet filled with your very heart and soul......well structured, word flow brings for images of what has taken place and brings a cry to one's heart for the deep loss felt within.......as your own heart breaks we pray with you my dear poet........my memory falls back to a time my six month son had pneumonia and was hospitalized.....how I hated leaving him that night......my husband and I spent the day caring for him and were told it was time to leave. A nurst took my son from me and placed him in a plastic tent.......it covered him all over but it made no noise.......I could not forget the quietness of the room and though we were already in the parking area I turned and ran all the way back to the nursery where my son laid eating up what little oxygen he had in his tent......I grabbed the sides and tore it apart, I took my son and went to the main desk where I called my doctor who immediately returned to the hospital. The nurse was discharged that night and I was allowed to spend the rest of the night with my son....otherwise I would have taken him home.....I thank God the outcome was good but it could have been so bad.........Thank you for posting this Jane and for sharing your loss with us, your pain and your sorrow....you have a very special 'angel' whose name is Daniel Drake Hanks, Jr. watching over you and I know he wants you to be happy again, to know his heart forgave you the day he returned home to his Father in heaven. Be safe my friend, God Bless, Claire
This Poem was Critiqued By: Jennifer j Hill On Date: 2004-07-17 09:01:49
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
Hi Jana,
While reading this poignant piece of your heart, I felt the emotional energy of the poet,
flowing through my own body. Tears are flowing as I feel what is probably only a sliver of
your pain. Anyone who has lost a child knows the devestation that comes
with the loss is thought-comsumming, and in the beginning even to the point of robbing
us from our communication skills with the world around us. But poet, it is good to see
that you have at least moved beyond that point to a healthy expression of your grief,
because I know even that sometimes feels immpossible.
ANGER flows like a turbulent flood stage river here, first anger with the nursury nurses
whom you trusted to watch over your treasure while you rested your body weary from childbirth,
then with yourself for fleeting selfish thoughts you know you didn't really mean and of course
with the God who knows everything and certainly must have known that you didn't mean it.
This is such a profound description:
"sanity raveled at the edges
like a prayer shawl caught
on barbed wire"
I'm so sorry for your loss and please know that my thoughts and prayers are with you. I can
tell that this poem flowed off your pen straight from your heart. Thanks for writing this
to let other mothers know they are not alone.
Blessings,
Jennifer
This Poem was Critiqued By: Wayne R. Leach On Date: 2004-07-16 20:46:08
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Sad and touching tribute to a lost child beautifully crafted. Started on a light-hearted tone, but I soon realized this was not to continue. Very cleverly done as the line progression draws the reader into the heart-wrenching truth. The colloquial language deviations were another attention getter, too. Nice job. I was distracted by your spelling of "Coca-Cola", and wonder if it might have been intentional. I see nothing else I would touch. Thanks for a nice poem, notwithstanding the sadness of its content. Peace. wrl
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