Eleanor Kedney

POETRY IS MORE than words on paper for Tucson writer Eleanor Kedney. “Poetry offers the reader/listener insight into our humanity and keeps us connected to each other through our shared universal emotions.” Eleanor is the author of two full-length poetry collections, Between the Earth and Sky and Twelve Days from Transfer. Her award-winning poems have been published in many journals, magazines and anthologies. She studied for years with poet Philip Schultz, founder of The Writers Studio. “There I learned about elements of craft and how to use techniques to write difficult material.” In 2005 Eleanor founded the Tucson branch of The Writers Studio and served as its director for ten years.

Eleanor visits and revisits the recurring themes of loss, grief, family and forgiveness throughout her work. By delving deeply into her emotions, she uncovers the connections between these motifs. “Staying with one theme and finding the heart of a manuscript enabled me to write my collections. In writing Between the Earth and Sky I forgave my brother, who was addicted to heroin. In writing Twelve Days from Transfer, which is about infertility, I was able to forgive myself.”

Poetry has been a lifelong pursuit for Eleanor. “I started writing poetry when I waseight or nine years old. My father was in the  Navy and often away six months at a time. The letters and postcards he wrote me were lyrical, and his penmanship was like calligraphy. I think of his letters now as prose poems. I learned to love the sound of words and how they look on the page.”

Eleanor is a dedicated advocate for animal welfare and the environment. “I’ve loved all animals and felt a strong connection to nature since I was a little girl. Being empathic helps me feel my emotions and uncover what’s meaningful in my poems. It’s my hope that others can appreciate animals and the natural world through my imagery and the narrator’s perspective.” She splits her time between Tucson and Stonington, Connecticut with her husband Peter and their animals. "Every day begins with my favorite routine, which is to say, “Good morning, I love you,” to my dog Fred and cat Ivy, and feed them. Both are rescues and are very smart, loving beings. It’s a time I am not thinking of myself or other things."

A few years ago Eleanor created the Writing Toward Forgiveness workshops, based on techniques she employs in her poetry. “The workshops invite participants to explore both universal and personal experiences through writing. I want to immerse writers in an experience and let them launch their writing from there.”

Eleanor is currently a member of the Tucson Poetry Festival board, a position she finds fulfilling and enlightening. “I have learned more about the downtown Tucson community and the work of other poets through the board. Every year we put together workshops and readings by national, regional and local poets that are free to the community. I’m happy to be a part of continuing this important work, that has a long history of bringing talented poets to Tucson.”

She is also working on a new book. “I wrote the title poem in a workshop taught by Jane Hirshfield at the University of Arizona Poetry Center. She gave a prompt to begin a poem with an imperative. I decided the poem I wrote could be the foundation for another book. This new book will have a deep connection to spirit. The poems will offer, through image juxtapositions and paradoxes, alternate ways to interpret life events.”

In discussing the following poem, Eleanor says, “I set the scene of women coming together after completing a grief group. I had been in a grief group and made deep connections with women sharing their losses, and I knew the complexities that came with it. The coming together over warm food after working in the cold and being exhausted came from years of living in New Hampshire and cross-country skiing through the woods to friends’ houses. It’s a feeling of satisfaction and belonging. I thought this was the perfect metaphor for the last poem in my book.”

More at eleanorkedney.com.

Women Pruning Pear Trees

When someone in the grief group shared,
Some mornings, I don’t get out of bed,
or I hate my body; I wonder if my husband
will leave me; I don’t know my purpose in life;

I listened. Both hands in my lap, left
on top of right, palms up. I read aloud
newly written poems about autumn rain,
apple pie, walking my dog Shana.

At the end of the eight-week session,
Jan invited us to her house to prune
pear trees. It was February, snow possible,
the weather perfect for cultivating hardiness.

She laid the tools on the ground: secateurs, loppers,
saws, pole pruners. We thinned out weak-crossing
branches, keeping the ones with the least angle at their origins.
Avoided cutting fruit spurs, removed water spores.

We took the dead and damaged limbs,
knowing the unsung trees might not fruit that year,
but with our work they might the next. Inside,
there was lentil soup and warm bread, a long table.

We hung our coats and sat down, joking
about who worked the hardest. I rubbed my cold hands
together. On my wrist, a small scratch flared.
My arms ached from reaching toward the canopy.

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