Her Grace
The day arrived when Edna was too blind
To live alone. She gave her things away—
The china owl with one glass eye—her mind
Was on the bumps in sidewalk cracks that day.
A flowered pitcher, empty, save for tears—
She knew what faced her in that place where old
Folks had to go, so, facing her worst fears,
Packed canisters devoid of flour, cold
Old roasting pans, some ribbon, recipes,
Affections, memories, her younger face;
Mementoes of her eccentricities,
And all that passing time could not erase.
The absence of all laughter in the gloom
When all would end in one small, scoured room.
The Book-keeper and the Bar-keep
Light dims at four-fifteen. The skittish sun
Leaves you in the bar at close of day.
We labor, billing ladies for the fun
They’ve had as they pass through their latest phase.
Editorial Note
These two poems were sent to me by Sally Cook many months ago, before her admission to the Nursing and Rehab Center in Dunkirk, New York. As far as I know, they are the last poems she ever composed.
The first piece is a sonnet on the end of a woman’s life—how she foresees it, makes arrangements for it, gives away her possessions, and prepares to enter a nursing facility. Being a person in her nineties, Sally was well aware of mortality, and also of the soul-shrinking dreariness of spending one’s final days in an institutional setting.
The shorter second piece reflects Sally’s interest in the tendency of many women to put themselves into exasperating and costly situations solely to meet men, whether at church socials, parties, soirées, or bars. As a woman of striking beauty, Sally had no lack of admirers in her life, but came to understand that relations between the sexes would almost always be fraught with misunderstanding and recriminations. She agreed with A.E. Housman that all romance
’Tis paid with sighs a plenty
And sold for endless rue.
Once when we talked on this latter subject, I mentioned that the ancient Greeks believed men had been created by the titan Prometheus, while women had been created by the Olympian gods, and this is what accounted for the eternal battle of the sexes. We came from different moulds, and have different views and attitudes concerning the world. Sally replied “That’s as good an explanation as any for why we torment each other.”
I am sure Sally Cook would have wanted these two poems to be submitted to the SCP, as she published with us exclusively for the last eight years of her life. Whenever she finished a poem to her satisfaction, she always sent it to me for submission to Evan Mantyk, since her failing eyesight made it very difficult for her to type or use e-mail.
Sally Cook was both a poet and a painter of magical realism. Her poems have also appeared in Blue Unicorn, First Things, Chronicles, The Formalist Portal, Light Quarterly, National Review, Pennsylvania Review, TRINACRIA, and other electronic and print journals. A six-time nominee for a Pushcart award, in 2007 Cook was featured poet in The Raintown Review. She has received several awards from the World Order of Narrative and Formalist Poets, and her Best American Poetry Challenge-winning poem “As the Underworld Turns” was published in Pool.
These poems are marvelous, and thank you Sally, Evan, and Joseph for blessing us with them. RIP Sally.
I felt she was writing about herself in the sonnet
and your explanation confirms it for me. Aging is
not easy and harder for some than others. At least
Sally was able to create beauty out of the process.
Thank you both for sharing her final two poems.
The heavy enjambments in the 1st seem to reinforce the somber, slow packing of effects (and the implied deliberations over the recipients of each). The 2-way treatment of “face”/”facing” directs attention to the experiencing of unavoidable permanent reversal in the last days of life: engaged, active, independent to shut in and increasingly incapacitated. The nadir is reached in the final, incomplete sentence. A remarkable poem, inspiring dread and a turning to prayer.
Thanks for these 2 and so many others, Sally.
From a wonderful friend to a wonderful lady, Joe, your tribute to both Sally and her poetry is quite moving. She’ll be greatly missed and warmly remembered by many. Very nice…
“Her Grace” is just gut-wrenching, especially those last three lines.
Heart-breaking. I agree, the sonnet is about her and her thoughts. Thank you SCP for sharing this.
As a senior citizen myself, I recognize the angst of having to give away or sell treasured items that hold untold memories of value beyond the cost. I identify with her feelings expressed in the poems. Thank you, Evan and Joseph, for sharing what may well be Sally’s last poems. Writing poems must have been her primary solace on earth and we are all the better for them.
What a beautiful, well-executed Shakespearean sonnet. I know that rehab center in Dunkirk very well. My Aunt Mary entered there and didn’t exit alive. “[O]ne small, scoured room” accurately describes those digs. I attended an unforgettable and very touching Catholic Mass there in a very large room, no pews, only rows and rows of people in wheel chairs.
It is the exquisite detail of the sonnet that, juxtaposed with the sad realities of aging, gives this piece so strong a sense of place and purpose
RIP Sally. “Her Grace” starkly and skilfully expresses the scenario that we dread as we age.
‘Her Grace’ is one of the most poignant poems I’ve ever read. Starting over again in a new home environment without your familiar possessions is difficult, if not heartbreaking, at any age.
But what a life!
Sally will be sorely missed. I learned much from this amazing lady. She managed to get to the core of the human condition with poetry that touched my heart and jolted my soul – “Her Grace” being a prime example. The closing couplet has my heart smarting and my hands wringing because of the disrespect and neglect our elders and betters are subjected to. Sally cared… and her creative marvels showed just that. She was a rare and beautiful soul in a wicked world.