Sometimes, you travel somewhere and leave something behind: the body of your pain, which is taken into so many mouths and carried into the air and consumed and changed and spread until it becomes one with earth, water, air, and fire. Until it transmogrifies, and you think finally, finally, because you’re ready to let it go. You wanted to let it go a long time ago but now you can, so you do, and your doing becomes something done, something you did, have done, as if the past in all its verb forms exists independent of the present, as if you exist now and only now. And right now, you do. That’s exactly what you do. You are here, sometimes, whole and aware of your wholeness. Say hello to who you are.
Notes
Called to Serve
When Sandra Cisneros spoke at the Desert Nights, Rising Stars Writing Conference yesterday, I felt like every poet and writer in the audience was being called to do our best and be our best as creators and as human beings. I felt a sense of purpose and responsibility, the way our country’s leaders used to make me feel when I listened to their most inspiring speeches. I haven’t felt that way in a long time, and I’ve never felt that way as a poet: encouraged to live and write thoughtfully, mindfully, with presence, and with clarity.
One (Sanist) Country for All
I emailed the organizer of the poetry event I was at and sent a letter to the faculty member whose comments concerned me. I don’t expect anyone to support me or even understand my concerns, but here’s the letter.
—
I’m deeply troubled by your comments yesterday about Ezra Pound at the [writing conference]. Many accounts support the fact that he had a psychotic disorder. Whether you believe that or not, your venom toward him and your characterizations about what a terrible person he was were emblematic of sanism. Your comment about the authorities not being able to put him in prison or kill him were incredibly painful given that they came on the heels of Fox news anchor Brian Kilmeade’s comments two weeks ago about those who are unhoused or who have mental-health issues needing to be killed, not to mention the July 24, 2025, Executive Order that trammels the rights of those who are unhoused, have mental-health issues, and have substance-use issues.
I stood up and took a risk by sharing my own mental-health issues with everyone at the conference in the context of helping those in my community overcome stigma about mental-health diagnostic labels and lived experience only to see you reinforce stigma and nearly seethe over someone who had a psychotic disorder. You undermined everything I tried to do, and you made that space unsafe for me and for those like me who are just trying to survive, which is especially hard to do here in Utah if you live with a mental-health label.
Your flippant comment about Pound being placed in an asylum (because he couldn’t be put in prison or killed) denies the reality of those institutions and the myriad harms they did to people in this country and all over the world. My mother worked in an asylum-turned-psychiatric hospital as a nurse. She was also subjected to great harm in similar hospitals as someone who lived with bipolar.
Those places are not a joke, should not be talked about lightly, and were the setting of, and justification for, countless human-rights abuses. This is the crux of my work as a poet and essayist: uncovering and documenting abuses that those with mental-health issues have experienced and continue to experience.
I was ashamed of myself yesterday, of my existence, as you spoke. Then I realized what I’m actually ashamed of is you: your attitude, your words, and your carelessness. Nothing you shared is why I paid the expenses associated with [the conference], why my husband took time off work to accompany me there, or what I hoped to learn during the event. If you hate Pound that much, you should have chosen a poem that wasn’t by him. Then the entire rant could have been avoided.
I’m nobody to someone like you, but I’m writing this to you anyway because I’m somebody to me, and I’m somebody to those I fight with and for. I will not stop speaking back to bigotry and hate, even when I encounter it in the unlikeliest of places.
—
I should mention the fact that, thanks to the July 24 Executive Order and its erosion of decades of protections for those it targets, it is now legal to hold anyone who’s affected by the order, including those with mental-health issues, in prison indefinitely. That’s yet another reason the faculty member’s comments are poorly timed and extremely insensitive.
—
In response to a comment on Facebook about this note, which was initially shared there: One of my concerns about Pound is that scholars who are not experts in psychiatry have tried to make the case that Pound either didn’t have a psychiatric issue or was feigning one. We aren’t in a position to make that determination, both because we aren’t there to assess him and because we don’t have the background that would allow us to do so.
The literature I’ve read that makes the case that Pound did not have psychosis doesn’t hold up and betrays more about the person doing the long-distance, time-traveling assessment than it does about what it’s like to have lived experience with mental-health issues or to have had them during a time when diagnoses, understandings, and treatments were rapidly changing.
Pound was in the asylum right before my mother had her own experiences both as a psychiatric nurse and as a psychiatric patient. There’s actual overlap there in terms of the dates. My mother’s diagnosis changed many times, as did her treatments, as did the degree to which she was affected by her psychosis.
Pound is challenging, difficult, and complicated. We can’t complicate him more by injecting one or more layers of sanism on top of his story. This was a class about concision in the poetic line. We weren’t there to study Pound or fascism or history or mental health. We weren’t. And to bring that into the conversation in a way that lacked skill and an understanding of what’s happening today in the United States to those who have mental-health issues, with a proposed resurgence of asylums and all, is alarming, heartbreaking, and soul-crushing, at least for me.
Just a couple of months ago, I saw a prominent poet get a whole group of poets riled up here on Facebook about another poet who was clearly experiencing psychosis. The pile-on was awful and included sanist labels, attitudes, and outright attacks. We need less of that kind of thing in the world and in the world of poetry, not more. I feel the way Pound was discussed two days ago promotes more of that kind of thing in the here and now, not less.
My Kingdom for a Pencil (in the Psychiatric Ward)
Two years ago today, I came out of my medication-induced blackout at the inpatient psychiatric unit and began working on an elaborate origami project that involved making the Sydney Opera House with a theater and stage inside it. I used paper placemats and pages from a colorful book for this purpose. I was given a copy of the Book of Mormon by the staff, but I didn’t use its pages in my project. It sat in my room idle as I worked.
I wrote and performed rap songs with another patient named H— to the delight of other manic patients on the unit. Those with severe depression were not moved by our artistry. We were good at the rapping, and our antics provided a counterpoint to the aimlessness, the hall-wandering, and the five-minute interfaces with the psychiatrist each day in which he blamed us for having depression or bipolar.
I used a deck of cards to map out human networks that are responsible for abusing and trafficking others. The kings and jacks were big players in those networks, and they were also stand-ins for my father and his best friend. The networks were very organized and knew how to hide other cards, and themselves, as needed. My father’s name was Jack. He was a jack of all trades, even ones that weren’t legal.
I wrote short poems and made notes about my stay using a tiny pen that only sporadically worked. Pencils, Intermountain. Give patients on B-Ward pencils.
In my chart, the staff noted that I was well-behaved and posed no threat to anyone. I did throw paper at one point, down a long hall, overcome suddenly by how dehumanizing psychiatric care is. Nobody noted that in my chart, but one tech did scream, “If you do that again … ” without completing the threat.
I declare today, September 10, the Day of Origami and Rapping forevermore. Long live folded paper and battled song.
Folding and Unfolding
This is the two-year anniversary of my stay at the local inpatient psychiatric hospital where the psychiatrist described me as being involved in sex trafficking, as if I was trafficking others as an adult as opposed to having been trafficked as a child. The psychiatrist also said my trauma had nothing to do with my mania, told me in so many words to be a better wife when I expressed my concerns to him about my husband’s behavior, refused to help me get services from the local organization that helps people who’ve survived sexual abuse, and wrote in my chart that I had a poor prognosis because I have no insight into having bipolar.
And he was supposed to be one of the better psychiatrists at that hospital.
This is also the day I briefly saw Utah poet laureate Lisa Bickmore and thought she was some kind of healing Earth goddess, which I still think is the case. When I’m manic, I see essences. Lisa is a lot more than a healing Earth goddess, but she also has the essence of a healing Earth goddess.
These are the final days of my hegira, the one I declared over before it was over. Over the next few days, I’ll be sitting with everything that happened two years ago in a process that’s like folding now and then together the way two ingredients are combined in baking. Not that I bake. I prefer folding time to folding things like whipped eggs and melted chocolate. When I need to eat something, I just eat it. I rarely mix it with something else.
The Others
The last lines of Linda Gregg’s poem “The Girl I Call Alma” read:
Tell me we are one
and that it’s the others who scar me,
not you.
But the first edition of the book, which I have, has a typo. Those lines read:
Tell me we are one
and that it’s the others who scare me,
not you.
For years, I thought the poem with the typo was the correct version. It resonates with me because of my trauma history. Being scared. Being scared. And wanting the person who’s scaring me not to be the person who’s scaring me. Father, mother, like the parents in Sharon Olds’ poem “Satan Says.” Like that. And more. And others. And this always-fear like the fear Hannah Gadsby talks about, only it’s not just a fear of rooms full of men. It’s people. People do such harm. They are terrifying. Maybe Jon’s right. Maybe I shouldn’t write poetry because poetry puts me in the world, and that’s hard for him because it’s hard for me. And he doesn’t like it. And I’m not scared of him, at least there’s that. But I’d rather face my fears than hide from the world even if the latter makes him happier or “us” happier, as he says.
Scare. Scar. I’d rather be scared than scarred. Both work. Both versions of the poem work. I’m probably scared and scarred. At least I no longer think I’m a monster or the devil, both of which I was pretty certain of a couple of years ago. Because I am of my father. Of him. Of that. I was always his. And he was a monster, a devil.
Mary Reufle’s ‘Lapland’
Mary Reufle created a powerful moment for the audience here in Tucson when she read at The Poetry Center last fall. I was there and will never forget what she did. She read her poem “Lapland,” which she wrote fifty years ago. Then she read an essay about how the word Lapland is not offensive, but now it is offensive to use the word Lapp to describe the people in Lapland. She ended her essay by saying that although the poem’s title is “Lapland” and it’s set in Lapland and the word Lapp appears twice, it’s not about Lapland. Then she uttered this sentence, which enveloped the room:
“And if you don’t understand that, then I would go so far as to say you don’t understand poetry.”
Then, in the tradition of several poets who’ve come before her, she read the entire poem again without comment. So that we would hear it. So that, with our hearts and minds adjusted, we could hear it or have the hope of hearing it.
It was powerful. It was incredible.
Click on the image below to experience Reufle reading “Lapland,” then her essay, then “Lapland” again. The recording of the entire video is on the VOCA Audiovisual Archives. I’m just sharing the section that contains “Lapland” so you can have the experience attendees had that night at Reufle’s reading.
The House
The house has been doused with gasoline. (You’re welcome in it.) The floor of the house is littered with matches. (Take your shoes off.) The house has no fire alarms. (Have a seat.) The cops don’t respond to house fires in these parts. (Kick your feet up.) The house is on fire now. (Be a love and close the door to save the rest of us.) The house burned down. (We wrote you a loving obituary.)
The loving obituary: We adored them. For some reason, they always looked uncomfortable around us. We did everything we could to make them feel right at home. They died before their time. Sometimes, [insert adjective here] people aren’t meant for this world. We will always remember them fondly.
—
I wrote this July 12, 2023. It’s about how we treat people we want to exclude while they’re alive versus how we talk about them once they’ve died. I was thinking specifically about how queer folks and those living with trauma and/or mental health issues are treated—and the ways in which the very people who exclude those folks from their homes, lives, families, schools, workplaces, places of worship, communities, and societies take no responsibility for their eventual, often untimely, deaths. There wasn’t anything we could have done is a common refrain. Really? Nothing. Not one thing?
I was also thinking about how it felt for me to live as a queer non-Mormon person with trauma and mental health issues here in Southern Utah, where I was routinely excluded and reviled even in literary communities. The poets who run two separate chapters of the Utah State Poetry Society told me they’d close their chapters down if I ever attended them because my work was inappropriate. I was a member of the USPS at the time and had every right to attend any chapter meeting in the state. Their issue was with my gender and sexuality, not my writing, which they hadn’t read.
I’ve thought about this post a few times since the election, so I decided to share it again. We need to bring the way we talk about the dead and the way we treat the living into alignment.
Time to Eternity
We live in an ecotone, those of us here in Southwest Utah. An ecotone is the transition between two biological communities. Here, we have three: the Colorado Plateau, the Great Basin, and the Mojave Desert. A triad, a trinity, that perfect number we arrange interiors to and pray to and dance the waltz to.
1, 2, 3. 1, 2, 3.
Look around. Look up. You’re in an amazing place, a sacred place, the kind of place Wendell Berry talks about in his poem, “How to Be a Poet.” He writes:
Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill—more of each
than you have—inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity.
Patience joins time to eternity. Be patient. I’ve been patient for more than fifty years—fifty going on eternity.
Good morning, all of you. Good morning, all of me. Time to wake up. Wake up to where you live, to who you are, to what you can do.
Dana Henry Martin 