Vox Populi
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James Crews: After Receiving Bad News from a Friend
for Paula Gordon Lepp
Malignant: a word with too many
syllables, too much density
in the mouth. A word no one wants.
And yet, it comes like any
unwelcome visitor, with a knock
at the door we’d rather ignore
but cannot. I think of my friend
handing me a jar of muscadine
and grape jelly last summer,
spreading that deep purple sweetness
across a piece of toasted sourdough
and tasting the sun now trapped
in each bite. How I am still feasting
on the labor of her love, that old
family recipe passed down through
the generations. Maybe any misfortune,
unlocks life’s truest instruction,
which is to simply be right here
for each other, to share the light
our bodies already know how to store
and turn into food. To offer what we can,
even when a friend lives far away,
to say: I will hold you inside myself
as you pass through this new gate.
I will walk with you, giving whatever
love I have preserved for this moment.
~~~~
Copyright 2026 James Crews
James Crews’s many books include Breathing Room: Poems of Rest and Retreat (Mandala, 2026). His work has been awarded the Prairie Schooner Prize and Cowles Prize. He has also been featured in The New York Times Magazine, The New Republic, Ploughshares, and The Sun Magazine.
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I recall, all too well, that phone call that my wife Pam’s problems were ovarian cancer. I won’t go into how our following 10 years were filled with wonder and love, mixed with a roller coaster of fear. But the story of how my son, who was living a dissolute life, upon hearing the news of his mom’s situation, did a complete 180, and is now a model of a loving person. Hearing the word malignant rekindled his life force. One of Pam’s final words to me, 8 years ago, were to tell me how proud she was of John, and how his support helped her go on for those ten years. His love sustains me still, as does hers, silently.
I also want to thank James Crews for naming the friend, and dedicating the poem to her. Peace and resolve to them both, and to all of us.
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Jim, thank you sharing this beautiful and moving comment.
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James is a dear gift I have received from VP. A lift from the weight. A sweet taste of preserves that reminds me to see beauty. And I look out the window and see momma squirrel, her soft tail handing below the bird feeder, her bright eyes checking me out above it.
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Thank you, Barb.
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No one can go from malignant to “deep purple sweetness” like dear James, weaving the heart of humanity, sharing our light which we “have preserved for this moment”. Another gem, thank you.
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yes, another gem. Michael Simms Publisher/Vox Populi
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Oh be still, my heart, once again, James. Thank you, Poet. xo
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How I agree with all that was said before — and how James can so simply, fluidly and lovingly put words to describe that little flame, there, in the heart of us that hurts for – and with – those we cherish when they suffer. That feeling of experiencing a deeply loving helplessness at not being able to relieve or heal our friends does help them, I need to believe that, so I’m grateful for how beautifully James describes this emotion.
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Oh, yes…
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Yes, he makes it look easy to speak beautiful simple lines.
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A gorgeous poem, its sunny evocation a reminder that the sweetness in life is rooted in its bitterness; that indeed the one is impossible without the other. James is a mater at this.
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yes, he is!
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Sweetness and bitterness in life are not a dichotomy, are they?
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Indeed no. It’s what I teach my students. Utopias suck … like a sanitized and neutered nature bereft of the sublime.
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A beautiful poem, one that many of us will call to mind, if and when we or loved ones are smacked with a life-changing diagnosis. And muscadines!—here a symbol of love preserved—said to be medicinal because of their chemical content—are one of the South’s happy fruits. That big slab of muscadine jelly or jam spread over sourdough toast is like some kind of great reward that is for the moment, but also for tomorrow and tomorrow—just for the “go and getting” from the cellar where a summer’s work is preserved for the taking—anytime of year and year after year. My wife, an oncology nurse, loves this poem too.
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Lovely response. Thank you, HC.
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My father was a master vintner of muscadine wine. A memory that the poem and your comment recall to me fondly. We drank it by the thimbleful, in honor of my mother’s sewing.
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“I will hold you inside myself as you walk through this new gate” This line, this poem, speaks to me so perfectly. I have a dear friend with Alzheimer’s, and I try to see if when possible (she lives a few hours from me) and comfort her when she calls. I know soon she will not remember how to use her phone, not remember me.
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Thanks, Valerie. I’m 72 and still healthy and alert, but it’s clear that I don’t have a lot of time left.
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Dear James faithfully has the “right words in the right order” to comfort body and soul.
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Yes, he does. James is a wise and skilled poet.
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Terrific poem, James!!
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Speaking of “even when a friend lives far away”—We’ve been held by and lived in your light now only at the cost of coming to know and reading you. You’re the laden tree to us—planted in a corner of the yard, grown and left to flourish—and that’s what has come of these latter days. Now we can’t remember when we didn’t have this loveliness, this agreeable blessing in our world that is the heart and spirit of James Crews.
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Sean, you are a fountain of inspiration and wisdom. Thank you so much for your comments in VP.
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