Pamela MacBean resides with her husband in the North Country of New Hampshire. She lives on a small family farm called Go-Pher Wood. Pam's been published in many e-zines & journals including Ancient Paths, Adagio Verse Quarterly, Open Minds Quarterly, Ascent Aspirations, A Hudson View, among others. A collection of poetry titled 'In the Great North Woods' has been published by PublishAmerica. She is a breast cancer survivor.
She was a 2006 Pushcart Prize Nominee.
I was born in beautiful hilly Clarksburg, W.Va. in '51, moved to Winsted, Connecticut where my favorite nearby places were Barkhamstead Reservoir and People's Forest where we would picnic and go swimming a lot. I really think the magic of the forest influenced me forever because I have always loved the woods, no matter what the season. Also, a small book of art stories influenced me to love the colors of nature in words, stories and poems called 'Art Stories Book I' Copyright 1932 by Scott, Foresman and Co. I started to love Art - Baby Stuart by Anthony Van Dyck, In the Garden by Mary Anderson, The Toy Shop Window by Norman Rockwell. Through the years my love for reading books of poems and stories increased. I started writing poetry and stories in the fourth grade and have ever since.
Growing up mostly in the 60's, I was influenced by the Hippie Movement, the Jesus Movement, and eastern thought. I wandered through a bit of the flower power stuff, eastern thought, the occult and I ended up with becoming a Christian after almost joining a coven. For me that is where my path changed and I found my truth and happiness to grow out of the pain of a horrific childhood of sexual and physical abuse. It has taken many years of counseling but I am doing very well now. My poetry keeps changing as I grow more in wisdom, and going through many trials such as our daughter having many, many emotional difficulties, losing our 2nd house, then losing my first husband in a car accident, the loneliness of widowhood, re-marriage, step-kids, and finally breast cancer. I can say for sure that my anchor was my faith.
Through the Inflammatory Breast Cancer, size 7 cm, they didn't expect me to live but with the love of family, friends, caring doctors, nurses, and God, I got through it. I'm still here which amazes the doctors.
I now live on a farm we call Go-Pher Wood Farm (tongue in cheek), and we have 48 acres of land. It is my dream come true to be able to raise our own meat, vegetables and have many wild flowers around. It is a wonderful atmosphere to write poetry, and a lot of my poetry reflects the nature around me, also the struggles of the mentally ill, (I have a dissociate disorder, PTSD, and my daughter has PTSD, and Severe Depressive Episodes with psychosis. She is doing well now also having found a medication that helps greatly). Also I love to write about the characters up here in the North Country of NH, struggles with love and relationships, about my faith. I have a book out titled "In the Great North Woods" A Poetry Collection for sale on PublishAmerica.com and Amazon. Please see my site www.freewebs.com/pamthepoetess.
Love to all ----
Here's a couple poems -
re my journey through cancer
After a while I came to terms with my cancer diagnosis and decided to fight and take one day at a time like the Lord says.
In her own words-
You can feel Pamela's connection to the earth through her vivid descriptions of nature's beauty. More than that though-- her words reach inside and touch what is fragile in the human race and yet they also show the strength that we can find there, deep within. It is soul searching, in its pain and sometimes startling in its simple beautiful honesty.
I have been a big fan ever since I discovered her poetry --maybe in 2004 when I first published her work.
-VCW
Click below to find out more about
Pamela's Poetry Book
"In the Great North Woods."
Finding the Id
"On a scale of 1 to 10"
a monotone voice
swirled around me
at 2:00 am ER stint.
Pain doing crunches,
In-out-in-out
Within left breast;
EKG wired.
Beeping echoes.
Sleeve squeezing.
Tiny aspirin.
Nursed by proxy.
Doctor by the book.
Cheery line
"Your heart is fine."
2 days later
cancer stared me in the face
in morning's mirror check;
talons gripping my breast,
deeply, deeply
like January's icicles
sharpened by winter's shriek.
Friday the 13th
Diagnosis
An iconoclasm of life,
Inflammatory Breast Cancer.
And as survival marched into place,
with one foot after another,
Stepping over cracks,
I joined the front lines.
One Minute After Midnight
I shed my skin
No more slithering in dust clouds
Upon a belly filled with fear
Moon shadows
Etched on spring's alabaster mural
Are more violet than black
This voiceless night that steals the stars;
My bruised spirit healing
Moving closer to light than darkness.
Upon the incense of prayers
I rise above earthly woes,
This area where wings soar
Within lamb's wool clouds,
Within blue ether,
Whether of bird or angels
I know not,
Soft wings touch my face.
In my hand a pastel butterfly
Of life trembles; my today.
SKY SCRAPERS
As a flower laced day slowly softens into evening
within dew dampened grasses, tiny cricket serenades
quiver the air like the heart beat of summer.
Shadows of shade beneath the vine entwined apple tree
breathe coolness upon my skin
while I sit gazing at the sky scrapers
sliding into their airy positions on currents of the wind.
A harsh whistle does not call them to their tasks
like the ever rolling paper mill
across the snaking Connecticut river,
but the swirling, singing swallows
know the rhythms of the day.
And as the sun showers a crimson grand finale
upon a horizon gold dipped,
they fly to their branchy beds,
tucking heads under feathered wings,
while dragonflies start their whirring dusk patrol,
and small bats swoop from under the eaves
into the twilight hazed skies,
scraping dinner from darkening heights.
So begins the evening shift.
(Published in Ascent Aspirations)
PLANTINGS
My mother craved dirt,
not pickles, not ice cream,
dirt, so the doctor said
eat coffee grounds
when she carried me
& like a watery waif,
I bounced along
in the rumble seat
of grandpa's '33 Buick
to a country hospital -
birthed into air and light,
just missing St. Patty's Day;
to dad's Irish root's chagrin.
I grew up to crave gardening,
the feel of earth within my hand.
ABSENCE
At 78 she has forgotten her life
but he still brings her around
to happy events.
She still smiles.
He holds her limp hand.
Tucks her gently in bed.
"Love you, my dear".
She still smiles.
He holds tight the vow,
"Till death..."
though she's forgotten him.
But she still smiles.
FLIGHT DISPLAY
Diving into tall, flaming red
Bee Balm in summer flower bed.
Sunlight flashed on emerald green.
Tiny throat shone with ruby sheen.
Flying upward to my delight
in male pendulum courting flight,
squeaking love to his lady fair,
he sketched smiles upon warm air.
NIGHT OF THE PERSIMMON MOON
Mars winked ruby on silver sequined night.
Venus glowed with gently violet light.
Persimmon moon ascended spilling gold
baptizing surf where wine-dark breakers rolled.
Clamor's tendrils reached to pull us from the calm.
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