Let me start with a confession: until recently I was a poetry agnostic.
By that I mean I had no interest in poetry; I have never purchased a book of poetry and interestingly, as a teacher of narrative-based medicine, I was firmly focused on prose as the best way to hear and interpret patients’ stories.
This obvious lacuna in my narrative endeavours never registered with me. But that all changed when I was given this anthology edited by poet and academic Martin Dyar. As well as offering a key to the nature of medicine and the formation of doctors, the collection is also a humane account of patient experiences. Those seeking a personal understanding of illness and healing will be rewarded.
I was moved by Patrick Kavanagh’s The Hospital, where the poet writes of his experience of lung cancer, including the opening line: “A year ago I fell in love with the functional ward of a chest hospital”.
Beauty & the Beast review: On the way home, younger audience members re-enact scenes. There’s no higher recommendation
Matt Cooper: I’m an only child. I’ve always been conscious of not having brothers or sisters
A Dublin scam: After more than 10 years in New York, nothing like this had ever happened to me
Patrick Freyne: I am becoming a demotivational speaker – let’s all have an averagely productive December
[ Poem of the Week: And Now the BabiesOpens in new window ]
Kavanagh was a patient in St Kevin’s hospital, the precursor to the current St James’s, where I was a medical student and an intern more than 30 years ago. My memory of every ward in St James’s was their egalitarian functionality, a memory revived by Kavanagh’s words.
A line from the poem Instead of Dying by Lauren Haldeman also leapt out at me: “Instead of dying they inject you with sunlight and you live”. What a juxtaposition – evoking such powerful imagery – while dispelling the gloom often associated with end-of-life care.
And Bernard O Donoghue’s Ter Conatus immediately transported me back more than 30 years ago to a house call I did as a locum GP in rural Sligo. I can still remember an older brother and sister, living in extreme isolation, and how their uncertain efforts to deal with her serious illness were bound up in their long dependency on each other:
“Three times like that he tried to reach her.
But being so little practiced in such gestures,
Three times the hand fell back, and took its place, unmoving at his side.”
