One of my dearest friends, a man I greatly admire, sent me this poem years ago as a way of showing his support when I first started running. DM is a poet himself, as well as a critic and a professor by vocation. He did not write this poem, but he studied under the man who did. Whenever I read these lines, I am moved by the layers of meaning, which are stitched through with the warm thought of who gave me the poem. I keep it taped above my computer at home, so I read it often. DM is not a runner; he claims he is allergic to exercise of any sort, so I was doubly touched by his acknowledgement of my passion for quick bipedal movement. I like to think of “Homage to the Runner” as a silent nod of understanding between us, because it is as much about his passion (poetry) as it is mine.
Homage to the Runner
By Marvin Bell
The form of this “sport” is pain,
riding up into it, he hurts to win.
These are the moments when death is really
possible, when a man can fit into
his enlarged heart all that is known
or was or shall be pumping fulfills.
The love of form is a black occasion
through which some light must show
in a hundred years of commitment.
By the time the body aches to end it,
the poem begins, at first in darkness,
surrounded by counterfits of leisure.
Run away. Leave them to ease.
What does it matter if you wind up alone?
There is no finish; you can stop for no one.
When your wife cries, you pass a kiss.
When your sons worry, you flash a smile.
When your women wave, you ignore them.
Pigtails Flying 
DM was a colleague of mine in Iowa. He and his wife became personal friends over 35 years ago. I share your respect and admiration of them and of DM for his courage through this incredible challenge. Thank you so much for taking action to change the future of this disease. They so respect you and appreciate your commitment. Although I don’t know you, I thank you for your efforts and for being you.
Paula Holcomb
I hope both DM and his wife know how many lives they’ve touched…and how many of us are carrying their gifts of poetry, words and shared memories with us throughout our lives.
There aren’t words to adequately manage the emotions surrounding current circumstances for either of them, so as I grope helplessly to say something meaningful, I can only turn to DM’s own words.
This is a poem written by DM for IM, which he so graciously shared with me on my wedding day. And on the trying days when I’m more inclined to whack my husband on the head with a coffee cup, I consider for a moment these words…and then I put the coffee cup down and back away from it…slowly and lovingly.
Marriage
Most Saturday mornings
nothing practical
happens
as the snap of coffee’s
deep caffeine makes
steam to swirl
across the paper’s
puzzle. We watch
nuthatches hang
head down on the feeder
in the frozen yard
like naive kids
on a jungle gym. Then
one of us suggests
buying a new
dinette with cushioned
chairs to take the ache
out of buttered muffins
and these hours we steal
again from practicality.
When the coffee
cools, the morning’s final
word finds its proper
puzzled place,
and the birds have decided
this new light, once again,
is going to last all day,
you say it’s time to shower
and find something to wear.
But we stay there
where we sit or stand
just to embrace
what each of us
knows is of no use
to either of us
unless we call it love.
[…] for our fundraising for The Michael J. Fox Foundation for Parkinson’s Disease Research. Dan, my college professor, mentor, and dear friend, has Parkinson’s Disease. The letters were […]