When I was running the FELIX reading series several years ago, I used to make a list every couple of months of poets that I wanted to bring to read for us in Madison. Belle Waring’s name was always on that list. I searched for her on the internet, learned that she had published two books in the 90s, Refuge<\/a><\/em> and\u00a0Dark Blonde<\/a><\/em>,\u00a0and even found that she was reading at a Split this Rock event in Washington, DC (this would have been in 2008, I think). While I found a now-defunct website that featured her work in 2008, I never got much further than that–I never could turn up an email address for her, for instance,\u00a0so I never did extend an invitation to her to read for us. I just filed her away as a poet I admired and wanted to meet one day. I felt sure that the human being behind the poems would be one worth knowing, and that mattered to me tremendously.<\/p>\n I make a podcast<\/a> now with a friend of mine who just finished his doctorate in nursing. We had a fellow nurse on as a guest, and I was thinking about what I could share for a segment at the end of the show where we read a piece of literature that has really moved us. Since they both worked as nurses, I thought of Belle Waring. It had been years since I’d done any searching, so I went to WorldCat<\/a> and found that she had\u00a0no new book publications since Sarabande published Dark Blonde<\/em> in\u00a01997. I checked out both of her books from the library. I read them, and was deeply\u00a0moved, especially by the poems in\u00a0Dark Blonde<\/em>.\u00a0Her writing voice reminded me in many ways of my wife’s, and since she was working on retooling her manuscript, I shared both of the books with her as well.<\/p>\n Here’s a small taste of Ms. Waring’s voice, which speaks to me most powerfully when she writes about her time in the caring profession. This is “Baby Random”, the second poem in\u00a0her first book,\u00a0Refuge<\/a>:<\/em><\/p>\n tries a nosedive, kamikaze, The kid almost hits the floor. I can see the headline: Why thanks. Young physician: “We have to change out of school. I tell him: “Keep it to a handshake, this Baby Random, birth weight a junkie with HIV. Never named him. No Fetus Can Beat Us. That\u2019s our motto. I have go when they die? Neruda wanted to know. Crows When Random cries, petit fish on shore, nothing a high-tech bellows that kicks in & out. Not color of graham crackers, throat oil on a wet street, I have friends who were thrown into prison, Latin courage. Some people have heart. Corazon. bad dreams. Some days I avoid my reflection in store Here’s “Nothing Happened,” the first poem from\u00a0Refuge<\/em>‘s second section:<\/p>\n Tyler scuffs oak leaves to frisk If this were a movie, I\u2019d laugh, but I\u2019ve got \u201cPlease, People say I used to be depressed all the time, This is “Country Life,” the second-to-last poem in the book:<\/p>\n You smell of ginger root Watch them get a little tight. entincellating light up the scullery A few months ago, I learned that Belle Waring was\u00a0dead.\u00a0After Laurel and I read her books, I decided that I wanted to send her a message to tell her a little about what her poetry had meant to me. I\u00a0spent a few hours searching for anything I could find about her. I had to wade through a lot of disambiguation, since there’s a prominent Crooked Timber blogger who shares her name, but I eventually I saw this death notice <\/a>from Sarabande, her publisher, in February of this year, which simply stated that she had died and shared a poem from\u00a0Dark Blonde\u00a0<\/em>encouraging someone not to take their life. I did a bit more digging and found this article<\/a>\u00a0from\u00a0a\u00a0NIH newsletter which filled in a bit of the backstory. Ms. Waring had battled cancer for several years and had joined the NIH in 2002, before becoming a writer-editor for the\u00a0NIH Record<\/em> in 2006.<\/p>\n Here’s what her co-workers said about her following her death:<\/p>\n “With the NIH Record<\/em>, the stories Belle enjoyed the most were about the ordinary people that make this place run. Belle was also a great mentor to a lot of people around here. She took people under her wing and nurtured them. … We spent hours talking about life in general, philosophy, my kids.” — Calvin Jackson<\/p>\n “Her respect for its science and public health mission and her affection for its people were evident in every story she turned in. She wrote as if she were talking to an intelligent, sympathetic and curious friend. That\u2019s what she transformed all of us into.” — Rich McManus<\/p>\n Belle was funny, lighthearted and selfless \u2026 Belle was a great listener and always saw the best in everybody \u2026 My kids\u2014both aspiring writers\u2014came to know her. She was a great teacher, empathetic and results-oriented. She got great joy from making things right. She was genuine and thoughtful; that\u2019s what I miss.” — Cyndi Burrus-Shaw<\/p>\n The final sentence of the NIH’s notice of Waring’s death stated\u00a0that she\u00a0was survived by her mother, Patricia Waring, of Chesterton, Maryland. When I searched to see if I could find contact information for\u00a0her mother, I found this story<\/a>\u00a0from 2006, in which Mrs. Waring gave her account of George Allen’s use of racist language as a young man. I have not found a way to contact Mrs. Waring, to describe my feelings about her daughter’s writing, but I’d like to. You would too, if you’d read her poems.<\/p>\n Even though she is now dead, you can listen to Belle Waring’s voice<\/a>\u00a0(in a reading and interview she gave to\u00a0Grace Cavalieri for her The Poet and the Poem series). You can even watch her read from Refuge<\/em><\/a>\u00a0(a video was made of her reading\u00a0in Pennsylvania in 1993). You can do these things, of course, and you can read her poems.<\/p>\n\n
\nwhen the intern flings open the isolette.<\/p>\n
\nDOC DUMPS AIDS TOT. Nice save, nurse,<\/p>\n
\nhis tube.” His voice trembles, six weeks<\/p>\n
\nyou\u2019ll be OK.” Our team resuscitated<\/p>\n
\none pound, eyelids still fused. Mother\u2019s<\/p>\n
\nWhere I work we bring back terminal preemies,<\/p>\n
\na friend who was thrown into prison. Where do birds<\/p>\n
\neat them. Bird heaven? Imagine the racket.<\/p>\n
\nsqueaks past the tube down his pipe. His ventilator\u2019s<\/p>\n
\nup to the nurses. Quiet: a pigeon\u2019s outside,<\/p>\n
\nwings spattered white, perched out of the rain.<\/p>\n
\nAmerican. Tortured. Exiled. Some people have<\/p>\n
\n<\/i>After a shift like tonight, I have the usual<\/p>\n
\nwindows. I just don\u2019t want anyone to look at me.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n
\nthe scent walking through Malcolm X Park.
\nFirst date. The arms of our jackets
\ngraze, sweet puff of romance. Then boom
\nI step on a syringe, the needle
\nquick as a pit viper hits my boot.<\/p>\n
\nworks stuck into my tread. \u201cJesus,
\ndon\u2019t touch it,\u201d says Tyler, and whips out
\nhis hankie to yank it.<\/p>\n
\nI\u2019m fine,\u201d but he started to fuss,
\nhailed a cab, told the hack to drive fast,
\ngot me home, sat me down to examine
\nThe Foot; a crap of red toe nail polish
\nleft over from August, skin intact. Then
\nhe held my foot in both hands.<\/p>\n
\nNothing Happened when they mean No Sex,
\nwhen the fact is every look counts. The sun
\nquivered in the wind outside whaling
\nthe trees, and shimmered over the wall. When I met
\nTyler\u2019s eyes in that witchy light, I breathed
\noff the beat and choked, like I was fourteen.<\/p>\n
\nand romance, by the way was not the cure.
\nI don\u2019t mind winter because I know
\nwhat follows. There are laws.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n
\nand cedar and a child’s
\nCrayola crayons. From miles around
\npeople flock to admire us
\nwaltzing in our kitchen.<\/p>\n
\nThe swans with necks entwined
\ntry to take the floor. The modest bull-
\ndogs dance the time-step. Our mirrored
\nglobe whirls into the night,<\/p>\n
\nstairs, riding the notes up
\nthrough the roof beams. Your hands are ten
\ntiger’s-eye butterflies. There is
\nnothing I would not do for you.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n
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