A Poem that has been Titled: “Adage to a Cabbage”

-or-

“Why Cabbages are Dumb!”

Way back near The Beginning, there was a simple plant

that grew weary of simplicity, and sat beneath The Olive Tree

to await the Great Ghost Gardener, and spin for Him this rant:

“O Ghost that rules most Holy, O grower of great greens,

I have noticed that, in recent days, some men developed strange new ways

to differentiate themselves, and I wish to share their scheme,

so give to me a blessing: a title, grand and bold,

that all the world will hear it and be stirred within their spirit

and swoon upon the spot to hear my title being told!”

So now the Great Ghost Gardener, whose wisdom has no end,

set aside His spirit spade to listen to the plant’s tirade

and wonder what approach to use, how best this plant to tend?

“When something has a title,” the Great Ghost Gardener spake,

“it can be a blessing or a curse, so mind you don’t make matters worse

demanding such a burden that you’re not sure you can take!

For titles have their meanings, all unto themselves,

and titles can at times betray, and lead their hearers far astray,

for titles at the surface can change how their hearers delve!

To give you an example, there are those who love to learn;

but of course there are some others, who if they had their druthers,

would pass on education and take leisure in their turn.

But every father wants a daughter with a wise and cunning brain,

so every couple sends their child off to school to be beguiled

in the hopes that secret knowledge, though unsought, they will attain.

Now look! you gentle plant, and hear this truth that i will tell:

it’s shallow and imprudent to call each one of these a ‘student’

when so many of them cower from the chiming schoolyard bell!

For when teachers think of ‘students’, the anti-studious come to mind,

though the term does not describe them, to make them learn means beat or bribe them,

and so ‘student’ much more often means ‘the anti-student kind’.

To be a student is to study, and that’s a thing that most will hate,

so this simple seeming title, in its overused recital,

has come to be confusing at a very rapid rate.

See, some are truly students, and some are truly not,

but over time, association bred mutation of connotation,

and has led the word astray so that it stands for neither lot.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” cried the sprout, getting agitated now,

“I want no common title! Now pay heed, for this is vital:

I need a title grand and bold enough to make people weep and bow!

I want to be respected! I want to be adored!

I’ll not have my greatness stifled by a title base and trifle;

such things as ‘student’, ‘farmer’, ‘doktor’, are far too simple, and what’s more

they don’t evoke the sense of awe that is central to my nature.

Now give to me my blessing, a verbal cloak and dressing,

a unique and striking title, no common nomenclature!”

And now the Great Ghost Gardener grew solemn and decreed

“Your words are filled with arrogance, and i shall now reward your greed.

I shall let you have a title, but it shall not come from me;

for i know your truest nature, your inmost self i see;

and if i picked a title, and in my power spoke,

it would bind you to that meaning, and could never be revoked.

So i’ll let the humans find you and decide your verbal yoke,

let them look upon your being and see what words the sight evokes.

And one last gift i’ll give the world: i’m silencing your voice,

just so your lofty, harsh demands won’t change the humans’ choice.”

And then the lowly plant was struck, and found it could not speak;

its arrogance all burned away and left it feeling weak.

But silently it prayed, and the Great Ghost Gardener heard,

as the plant admitted that this curse was one it well deserved;

and it begged the Great Ghost Gardener for mercy from His hand,

but of course the Great Ghost Gardener had masterfully planned,

had known from The Beginning that He’d face this fool’s demand,

and now revealed a little more of His strategy most grand:

“Men give me many titles, but not one is My Name,

so now i give this gift to you, that you will be the same:

the titles people give you will reflect just what they feel,

but since you will not like their words, i’ll make with you this deal:

if ever all the humans forget to love their lives,

if ever all the happiness i’ve given to them dies,

if ever each and every one sells truth for worthless lies,

all the earth will then resound with the power of your cries,

for i’ll teach you My True Name, and your tongue will be untied,

and i’ll reveal your own True Name to humble humans in their pride.”

With that the Great Ghost Gardener picked up his spirit spade

and went to tend His garden, and the plant who once had strayed

thought about the Great Ghost Gardener, and the deal that He had made,

and when people finally found the plant, the plant was not dismayed,

even when they dubbed it “cabbage”, a strange and funny word,

the plant did not complain at all, for every title is absurd.

---

So now you know the reason “Why Cabbages are Dumb!”;

i did not mean they’re stupid, though i did intend the pun;

and now you know, “The Reader”, why titles i use none,

except in this one poem, to demonstrate for fun

why i feel, for my own work, that titles are too dumb.

by gabe edmondson, second year medical student

gabe's poet type jargon

This here is the tale
of a daughter's tears
that fell over and over, over the years.

See, this girl had a father
out on the plains
in a rickety shack that leaks when it rains,
and this father tilled fields
and this father baked bread
and this father is loved, even now that he's dead.
His daughter knew not
why her father was killed
and strung up like a scare-crow in the fields he had tilled,
but she saw it all happen
as she stood by, ignored,
and the men from the city killed the man she adored.
And he stared in her eyes
as they cut out his guts
and blood filled the lines of the wagon-wheel ruts;
but he never cried out,
never once looked away,
even after he baked in the heat of the day
and his skin turned to dust and blew softly away
and there were only his bones left to bleach and decay,
no, he never cried out, and never once looked away,
and she feels his eyes on her, even up to this day.

Now, this girl's filled with hate
even now that she's grown
and she's vowed that those men should all reap what they've sown...
but it's not for the death
of the great man she lost;
some men make mistakes, and their lives are the cost.
See, this daughter knows not,
nor been ever concerned,
with her father's mistake, how his death had been earned,
for death comes to us all,
and her father died well,
and he raised up his daughter...at least for a spell.
No, it wasn't the death;
that she could have borne.
It was the men from the city, and their eyes full of scorn.

"How poor this man is!"
They had laughed as he bled.
"That shack's got no pillow for the chap's greasey head!
There's no leather reins
for his flea-bitten horse,
he makes due with a rope, and one dirty and coarse!
Look here, what a face!
It's all bristly and scarred,
and features grotesque, a grim face and marred!
No coin for a barber?
No coin for a bath?
What fool married you? She must have been daft!
What simpleton woman
would live as the wife
of a man so despondent that he shaves with a knife?
What farmer has fortunes
so rotten and low
that he grinds his own meal from the crops that he grows?
No coin for a miller?
A baker? A hand?
You're too poor to live! And so now are you damned!"

They laughed at her father,
they spit on his face,
yet they were the ones who were out of their place.
Now the girl has grown up,
the girl has grown tough,
they've gone too long unpunished, and enough is enough.

So one at the time
she tracked them all down
snuck up with a stone, brought each man to the ground,
and she strung each one up
like scare-crows in fields,
woke them up with the rusty old knife that she wields;
she addressed them each calmly
on behalf of the dead
and before taking payment, to each one she said:

"This here is the stone
that ground up the grain
of the noblest man to sleep in the rain.
And this is the rope
that calloused the hands
that held on to a daughter before she could stand.
And this is the knife
that shaved off the beard
of a man who faltered, but never feared.
You fools have no courage,
you cringe at death's sting!
You've forgotten my father,
but remember one thing:
that he lived like a poor man,
but he died like a king.

So now this is the vengeance
for a daughter's tears
that fell over and over, over the years."

gabe is currently a 2nd year student at VCOM.

Renewal after a Long Year

by Jennifer Grant, OMS-III

A primordial pulse fills my blood,
as I gown with inherent grace.
The teenage mother writhes in pain,
and baby’s daddy waits.
Four children squeal out from behind the bed,
and I question, “A different place?”
A student, a young woman, my voice is soft,
and fades into white space.
I pull, mom pushes, and dad plays Angry Birds.
The child is coming! The miracle of birth!
Little curls, squirts of blood,
my heart expands with wonder.
Mama screams, and swears,
and damns the damn man beside her.
When alas the child cries, I press him tight,
and cry, knowing crying is absurd
in a hospital working day and night.
So young, so fragile, I’ve seen too much.
The birth of baby, to feel, is enough.

Jennifer wrote this after her OB/GYN rotation as a third year student.

"Streaming"

by Emily Holt, OMS-II

Like wet pain streaking

Down the wall

With color that was too thick

To hold itself up

-I feel myself missing you-

My colors streaming

Down my face,

Pooling in the wrinkles,

(even when I smile)

the colors mix, the hues change.

When they dry, will you recognize me?

[Author’s note: I wrote this in response to a writer’s group prompt to write about “streaming.” My husband doesn’t live in Blacksburg, and I miss him a lot. Sometimes I feel like I’m going through this great transformation while I’m in medical school and he’s not witnessing it or a part of it. I wonder how much I’m really changing and if he notices it when we’re together.]

My Anatomy Donor

by Jennifer Grant, OMS-III

I peer into your temple at the clots of harmed vitality.

Flowing flush

forced midnight,

and the darkness of that evening

filling fast

spaces your spirit once dwelled.

I imagine you alone enduring the

fearful flash

of harrowing pain and heaviness,

before Love releases you

forever, floating free.  

Jen Grant, On Writing

In the midst of perpetual information overload, and with thoughts of nearing exams haunting my free time, it was hard for me to maintain my perspective. At times I couldn’t remember why I had chosen this path. I forgot what a rare privilege it was to serve as a physician, and lead a life of giving. For any of you who can relate, and have a foggy recollection of why you are studying so hard, take a moment and be mindful.

Writing can be a therapeutic tool for physicians and medical students. Sharing our stories is a powerful way to heal our tired minds, and restore our energy and perspective. It also unites us to the one, great story of humanity. I find that any form of writing is beneficial, whether it be writing short prose, a few lines of poetry, venting thoughts in a journal, or even just making a list of ideas.

As we spend our lives working toward helping others heal, it is important that we keep our own minds and souls healthy and open. When we maintain balance, we have more to give without feeling burnt out. I encourage you to get into the habit of taking time for reflection through writing.

Jennifer Grant is a third year student who wrote this reflection in her second year at VCOM.

gaeb's Poems

i am in love with a liquid iron princess;
she flows so sweetly through my heart and through my soul
and through my metal bones to smooth out their roughened boles.
and when my pain begins to measure in the excess,
she takes my breath and stirs it into molten snow,
and lets my acid tears remember which way to go.
and when i’m in my dreams too deep for true believing,
she steps so softly through my muscles and my skin,
and with her burning knife keeps nightmares from coming in;
and when Thanatos comes with scythe and cause for grieving,
and legions waste away to lesions she laments,
and in her wrath there is no chance for my foes to repent.
yes, i feel love for my liquid iron princess,
for she shows love for me unto her dying day,
and even in her death her love does not go away!
for in her carbon cave she measures out my regrets;
she times my purpose and gives name unto my fear,
and from her grave again arises when needs are near!

[Note: “Heme A” is a biomolecule found in human blood; it contains an atom of iron. “Hime” is pronounced the same as “Heme A”, and is the English transliteration of the Japanese word for “princess”. Hence, the identity of the 'liquid iron princess' is that connective tissue which does not do any physical connecting.
Line 9: reference to perforin, granzyme, fever.]

~

take a single human soul, divide it into thirds,
let two parts drift away into that realm beyond all words,
but keep the simplest piece, the one that’s most complex,
the only portion of a soul that can never be perplexed;
ask then where is the locus where hate and hope connect,
ask then the final value of valor divided by respect,
ask then what notes a man could hear to render vessels wrecked;
you’ll only learn the answers if there’s nothing you expect.

so as long as my life gets i will never call you simple,
though nothing stirs in the temples, of your temple, in our temple;
you’ve forgotten not one thing, though you’ve bathed in Lethe’s waters,
remembering the days of the father, of the father, of my father;
you are immune to all hatred, far beyond all dark disaster,
for you are the master, of the master, of my master.

so let the iron get red hot, let the cold water flow,
let the people misapprehend the words they let go;
red hot iron is solid, frozen solid we know,
winter streams are all molten, though they’re bitterly cold,
and our bodies don’t die, they just shuffle their souls,
though some people miss it, but that’s just how it goes…
but you’ve taught me, kind master, that cold streams still flow;
may Asclepius bless you, wherever you go.

[Notes: This poem was written in honour of the author’s Anatomy Master (i.e., the cadavre from which the author learned human anatomy at the time of the penning of this poem).
In the Judeo-Christian tradition, a soul is defined as the combination of body, mind, and spirit. For reasons that continuously baffle the author, the distinction betwixt spirit and soul is chronically overlooked.
Asclepius is the ancient Greek hero who attained godhood for his skill in medicine, and became the god of medicine. Doctors are referred to as sons or daughters of Asclepius.
Line 7: a reference to Odysseus, blood vessels, nerves, and heartache.
Line 9: a reference to Hippocrates, who wrote that “Life is short, the Art long.”]

~

and from the frozen furnace came the furious flame

that engulfed all my madness and turned my anger all tame;

and in those darkest hours you made the world seem so bright,

you gave my phalanx its orders through the faltering night...

as i reached through the river, stealing strength from the cold,

i saw so many stories that your hands still withhold,

but i knew that you loved me, though my soul felt so heavy,

though my blood was not ready, yes i knew that you loved me.

oh, you were the tendons of tidal waves,

you built the crowns of a million young queens...

you were the tears that fell in my graves,

your voice was so loud, but i could not hear a thing...

and you were the angle of the arches of stone,

you supported the anger embedded in bone...

you were the demifacets of a demigod

when i was dumbfounded, mired deep in the sod;

and i could not have you, but i loved you the same...

you knew me so well, you would not give me a name...

but i knew that you loved me, as you drank in the dark sea,

as you let the west wind free, oh i knew that you loved me.

yes you were the metric of memories,

the sounds that a dream makes when no one’s around...

you were the wings of the histories,

slow stirrings of currents where no wings can be found;

afield in my folly, you are the one who abets

with sharpened incisors, excising regrets.

~

i'm just trying to help my spirit to aggrandize clarity,

for what good is any man if he's got no sincerity?

i appreciate all life and God's lessons in charity,

but there's something else i need to help drive this despair from me...

it's not just a female form that would desire to pair with me,

it's a soulful body-mind and the life it would share with me,

with which mine can bond and disperse all disparity;

but love like that is best defined in terms of its rarity.

i need to find a spirit-mind too strong to be scared of me,

a gentle-hearted intellect with kind eyes that dare to see,

piercing through all misconcept to fixedly stare at me

and calmly in a loving voice to sweetly declare to me

that "it's for sure that you are loved, and not arbitrarily,

for you are great, and truly good; forever i'll care for thee."

i know such love is greater still because of its scarcity,

but i can't stop believing that such love is prepared for me.

~

The trees don't hate me,

they just drop me so far!

and the rocks don't hate me,

they just like me best scarred;

and God doesn't hate me,

He just loves me too hard...

and women don't hate me,

they just love from long distance;

and men don't hate me,

they just give me resistance;

and the stars don't hate me,

they just mock my existence...

and my heart doesn't hate me,

it's just full of remorse;

and my mind doesn't hate me,

it just holds back its force;

and i don't think i hate me,

i'm just full of resentment

'cause even when i'm not hated

i've got no claims to contentment...

so no, i don't hate me,

at least not so far,

'cause the universe loves me,

it just loves me so hard!

~

you were born in the days that were knowledgeless,

you were born in those days when men knew not one thing...

but i think you’ll figure out everything,

and when that day comes i will feel death’s dark sting.

we cowered in terror as you conquered us...

we cowered and fled from the might of your mind;

in the depths of your glorious infancy,

how much you could see, when yet you were still blind!

afraid we all were of your growing days,

when strength upon strength you would gain ‘til we fell,

alone and afraid in our arid caves,

with nothing to eat save regrets where we dwell...

so we hatched out a scheme that could weaken you,

we stuck in your craw just to drown you with hate;

but against your bright mind we had not a chance,

you drank with a thirst that just will not abate,

and you burned through perceptions eventually;

you burned it all down just to have a clean slate!

and i know you’ll figure out everything,

for the forces that guide you are the furies of fate.

~

Haikus:

haikus fall like rain

from the lips of the poet -

each with its meaning...

---

-haikus regarding nature:

sunlight freezes stiff

on the brow of mount Fuji;

still, it warms my heart.

---

raindrops are all round

until they strike our faces;

then they take our shape!

---

where flies the sparrow

when God's wrath is upon us?

swift birds build new nests...

[reference: according to the gospel of Matthew, Jesus of Nazareth said "not a single sparrow can fall to the ground without God knowing of it [...] you are worth more to God than a whole flock of sparrows"]

---

bones of the mountain,

did we forget our honour?

we quarry our shame...

---

large trees give strong wood

but taking wood too often

limits their largeness.

---

belly of the knee,

where immortals meet their death;

where can you not run?

[note: the name of the superficial calf muscle, "gastrocnemius", translates to "belly of the knee". It inserts onto the calcaneous by means of the calcaneal tendon, often referred to as the "Achilles' tendon", because Achilles was allegedly dipped into the river Styx by his mother, who held him by the heel, thus rendering him immune to all damage except on the heel. Achilles was supernaturally swift, even outrunning a river god according to the "Iliad".]

---

-haikus regarding man:

say not: "i am weak"

say: "heavy hands make light work;

i will grow stronger"

---

apoptotic soul,

with grace you fall from heaven;

evil strives for good.

[reference: Milton's "Paradise Lost", Shelley's "Frankenstein"]

---

fire-proof your souls,

O sons of mighty shoguns;

rising sons burn fierce!

[note: when read aloud, the last "sons" is homophonetic with "Suns"; Japan is "the land of the rising Sun". The author is warning those that seek power against both external threats and internal corruption, and commenting that these may not be easily distinguished. reference: Sun Tzu's "The Art of War"]

---

more sightless are eyes

that see but do not perceive

than those that are blind...

---

-haikus regarding death:

death is never still;

some stirrings last forever...

love is thick like blood.

---

Thanatos, my friend,

come into my father’s house...

but only seldom.

---

torrents, some call them;

but so much blood have i seen,

these are mere trickles.