{"id":1983,"date":"2011-11-07T20:12:41","date_gmt":"2011-11-07T20:12:41","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/solaceinabook.com\/site\/?p=1983"},"modified":"2011-11-08T02:54:00","modified_gmt":"2011-11-08T02:54:00","slug":"susan-odonnell-mahan","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/solaceinabook.com\/site\/2011\/11\/susan-odonnell-mahan\/","title":{"rendered":"Susan O’Donnell Mahan"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"I first met Susan O’Donnell Mahan in Minneapolis when we both attended the launch of Kiss Me Goodnight<\/em>. \u00a0The poem she wrote for that book is titled “World View” and is about her mother Florence ‘Sis’ O’Donnell who died when Susan was 14. \u00a0Susan and a couple other poets who appeared in Kiss Me Goodnight <\/em>(Patti Wojcik Wahlberg and Tekla Dennison Miller) responded to my call for submissions. And now Susan and I keep up on Facebook, where I noticed she has published some poems. \u00a0So I asked her if she would contribute a guest blog, and here it is.<\/p>\n

When asked to give her bio, Susan who lives in Weymouth, MA, writes: \u00a0“Susan Mahan has been writing poetry since her husband died in 1997. \u00a0She is a frequent reader at poetry venues and has written four chapbooks,\u00a0 \u201cParis Awaits<\/em>\u201d \u00a0\u201cIn The Wilderness of Grief<\/em>\u201d, \u201cMissing Mum\u201d, and \u201cWorld View.\u201d<\/em> She joined the editorial staff of The South Boston Literary Gazette<\/em> in 2002.\u00a0 She has been published in a number of journals and anthologies. \u00a0 : )”<\/p>\n

Susan posted this poem last week and introduced it on FB by saying a framed copy of the poem was going to hang in\u00a0South Boston Arts Association display in Boston City Hall,\u00a0steaming up the building for a month. \u00a0It gave me a chuckle.<\/p>\n

STEAM HEAT<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

<\/em><\/p>\n

He came to steam the carpets clean,<\/p>\n

one sultry summer morn.<\/p>\n

His rugged face was handsome,<\/p>\n

and his cut-off jeans were torn.<\/p>\n

He\u2019d parked his truck behind my car,<\/p>\n

allowing no escape.<\/p>\n

My heart began to flutter,<\/p>\n

and my sentiments went ape.<\/p>\n

He hauled in the machinery,<\/p>\n

the hoses, brushes, soap.<\/p>\n

He said it wouldn\u2019t take that long,<\/p>\n

which somewhat dashed the hope<\/p>\n

that he would stay on for a while<\/p>\n

(my heart then skipped a beat)<\/p>\n

and raise my body temperature<\/p>\n

as high as that steam heat.<\/p>\n

\u00a9 <\/em>Susan Mahan<\/strong>,\u00a0 July 1999<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The next poem Susan sent me for the guest blog is her favorite one about her husband and marriage. \u00a0It won an Honorable Mention in the Pen Women’s Soul Making Contest in 2004.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

He called me Princess<\/strong><\/p>\n

but he didn\u2019t mean one who<\/p>\n

who wore a Royal family tiara<\/p>\n

or one in a fairytale<\/p>\n

with a fancy dress and a magic wand.<\/p>\n

No.<\/p>\n

What he meant was less obvious,<\/p>\n

but more telling of our relationship.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

When he called me Princess,<\/p>\n

he could make the name sing with tenderness,<\/p>\n

as if I were the only woman on the face of the earth.<\/p>\n

Most times, for him, I think I was.<\/p>\n

Most times, I needed to count on that.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

He called me Princess with aplomb<\/p>\n

if he wanted to defer to my judgment<\/p>\n

or plaintively if he had reached the end of his rope<\/p>\n

and wanted me to make the decision.<\/p>\n

We trusted each other like that.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

He called me Princess with an edge to his voice<\/p>\n

if I was trying to get my own way,<\/p>\n

and he thought I didn\u2019t deserve it.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

He called me Princess in exasperation<\/p>\n

when I wore him down in arguments<\/p>\n

that could have gone either way.<\/p>\n

I was really good at that.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

He called me Princess with the barest hint of irony,<\/p>\n

knowing full well that I did not lead<\/p>\n

the life of a princess,<\/p>\n

but that we are often<\/p>\n

kidding ourselves in life, after all.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s the way many of us get by.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Perspective colors everything.<\/p>\n

We had one of our best laughs<\/p>\n

when we learned that this guy at work<\/p>\n

had a dog named Princess.<\/p>\n

Nice company I was keeping!<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

That Thursday night in the hospital,<\/p>\n

with those raging leukemia cells poised<\/p>\n

for what turned out to be the final blow,<\/p>\n

his last words to me had been:<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I love you, Princess.<\/p>\n

You look tired. Go home and sleep.<\/p>\n

Although I never said it to him in so many words,<\/p>\n

I knew I had married a prince.<\/p>\n

\u00a9 <\/em>Susan Mahan<\/strong>,\u00a0April 2001<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The next poem \u201c After the Postmark\u201d won an honorable mention in the 2005 Perigree Contest.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

After the Postmark<\/strong><\/p>\n

I figure the quickest way is to fly,<\/p>\n

but it\u2019s going to cost me:<\/p>\n

the boat ride to the airport and back,<\/p>\n

one day\u2019s parking,<\/p>\n

a coach class ticket to New York City,<\/p>\n

round-trip cab fare,<\/p>\n

plus one day of vacation time.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Or, I could leave the house at 6 am and drive,<\/p>\n

which would be cheaper<\/p>\n

(mostly gas and tolls),<\/p>\n

in which case I\u2019d have to use two days of vacation time<\/p>\n

because I\u2019d be too tired to go to work the next day.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Either way, I can be in the publisher\u2019s office<\/p>\n

by noon or so when the mail arrives.<\/p>\n

I\u2019ll have my legs crossed<\/p>\n

and my hand resting under my chin–<\/p>\n

the very picture of nonchalance.<\/p>\n

Nana said you\u2019re known by the company you keep,<\/p>\n

so I\u2019ll be checking out<\/p>\n

who else is in the waiting room, too.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

No matter what happens behind the editor\u2019s door,<\/p>\n

my poems and I will still have each other<\/p>\n

on the ride home.<\/p>\n

\u00a9 Susan Mahan<\/strong>, December 2000<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n


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