Cancer Poetry

Cancer poetry
Written between March and December, 2004, when I had stage 3 colon cancer
Vicki Robin
P.O. Box 1501
Langley, WA 98260



Spring
March 25, 2004
The morning of my surgery

Swollen with fat-belly buds birthing leaves and flowers and fruits and sweet honey summer
We awaken from long winter's darkness along with the crocuses,
spirits thread-bare, worn by loneliness for our lover, the sun
out we come from hibernation, full of stories about rebirth and chattering yes.

yet from years sitting at this garden window
riding the seasons that pass like ocean swells
rocked into knowing the ageless thrumming of the summer-winter summer-winter beat
these buds speak not of ripples dancing with light moments that pass in a flash
but of the breathing of the earth
out with spring
in with winter
pausing at the equinoxes as on the crest of a wave
when up has ended and down hasn't come and you hover,
an eagle before the dive, in that wild in-between when all is visible, when all is visible
or like that pause in breathing when out is over and in isn't yet
and something the sun will never see appears...
a shimmering ocean of now.



Chemo
Vicki robin
June 1, 2004
After round one of chemo

So next time you do that chemo, dearie,
Remember this
You will get dressed up in your finest duds and smiles
All chic and attitude
While your insides are screaming
No
No
No
While your mind is shushing all your beautiful screaming cells
There there, you’ll croon
Now now, you’ll soothe
It will only hurt for…

A fucking eternity
Yes
You will go down in your slinky duds to the poison center and say,
I’ll have some more, Maude,
On the rocks
Straight up into
My tired veins

Straight into all my baby cells, those bright hopeful new lives
And I will have to tell them they are just
Collateral damage in a war they didn't start and will never understand

And they will burn
Like all the tender bodied creatures of this earth who are poisoned by our will to have our way
Like mosquitoes and slugs and rats and every leafy thing we deem a weed
They will burn
According to the instructions on the box that says, without shame, "guaranteed to kill..."
Kill that one little confused cancer cell that's wandering, separated from the home where it was born, looking for a place to unfold its destiny.
Just like me.

Yes.
You will suck it up and gussy up and take yourself down to that cancer center and say
“What poison you serving today, Maude, I’ll take the special one
The one
That burns

Hair
Mouth
Tongue
Throat
Stomach
Intestines
Asshole

That burns and blisters
That frightens every little newborn cell
Screaming
Like that
Frail child
In Vietnam
After
Napalm.

So that I will live?



Cleaning
For Taylor
Vicki Robin
June 2004
My first house-sitting place on Vashon Island; moved during worst side effects from round one

I couldn’t stop cleaning
Dust and grime and webs and
Everything that shined
Showed the next
Grime and webs and dust and so…

I couldn’t stop cleaning
Because he’d put a teddy bear on his pillow
Now my pillow for a while
As I live in his house by the water
Which is living inside his love, really

Inside a love so big even the sky can’t hold it
Because he said, “Feel free” and left for 12 days
Giving me tides to heal and waves to soothe and water to…

Clean, I couldn’t stop cleaning
Because, weeping, I find I can’t feel free to take without giving
To be in a love so big that it can hold him and me and the sky and more
So big it doesn’t need me to give, but I need to or I will die of shame

Cleaning the shame from my soul
Shame at being so small and needing so much
From him and them and the sky and the sea and…

God, I can’t stop cleaning or I will feel the crashing weight of this wearisome need
Dios mio! I need, I need, I need, I’m so sorry I will never stop needing…

To clean or I will know a debt I can never repay just
By scrubbing the grime from this world with my life just
By polishing the pain and grief and good grief…

I can’t stop cleaning or this cancer will sneer
“I am bigger than you,” as it
Squats in this house refusing to move,
Searing my pretties while spreading its fire.

I can’t.

And so I take something small, a shelf perhaps, and clean it
Soft sponge, warm water, stroking with care
The small things here in this house by sea
Spice jars and spoons and saucepans
And learn, by cleaning, that small is no sin
And weak is no shame
And at least I am here

Cupped, not crushed,
Between Death and God,
Warmed by water and his “feel free” love and
I, too, can be
Cleaned.



Empty before filling
Vicki robin
August 3, 2004
As I suffered through side effects from round two

empty your bowl
your stomach
your bowel
be hungry
empty your day
your week
your year
have time
empty your closet
your shelves
your drawers
be simple
empty your mind
your heart
your swarm of opinions and ways
be still

we do not know desire
we do not wake at 4 in the morning
with a strange feeling of something wanting to enter our emptiness.
who is this intruder come to penetrate us,
to plant the seeds of ‘next’ in our field of open now?

this is serious, for much is lost in letting such a stranger in

do we want a poem
a lover
a walk in the moonlight
do we want more food than we need
more respect
or power
or allure
heavy burdens that will never let us empty again?

beware

we do not know want
we do not allow lack to build
until we salivate
until our stomachs growl
until an honest need can come
dusty hat in hand
with an honest request

our fullness upon fullness
says
“here lives fear,
sell me what you will
for in my house
nothing is ever enough.”

it says,
“i have heard of a universe that will never let me down,
but i have lost faith.
i do not trust.
if i do not pack my life with
people and things
i will starve
for nothing and no one is there for me.”

spin
in the vast emptiness
trailing the dust of your past like galaxies
sink
into the gossimer fullness of the space in between
feel
the touch of this velvet lover who has
waited, waited
for you to be
done

empty your bowl
your stomach
your bowel
be hungry
empty your day
your week
your year
have time
empty your closet
your shelves
your drawers
be simple
empty your mind
your heart
your swarm of opinions and ways
be still
be peace



Lessons
Vicki Robin
August 18, 2004
As the side effects began to recede

Surely
For all the anguish
There is a gift

Surely
For all the insult
To tender cells and self
There is some wisdom

Surely
For all the knives and poisons
Some trace of words should stay
Some reminder to the well
Of what the ill can tell

Surely
There’s something more than
Brush your teeth
Take your pills
Say your prayers
Touch your toes

Surely
This valley of the shadow of death
Has more truth in it than
Eat your vegetables
Chew well
Don’t overdo

Surely
Having stood on the edge of the abyss
Having borne the howling winds
Tattering my life, silencing my plans
Some whisper will come to stay the willful one
Now returning to claim her throne.

What can I say to her
This Queen of Heaven
About the Hell she’ll soon forget?
What will draw her glance and slow her step
As she catches the scent again of
New lands … new quests?

Will she listen if I say…
“This too shall pass”
If I say…
“In the end all that counts is
receiving and giving
and kindness
and reverence
and gently touching this sacred thing called
living.”

Will she – big, bold, beautiful – turn her head if I whisper,
“Cherish,”
If I say
“Breathe”
If I invite her to pause
Lay down her glorious crown
Take off her wing-ed shoes
Feel the cool grass
And hear the one-life’s
Sweet melodieslike angels singing
Like angels singing?

Surely she will.
Surely.
She will.



Out to pasture
By Vicki Robin
September 29, 2004
As I realized I was no longer who I was… but who was i?


Was it the ankle that never set right?
Or the patch of mange that wouldn’t heal,
That wept and bled and attracted flies?
Or just that she didn’t win anymore,
Couldn’t earn her keep?
Whatever.
One day the old trainer
Clucking, talking sweet, apple in his leathery palm
Led her from the stables and
Out to pasture.

She stood there for days
Still.
Blinking.

Then she pushed her mighty, rich chocolate breast against the fence
Until it creaked and bowed.
Not quite able to remember what in her heyday she might have done.
Jump.
Run.
With tail high, nostrils flared and
Rivers of salty sweat criss-crossing the delta of her flanks.

The racehorse in her
Twitched her mane
Pawed the ground
Sniffed freedom in the air
Saw again that opening in the race between the pounding hooves and pumping rumps
Every cell alive with get in.
And win.

But something else was there
Something new
This fence.
This limit to her will
This being stopped
And all she did was lean and whinny like a nag
Whinny like a stupid nag.

Catching a scent she turned her head, like a bee turns its whole round body towards a blossom.

A farmer in a distant field was cutting oats.
Methodically driving his tractor up and down the rows
A steady whisper of thwack thwack, oat grass falling beneath the cutting blades,
A steady commotion of pistons and great tires – tall as farm-boys –
bearings grinding, treads pushing thick loam down, out, back and over.

It was the cell honey of the cut oats that called her.
Heavenly scents.
That other instinct – pleasure – floods sharp saliva under her tongue.
The smell of freshness, the remembered feel of green sugar pumping down her throat,
Lured, she turns further.
Her great brown breast now leaves the fence
Her fine leg lifts, steps back and moves her towards those fragrant fields
Towards green honey taste as lips swirl freshness into her mouth.

The pasture is lush, high with grass and shimmering with life
A big cottonwood stands in the middle, promising shade and delicious scratches for that patch that never heals
And water somewhere near.

She moves slowly, feeling the easy sway of her back, flicking flies off her haunches with her long tail.
Some other memories come, of the smell of her mother’s rump, always near, always promising safety and milk.
Of a life not of running, but standing in tall grasses, head slightly up
Sorting through a bouquet of scents
Not knowing who or what she was.

Colt-, racehorse- and nag-minds join in her flesh
As her head buries itself in fresh grass, lips sending clumps towards her teeth which grind in easy circles
Sweet green honey, sweet green honey flowing.
This new mind, this mind of work and pleasure, of youth and fullness and age
Comes alive as she ruminates in the clover.
As she leans into the cottonwood and satisfies that itch
As she drinks from the stream the cottonwood said would be there
As she drinks from the stream of all beasts who live and die
As she drinks a new knowing of what it means to have a life
As she tastes for the first time some new flavor called death.

Her ears prick. A sound.
Refreshed she runs towards it
Not to win but to feel, to feel, to feel
Who she is in her essence.

There, in the pasture, she rears
And whinnies like a colt, like a stallion, like lion might roar
And the racehorses, clad in blinders and blankets,
Pampered and prettied and feeling their oats
Pause.
Their heads turn towards the pasture
Towards this strangeness
This knowing
This promise of life.
They feel their future in that sound.
They feel the plains and running and snorting and freedom.

But their jockeys rein them in.



Cancer tribe
Vicki Robin
February 26, 2005
At a cancer care retreat

We are the tribe of the
Cut
Burned and
Poisoned

We are the ones
Who’ve been healed by our pain.

We are the ones who’ve
felt death’s breath
Behind us

Cancer has spoken:
“Your life’s not the same.”

We are the grievers
For life before cancer
When out bodies were free of the
Tracks made by knives

But pain has not bowed us
And death has not caught us
And our bodies still throb
With lust for our lives

Yes we are the tribe of the
Cut
Burned and
Poisoned
And our souls sing out yes
And our wounds make us strong.



Moving to Vashon
February 2005
Upon leaving the island I went to for healing

I was moved by my mother’s womb to be born and then
Everything moved me to tears and laughter and wonder.
Pink and orange, smooth and scratchy, sweet and tangy,
And the soft whooshing of blood in my ears.
Every noise, every sight moved me to crawl and walk and talk.
I wanted everything in my mouth.
I ate milk and bananas and toast and peas and chicken and words…
Oh when I found them I ate words and made sentences
I ate paragraphs and made pictures in my mind
I ate lectures and made meaning
I found ideas, everywhere ideas, and they moved me.
Moved me so.
Moved me so I gave my heart to these shiny ideas, ideals
And moved across country following them…
To Canada and California and Mexico and Wisconsin
To Arizona and Colorado and Idaho and Washington and Seattle…
And there I became the mover, my words moving others to be free
But me, I stopped moving.
I became the lighthouse not the light
I became the rock and ceased to roll
And so life got stuck in my gut,
Fed on blind feelings and grew in darkness until it became
A cancer which when the surgeon lifted it out my soul stumbled home
Parched, parched for water, for living water, for living by water,
And so
I moved to Vashon
Lived by the sea
Dove deep
Swam free
And healed.
And now, dear friends,
I’m movin’ on.

Feeling Free - Birthday Message 2005

July 4, 2005

Hello friends,

Like kids who were born around Christmas, I've always secretly considered July 4 mine - the bonfires and fireworks I took as warm-up celebrations for my birthday, July 6.

In two days, I'll turn 60. And George Bush will turn 59. And the Dalai Lama will turn 70. Ever since I found out who shares my birthday, I've wanted to make some something of it (being the meaning junkie I am). Given that we three have been born between two Western liberation days, July 4 and Bastille Day (July 14), and now that I am 6 months away from finishing my book on freedom (Feel Free; Rethinking Freedom in a World with Limits) I'm gonna make something out of that.

All three of us have pledged our lives to freedom. At a material level, W considers himself a liberator of the Iraqi people, not to speak of the Afghani and everyone globally beset by terrorists. His Holiness the Dalai Lama (HHDL for short) has spent decades trying to non-violently liberate Tibet from Chinese rule. And I, too, have spent decades promoting independence - from money worries, but also from the whole consumer mindset. I have, to be honest, sometimes had the fervor (unto righteousness) of W. If you could hear my thoughts (many of which go right by without my notice), you'd catch sentences like, "This consumer feeding frenzy of stuff must stop! Now! I said NOW!". To my credit, I have also had the spaciousness of HHDL, often seeing with equanimity the vast, multi-faceted context out of which our delusional consumer culture arises.

All three of us are also in the soul liberation biz. W has found his salvation in Jesus, and some might read his kowtowing to the Religious Right as a sincere belief that we'd all be better off as Christians. HHDL is, first and foremost, a Buddhist monk engaged in the precise work of freeing himself from illusion at every level - lifetime after lifetime. I am more of a spiritual mongrel. I have the salvation bent of my Western Religious heritage, believing in the Kingdom of Heaven as my true home. I also seek liberation into the infinite now through attention and intention, influenced by Eastern traditions. And I've engaged in Native healing practices, from weekly Lakota sweat lodges to ceremonies with shamans from the lush jungles of South America. As I say in my book,

I’ve nosed along the fences between me and freedom my whole life, keen to openings where something fresh might blow in and swirl out musty ideas or now-dead routines. At age five I insisted on going to sleep-away camp. By eight I’d been to Cuba, by sixteen to Paris, by nineteen I was living in Spain for a year and at twenty-four I went cross-country in an old van with a guy and a dog. I started studying Utopian communities in high school, continued in college and was inventing my own within a decade. Every scrap of income was put into buying time rather than stuff – time to really taste existence up close and personal.

The range of meanings of freedom - from HHDL to W to me - says a lot. It means that the lived meaning of freedom in America in 2005 does not cover the whole territory. A NY Times July 4 editorial this morning had a welcome tinge of Patrick Henry...
The word "freedom" especially seems to have hardened around the edges in the last few years. It has lost some of its ability to suggest the open-ended potential of our lives, the possibility of coming to new terms with the expectations we have been handed by earlier generations. The overtones of discovery the word once had seem to have been put on hold. Instead, there is a new complacency, a certainty that we know just what freedom means and exactly how it should look. There is an unwelcome comfort with the inequitable distribution of freedom even in our own country. There is a poisonous tolerance for the idea that freedom encompasses only the right to say positive things about America and its mission in the world.

The liberal tradition of "freedom from" (tyranny of every stripe, from the state to overbearing neighbors) has become "I can do whatever I want, whenever I want, as long as ... it's my property, it doesn't hurt anyone (ahem... that I can see), it's not against the law or at least I don't get caught." But the freedom of "away" - getting away (with it), going away (from it) and keeping "it" away from you - has to be coupled with "freedom with" - the capacity to be with whatever arises in your life, whether inside your noggin or right in your face. If "away" is the only way to freedom, we're doomed. We do live in a round world. Materials go round and round - never away. People can run, but, given our roundness, they can't hide; away and back home are the same thing. Karma says, "What goes around, comes around." So does the Golden Rule. Anything we won't ultimately embrace, love and heal will meet us again on our next road to Samara - or in our next lifetime.

There's also the profound question, "What is freedom for?" Were we given freedom (by the Creator, by the Constitution, by the embedded principles of the Universe) so we could run, hide, invade, take, dominate, rule, escape, care for only our own? Or were we given freedom to be designers along with the Divine? If so, the holy secret is that limits along with other constraints like containers, boundaries, edges, borders, criteria, agreements, laws, principles, values, covenants and such, are the tools the Universe uses to create. Away and With are both essential. Freedom is the necessary raw expansive power of life, but limits are the shaping power of existence. All the beauty we make - in marriages, in art, in sustainable societies, in great religions - comes from knowing this secret of the "away/with" "freedom-in-limits/limits-in-freedom" paradox and embracing the exquisite tension of living where the two intersect.

For me, personal freedom comes from being present to everything that arises - within and without, touching everything with love. Janis Joplin had it half right: freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose... or gain. Relational freedom comes from knowing that everyone and everything is enacting their freedom, just like me, and is equally worthy of my respect and attention. Social freedom comes from knowing that no matter how dense and encrusted social/cultural conventions might be, they were made up by people like me, and people like me can change them. Political freedom is being engaged in the conversations that create the rules we live by and the collective plans we make. And spiritual freedom is the loving, generative space in which all this arises and passes away.

So there you have it - my birthday message along with a preview of Feel Free. Happy 4th, and for that matter 5th, 6th, 7th and all the rest.

Be well,
Vicki