Lines in the Half Light Poems by Johanna Tanner

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Introduction The Renal Dialysis Unit in Waterford Regional Hospital is a 16 bed unit that accommodates 97 chronic renal dialysis patients. It provides a 24 hour service to people living in the South East of Ireland. Each client attends for approximately four hours, three times per week. Due to the restrictive nature of the clinical activity, the unit is keen to provide positive, creative and diversional activities to its patients. Since 2006, the Waterford Healing Arts Trust has delivered an arts programme in the Renal Dialysis Unit. This has been made possible by funding from the Punchestown Kidney Research Association. Patients have an opportunity to engage with the trained arts facilitators Boyer Phelan and Philip Cullen. These sessions take a patient-centred approach. In September 2008, artist Philip Cullen began working in the Renal Dialysis Unit. There he met Johanna Tanner, a patient and poet. Philip has a large bank of artistic skills not confined to visual art. He works with people through many disciplines including creative writing. Philip gently guided and encouraged Johanna to write and the result is this wonderful collection of poetry. Claire Meaney Brenda Ronan Waterford Healing Arts Trust Dialysis Unit Waterford Regional Hospital

Cover Image: Maria Tanner

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An Artist’s Perspective Working as an artist in Renal Dialysis has been a very intense experience for me. It was daunting to approach patients to ask them if they wished to do creative work, given the restrictions im-posed by their connection to the machines. The beeps, squeals and alarms in the unit were un-nerving at first, but quickly I began to see the people rather than the machines, the humour de-spite difficult circumstances, the warmth of the staff and their cool efficiency. I realised that those who wished to engage in the creative process were glad to do so, that creative aspiration exists often in spite of hindering circumstance, that physical limitations can be overcome if there is a will in the client and the staff. At the very least, the art can help pass the long stretch of time and at best people can learn, create, be productive and aspire. I met Johanna Tanner in September ’08 when I began to facilitate art sessions in the Renal Dialy-sis unit. Johanna was interested in writing and we had many lovely chats. I noticed that she had an exquisite turn of phrase and a rich descriptive style in her language. Each time a remarkable phrase was uttered during our conversations, I drew her attention to it and asked her to write a poem using the phrase as inspiration. At the beginning she found it difficult to believe that she could write poetry but one by one they came, mined from her own loquacity and verbal ingenu-ity. The poems arrived steadily, one per week, until she had created the collection. She spent much time editing and re-working them until finally “Lines in the Half Light” was born. I found her words to be beautiful, at times funny, sad on occasion but underneath all was a won-derful dignity and spiritual philosophy. Johanna has met adversity with courage and resolve. Her poems are a great personal achievement but I also discovered that they have meaning for and resonate within, others. As an artist this experience has been valuable, moving and a validation of the art process and the techniques I have developed over the last fifteen years. Art is a tremendously powerful tool in a healing context - helping to pass the time, to support people to grow and change, to express feel-ings and to turn captive time to captured time. I am very grateful to have been given this oppor-tunity. It is worth noting that this project could never have come to fruition without the support and goodwill of the unit staff and the logistical backup and steering of the Waterford Healing Arts Trust. Johanna is a remarkable woman with a colourful life, deep conviction, resilience and a wonderful way with words. Philip Cullen Artist

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The Ribbon Reluctant and cautious

Rebelliously stagnant

A pen more powerful than the sword

Placed in her hand

Unlocking the secret door to trust and forbearance

Hoping the well of words

will not dry up

Welcome to the storehouse

of unclaimed stories

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I Love My Long Finger September 3rd, 2008

A central digit

Taller than the rest

That others aspire to

But can never reach

I love my long finger

A sensitive digit

Seeking for the pulse of life

Ebbing, regaining, remaining

I love my long finger

On the other hand

If I look upon the merits

of the others,

I find a guide, a grip

or, a caress that lingers

I love my long finger

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Rusted Wheels

It’s stuck, it’s full of rust

Can’t you see?

My wheels are immobile

You think because it’s round

It should move, go around

But when,

where,

Am I going to get the time

to attend

to this great invention?

Find the time

God made plenty of it

Prioritise, set aside, contemplate and activate

Sanded, filed and oiled

Success at last

The exhausted cyclist

Leaves the act of cycling,

For another time

The cycle of rust

Begins again ...

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The Pulse I Twice as fast

As a mother’s heart

Week five heart chambers divide

A switch-on beat

Shocks surging life

To limb and body yet unformed

Seeking its own kind

The pulsating push of the sea

Heaves breathing sighs

Surging waves thrash free

On blocking rocks

Roaring and running

Towards a sandy sea shore

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The Pulse II Tremulous and thundering hoofs

On soft meadow turf

Whinnying in the glee

of running

The power and the pulse

Race as one

The evening sky

Spans a fanfare

Of expanding, booming wings

Like an arrow

Air-ride the currents

To answer the call

of distant lands

The tempo and the time

In nature’s allowance

Will run its course

No longer with force

The pulse is carried

To a new sphere

Of universal wonders

Carried in a spirit

That lives forever

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Providence, One of My Best Loves

Currency of a different kind,

Its wealth has no decline

It seeks out the one

Who requests

With adventurous deliverance

Divine providence is met

When funds are low

Nowhere else to go

A silent whisper

To the great giver,

A person is sent,

Worth his weight in gold

Providence unfolds

A backward glance

on a busy street

Is that my lost sister I see?

What perfect timing

To whom do I owe

The gift of seeing

Her once more?

Deep down I know

I’m late for work

The dog got sick

On the kitchen floor

Didn’t make the train

That September morn

When the planes crashed

So multi-faceted in its way

The hidden hand of providence delays

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Journey

So many pathways,

Labyrinthine are life’s journeys

So many chosen

with care,

with speed,

Many to those less inviting,

the extra mile

for those in need

Parallel lines

of nature and spirit,

take the journey

to two dimensions

The journey of secrets

where possibilities

are limitless,

The journey of the found,

Adventures many

And profound

Releasing treasures

gathered,

through pathways varied,

together and alone

The journey of distant

lands

Wanderings now fulfilled,

Homeward bound

the exile returns,

The place and the peace

embedded in heart’s core

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Journey of desire

Desire of the other

Journey of kindredness,

and fire

Journey of isolation,

Bewilderment and confusion,

Somewhere,

These pathways crossed

A turning point

Is reached

Opposites meet,

Complete

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The Labyrinth of your Mind

What man does not know, or has not thought of wanders in the night through the labyrinth of the mind

Goethe

Naked men and women of quest

tread unmapped territories

in the light of passion

seeking eyes for the blind

Night takes its place in history

where dreams of deep yield our mornings

breathing,

Life sculpts the silence

blowing a language of desire

through the passages

of time

The optical impossibility

of our futures

plants the seed of determination

further into

the belly of hope

The body

of love’s bitter longings

can always dance in the glow

of a promised dawn

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Musings on a Blue Stone

A basis of blues

Incandescent hues,

Sheer veneer

Blue depths

Deepest darkest depths

Sapphire fluid, a lucid trance

Encapsulated blue-ink fluid

Keep expecting it to move

Where foamy edges

Be-speckled glow,

So smooth, like glass

This blue-grey mass

Polished through and through

Reflects the light

Of day and night

A perfect V

Like an arrow head

Ingrained within,

blue turquoise rock.

A stone of victory?

Or is it vainglory?

Having stood the test

And sanding time,

of the sculptor’s hand,

Observing a trail of smokey clouds,

Like an illusive pathway

Through space

Crossing the vast expanse

into the firmament,

Beyond ink darkness

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A pleasing size and shape

Like a substantial walnut

An inspiring stone

This beauty,

Where did it come from?

Travelled far from its place

A fact-finding mission

A geological trace

Perhaps the southern hemisphere,

Where the colours of Eden

Are captured grace

A mystery immense,

Like the blue horizon

Before the settled night

Like the eyes of a pilot

Milked from the sky

A soul’s reflection

Pools of orbital

Cool expression

Invoking memories

Of childhood past

Through fields and hedgerows

Gathering various light white stones

from the freshly ploughed

Soil of Spring

Amid green meadows

and barley fields,

in Summer

The harvest unearthing of potato drills

Winter sparseness reveals

its gem,

Seasons of opportunities

a dreamer’s collection of creations,

The nearest resemblance

to a sculptor’s marble

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Something new inhabits this view,

Cobalt, pthalo, azure blue

donate the spirit

of calm and healing;

a renewing too

Combination of green and yellow

Gives earthy value

to this mystic hue

Drawing one into wordless admiration

The moody blue reflection,

Galvanised thoughts and feeling,

Receding in the mist,

Transverse universal heights

A solid gem

though not a jewel

A stone with a message

For the ailing observer

A healing message,

A victory stone

Overcoming all obstacles,

A rarity defined

for the agile spirit to claim

in the watchful eye

of silence.

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The Last Leaf on the Tree Tight fresh buds

Bursting to reveal

the tender shoots

of vibrant green

Then by mutual agreement

the sap forges

the tree is crowned

in glorious coverage

Hanging out together

with fellow leaflets

a summer canopy

of flying friends

and humans

Cold and colour changes

the signs of autumn

gathered

Sitting by the window

a father and his fragile daughter

watch the evening sky

She sighs

in contemplative prophecy

“When the last leaf falls,

I will die”

Her protracted ailments

had reached their zenith

A knowing deep within,

a calling far beyond,

a love greater consumed

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The distraught father

Before it could fall

Glued the remaining leaf

not ready to let

his precious sleep

Force of nature

in stormy weather

the struggling leaf

was wrenched

from its wooden structure

The last leaf descended

Her prophecy granted

Her pure soul departed

Her spirit ascended

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A State of Disrepair

A natural mud-mask

Green as the grass it looks

Covers my cranium

With organic henna

Didn’t expect it

To turn out reddish

My hair’s in a state of disrepair

Disease entered my

kidneys

Both have now

deserted me

A renal machine

Someone’s invention

Is now my detention

For life’s next adventure

I have found new

attachments

to tubes and dialysis,

to highly skilled medics

Kind nurses, drivers and clerics

And pale, fellow patients

Gathering resources,

of hope, faith and courage

New pathways are opened

Time is transformed in its meaning

Challenged and charged

By a healing artist

With a pen, not a brush

The literary world

Pours forth

in poetic form

Helped diversely,

by all who care

While I am in

A state of disrepair

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Maranatha

Like a voice in the wilderness

We call in the night

of our time

Your precepts written

in stone

for our guidance

and protection,

Crumble underfoot

and scatter like dust

Airborne,

In the wind

In its wake,

the coldness of unlove

devastates the landscape

It groans under the weights of

our transgressions,

Discord and disorder

longing to be cleansed,

Nature revolts

You must do

what you must

to give us back

the Eden that we lost

Our inheritance,

squandered by our parents

Restore, renew, ratify

your covenant

made with your remnant

With outstretched hands

We call you

Divine King

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Epichia

Ten steps to the Father’s kingdom

a call to his heirs

From the instant of conception

to return again

to the Father of creation

The brevity of time

A thousand years

an instant

Eternity ever approaching

to a place of chosen destiny

The gift of free will

a choice freely taken

of acceptance or rejection

The book of life

rolled out before our eyes

Scenes of youth

changed to middle years

On to the wisdom and fruits of elder years

Each step concerns or accuses

Each commandment a guidance

Each trial that tested us

Merits treasures in abundance

Johanna Tanner Johanna Tanner was born in the fifties in Dungarvan, Co. Waterford. She grew up on a farm run by the Augustinian Order, with two sisters and two brothers. Coming from a musical family, her father played the mouth organ and her mother taught the children to play music. She later studied music with the Mercy nuns. The family played in the Fleadh Ceoil for seven years, often appearing in the local pub The Pyke. At thirteen, Johanna was the youngest performer in an adult Céilí Band in Ireland. She went on to become a professional musician playing piano for the Ballycoe Céilí Band. After working for almost a decade in England, Johanna returned to Ireland and toured the country with the Ballycoe Quartet. The band made some television and radio appearances on programmes such as Ceoilte Gael and Céilí House. Johanna met her future husband, Richard, in Cork. They are married with five children whom she calls her “flowers”. Johanna went on to develop an interest in art and began restoring and painting religious statues. She took part in the restoration of thirteen statues that went to Russia in the eighties. As a patient in the Dialysis Unit of Waterford Regional Hospital, Johanna met the artist Philip Cullen in September 2008. Philip works for the Waterford Healing Arts Trust as an arts facilitator on a project funded by the Punchestown Kidney Research Fund. With Philip’s gentle encouragement Johanna began writing poetry. The rest is history.