Anne Hanson's degrees are in graphic design and physical therapy assisting, but she has written
poetry throughout her life. After being diagnosed with invasive lobular carcinoma (ILC) in April of 2008, a friend suggested she write a poem a day.
The cancer journey, from diagnosis to surgery, lasted four months, and yielded around 22 poems. Her writing continues and she now reads at open mics and plans to create a chapbook (a small book), including drawings. She has been asked to offer poetry workshops to cancer survivors in her support group. She lives in Florida, New York in an old farmhouse.
NOT THERE YET BUT ON THE WAY
Written 4/23/08
I am almost in tears,
almost laughing,
On the phone with Oxford,
with the Oncologist,
with the Surgeon,
with the "Plastics,"
Office Women,
vigilant warriors,
give me advice,
encourage me,
listen, participate
in strategies for getting referrals
going out of network,
dates, what's matching, who's mirroring
usual and customary costs.
We chart a course like bikers,
cycling around narrow curves
peddling over bridges,
through little villages,
skirting around leering men
and other obstacles.
Yesterday after pedaling up an incline,
marveling at the single bird atop the single stalk,
I turned to coast downhill.
The panorama took my breath away
and I flew, face open,
wind in my hair, wind at my back,
almost crying, almost laughing.
THE PART
Written 5/21/08
I didn’t know this was a stage,
I don’t think
I auditioned for the part,
It was conferred on me some weeks ago.
I took it boldly and put on the hat,
the cloak, the heavy pair of shoes.
I took the lines and tried to speak them
but my voice kept wandering off.
It's exhausting, waiting in the wings,
wondering; is there an understudy near,
someone rehearsed, who's memorized this role
and made it hers?
I'm hoping soon that I will get the note
from backstage saying,“Dear, your time
is up. You've not been chosen.
You can go.”
WHAT COMES, WHAT GOES
What comes, what goes,
in this landscape now that surgery
lies behind me quivering in the past,
holding my breasts?
Biking in Neptune Beach,
alone under palms, overcome
with sorrow. Before me the scene transforms;
Now I see the caring, the honorable
intentions, the courage.
Lonely on an island in Maine,
surrounded by vast impersonal waves,
supine on a backyard boulder;
I shift my view, and slowly
I recognize that dear friends are
near me laughing, and I feel
the sun.
At the meeting I stutter across the table
seeking nonviolent words that fit my feelings
and express my needs.
I stop, feeling helpless.
Space expands.
Something sees us all sitting there, eyes open;
my hands reaching out, open.
Old tracks wander through the meadow
abandoned. New ones not yet taken
unravel before my eyes.
Here I am, now. Here I am.