Poet of Life,Life of a Poet: Tom Greening

Abstract

Tom Greening’s life was his message. He has given us a gift of his lifetime of poetry to carry with us, to remember and cherish the power of compassion, humor, imagination, and a quiet declaration of our shared humanity. We will miss him.

There is so much to say about Tom, all of his accomplishments and myriad of contributions he has made to humanity throughout his life, his amazing poetry he gave away freely.

However, it was not through poetry that I first learned of Tom over 30 years ago. It was by listening to a lecture Tom gave at Saybrook University. I heard a sonorous voice speaking in the auditorium I was about to enter, “It is unconscionable to treat depressed folks with medications without finding out what is behind the depression.”

My ears perked up, “Not only is it unconscionable, but it is also reckless,” so the voice continued. The speaker went on to disclose how he himself had been plagued by depression and did not think it to be biological in origin. Rather, he went on, he saw it rooted in many, many outside factors, but certainly not in a simplistic biology-based etiology.

I don’t recall any longer whether I had stumbled into Tom’s lecture on the resurgence of psychopharmacology by happenstance, or was I drawn to it because it was related to an announcement I recently had read somewhere. The topic fit into my research topic on the bio-psychiatric mindset in psychology and psychiatry. I do remember standing in awe of this professor of psychology who spoke so much from the heart, and so openly about his own afflictions, that my eyes were watering up. I had grown accustomed to academics and their often neutrally sounding professorial language. Tom’s rhetoric was a breath of fresh air, instructive while deeply from the heart, polemic and so very inspirational.

This was my first memory of Tom Greening whom I knew as a renegade, ever so caring and “take me as I am” human being. Tom was a “mensch,” in the true sense of the word. There was no hesitation for Tom to show his humanity, pointing out his own flaws more so than his brilliant and poetic mind, his loving nature, and beautiful presence.

Tom always had time. As a student I immediately felt relaxed around him. There was no pretense, no professorial demeanor and boundary—he melted into whatever group he was in. When I think of him now, I am clear that he wanted to become “nobody” in a world where most of us want to become somebody, where most of us desire to stand out, achieve, be known.

Tom’s ever so self-deprecating nature was not after being someone, rather, he relished in being human, one of everyone, not separate or better in any way. Just in case that was not yet clear, he confessed it to us all in his poem Confessions of a Whacko:

I must confess that I’m de facto

a dangerous, deluded whacko,

a lunatic out on the fringe,

the kind who makes all sane folk cringe.

I still believe in civil rights

and I’m the type who slyly cites

the constitution and the law,

although they both stick in the craw

of saner men who run this land,

defending it from Ayrabs and

the nut case liberals like me

who fail to see our destiny

is over all the world to rule

without objection from this fool,

an obsolete anachronism

who strangely fears nouveau fascism.

I think it’s time to lock me up

and offer me a poisoned cup.

I’ll watch the news when I’m in hell

and wish all you poor earthlings well.

When in 2011 many Bay Area organizations participated in the “Poetics of Aging” conference in San Francisco held at the First Unitarian Church up on Franklin Street, Tom was in his element. The poet of heart he was, I saw him everywhere at this 4-day conference and still cherish the photos I have of him reading poetry and lecturing on all things humanistic. Much of the content I do not recall as I was mesmerized by Tom’s sheer loving presence.

We began talking about his poetry and collecting it in a special volume entitled “Poems for Elders” some 20 years ago. I mentioned a small publishing house called Eldership Academy Press and told Tom that this press would collect and print some of his poetry. Tom loved the idea. When we began to put the book together, with small steps, poems sent by email and then to the graphic designer, Tom showed how gentle and kind he was, never pushy, never showing any disappointment if we did not hold to a deadline or had overlooked a poem or two. Again and again, Tom was so very understanding of human nature. He wrote to Louis and me about having poems to publish if we’d like to get them out. And he was so prolific a poet! It seemed that he could not stop writing poems. One morning I received his latest poem in my inbox in which he proclaimed, in his usual witty style, that he was Done with Poetry:

I am announcing, happily:

I’m done with writing poetry

and celebrating joyfully

that of this curse at last I’m free.

If you want poems don’t look to me—

Find someone else who’ll hear your plea.

I labored long, endured great strain,

and in the end burned out my brain.

With joy I can that chapter close—

Now I am free to write dull prose.

Of course, Tom could not stop writing poetry. As he was a true poet, poetry was also him. It was the vehicle Tom used to express his inner nature, to dig deep into the paradox of our human lives, deep into the “insanity” we call existence. So, it should not surprise that he felt at home in existential psychology and therapy with its emphasis on lived and inner experience, its valuing of the moment, the here and now, the paradox of life, perhaps the absurdity of it all. For him poetry and existential psychotherapy were one and the same. They emanated from the same inner core, our inner nature, our soul. I was especially touched one morning reading his poem entitled Life Goes By:

There is a lot that I regret,

and even more that I forget.

It seems my life has hurried by—

I’ve often had to say “goodbye”

to cats and dogs, to lovers, friends—

each phase of life begins . . . then ends.

My spirits rise, then sometimes fall.

As years go by I’ve clutched at all—

the good, the bad, the in-between,

but now when I survey the scene2

I’ll happily confide in you:

my life has been a dream come true.

Indeed, Tom, the poet, lived a long life during which he touched so many of us. To express in his own way, and with life’s “whackoness” in mind, that his “life has been a dream come true,” is perhaps the most beautiful tribute he could pay to life, to his own life.

Tom would love nothing more than looking down from wherever he is watching us and seeing us delve into his poetry, reading it and reflecting on it, allowing his poetry to touch us. This made me think of my colleague and friend Nance Reynolds, also a Saybrook graduate and, like Tom, an existential therapist with a passion for poetry. I emailed her a few of Tom’s poems followed by a copy of his book “Poems for Elders.”

Nance was delighted to collaborate on a tribute for Tom. She wrote back enthusiastically including her reflections on a few of Tom’s poems from the collection of his poetry book, “Poems for Elders.” The following section includes her reflections in her voice about the poems.

When I received the call from Nader, I was grateful for the opportunity to contribute to a tribute to Tom. Since I became reinvigorated about writing and reading poetry a decade ago, it has become clear that the dovetailing of existential therapy and poetry accentuate the power of each, as well as deepening the unification of the two. I have felt over the years of reading Tom’s poetry how passionate and gifted a poet he has been in his life. Each poem ushers in an experience, often one that is knowable to varying degrees by most of us. Today, I am particularly attracted to his poems, “An Elder’s Resolution,” “Your Desk Drawer,” and “Homeless,” and will share reflections after each one.

An Elder’s Resolution

Just recently a blunt friend told

me that someday I may grow old.

At first I thought he spoke in jest,

and then perceived it was a test

to see if existentially

I could face this reality.

I will not do so, now or ever,

and have resolved that I’ll endeavor

to stay alive and never falter

and be the first immortal elder.

Tom’s poetry reveals a willingness to stay close to the places we all live in the moment. A willingness to confess and expose the painful and stark, real truths of living life with insight, humor, and playfulness. This “speaking from the heart, and openness about his own afflictions,” Nader refers to presents an opportunity for readers to allow ourselves to join with him in the experience. And through joining another to expand our capacity we develop more compassion for ourselves and others.

I can recall a similar unspoken commitment years ago, to look away, to keep the reality of growing old unacknowledged. I imagine I told myself that if I stayed strong and steadfast, I could stave off this pesky detail of existence. Certainly, I could go against all odds of growing old with my great will and become “the first immortal elder!” A deep chuckle arises now in my being as I reflect on this game of pretend, and realize I was indeed, not the only elder to attempt to fully turn away from this existential truth . . . only to learn that life would insist that I turn fully toward this truth. His poem is entitled: Your Desk Drawer.

Fifteen years after you died

I decide it is finally time

to clean out your desk drawer.

Old pens, a single earring, a high school medal,

antiquated computer disks,

a dried out ink pad,

keys to unknown locks,

some hardened gunk

that I try in vain to scrape out,

and a Mother’s Day card from the daughter

who now has three kids of her own.

I give up.

The drawer is clean enough

and ready for more stuff

that someone else will have to sort.

It’s the same with memories—

Some are worth keeping,

and some unwanted ones

stay stubbornly stuck.

In Tom’s poem, “Your Desk Drawer,” Tom’s observations about the contents of the desk drawer walk us through the intimacy of knowing another through the mundane, common findings within the drawer. Tom’s poetry moves courageously toward weighty topics such as loss, loneliness, belonging, and isolation. With a light touch Tom speaks about the unwanted memories, the stuck places in his reminiscence, and creates the fragmented to meet the whole. Here, Tom shares experiences that are common to humanity, and in a quiet way we have been invited into sharing and joining with the good, the bad, the beautiful, and the ugly of the universal human experience. The inability to scrape the gunk from the drawer, followed by, “I give up,” highlights the use of imagery and emotion braided together at each juncture of the poem.

Homeless

And even some of us who live in fine houses

are homeless, starving, cold,

wandering the bleak streets of our minds,

hoping for the kindness of strangers

and from our own kin,

or at least safety from their abuse.

“Make me a pallet on the floor,” sang John Hurt,

and I’ll settle for that

if he’ll just sing me to sleep every night,

even those nights when we both know

there is no sleep for the haunted.

In the poem Homeless, Tom pointedly speaks to the suffering within, and the disparate parts of ourselves with the backdrop of the false separations between human beings. He did not deliberate with elaborate description, but rather “tells it like it is” in his experience. Through his poetry writing, Tom shares his inner searching, and this prompts new discovery and possibly unexpected awareness within the reader’s mind.

Tom has given us all a gift of his lifetime of poetry to carry with us, to remember and cherish the power of compassion, humor, imagination, and a quiet declaration of our shared humanity. He told everyone willing to listen to him what “he planned to do with his wild and precious life,” namely be a poet of life, live life like a poem, teach what he learned, and write as much poetry as possible about it all.

Thank you, Tom: we carry your spirit—with all its whackoness—forward, grateful for how deeply you have touched and inspired us.