Review: A Last Eyeful by Debra Shulkes

What it's about: Mental illness, introspection, finding joy in tragedy

Why did I read it: I like to read poetry collections in between heavier books, and really, really needed to read this one.

I need to tell you about Debra.

A few months ago, I wrote a bitter note in the margin of my planner:

"In death, I'll be remembered for what I could have done. Not for what I did."

It's a pattern seen time and again: the artist unrecognised for their talent until they are gone forever. Then the industry laments their passing, reproduces their work in increasingly shiny editions and "vault releases", and basks in the acclaim the artist would probably have appreciated in their lifetime. We saw this recently with Sinead O'Connor, to name but one.

I didn't write that note to pity myself, but out of desperation. I don't know how I'll be remembered, and I can't control it. Debra Shulkes, however, needs to be remembered by us all. I am now and forever in awe of A Last Eyeful.

This poetry collection was published posthumously, following an advanced form of cancer that took her life within weeks of diagnosis. My family friend —Debra's cousin—told me all about Debra's compassion for others, her intuition, her honesty. Her writing was so beautiful, so core to her personality, that apparently even her emails were gorgeous. Following her death, the family banded together to raise money for grassroots organisations that provide books to people who would otherwise be unable to access them—such as prisoners, the unhoused, psychiatric hospital patients, refugees, and shelters for those fleeing unsafe living situations.

After a recent visit to this friend's house, she gave me Debra's poetry collection. Usually, I annotate poems as I read to commit them to memory and unwind their phrases. But I couldn't bring myself to scribble on these pages; something told me not to intellectualize Debra's words. It restrained my hand, forced me to sit with each line, breathe slowly as they ran through my mind. Each poem was candid, to be taken as it was written, delivered like a catch-up with an old friend in a sunlit kitchen.

For example, "This Didn't Happen" tells the story of the speaker's upstairs neighbor. Its eight lines convey denial, curiosity, and the conclusions we draw from the fleeting clues our invisible neighbors leave in their daily motions. I was filled with empathy for someone I will never know: his "bang of pot, the shower gush, / shamed ride of the toilet flush. / And sometimes I know he cried. / The man who didn't commit suicide."

My favorite piece has to be "The Gift": a prose poem detailing the journey of a woman who moves away from home to a foreign country. There, she experiences the distinct loneliness of being from elsewhere, of trying to assimilate but never truly belonging. As I too have moved to a different country in adulthood, and have tried to maintain a sense of self while blending in with my new surroundings, this piece hit hard. Most noteworthy is when the woman meets someone from her homeland. She is so desperate for that specific connection that she oversteps a social boundary for a taste of the familiar. I won't say what happens afterwards, but I can empathize with the zeal that springs forth the second you meet someone from home, or who reminds you of home. You leap at connection and fail to make it.

Another one that made me smile was "My Polish Jewish grandmother explains how she survived the Holocaust". It contains no information about the Holocaust and everything about the woman herself—little tangents about school, her father's job and her physical prowess. The poem's final line asks, "Now what was the question." She is the survivor. These are the memories she's carried with her. That's your answer.

No two poems are alike, in both form and content, and each brings a new person or experience to light. What unifies this collection is its care and grace towards humanity; Debra's writing exudes forgiveness for all the ways we act when we carry pain. After "Summer Postcard" and an author bio, this book leaves you with a bittersweet wave goodbye after fighting through mental illness, heartbreak, memories, institutionalisation, death and confusion. I feel honored to have walked through these vignettes with Debra as my guide.

While the jury's out on my life, I don't think my angsty sentiment applies to Debra or her work. This collection demonstrates just how powerful 12 poems can be at conveying the totality of her worldview, what shaped her, and how she viewed herself. There's no void at the end, no sense of what she could have done with more years on this Earth, no dwelling on what-ifs. Debra wrote poems that encompassed all of her, and us, and anyone who is lucky enough to read this book.

(Note: A Last Eyeful is not available for purchase, but Debra's family does have a limited number of copies available. If you would like one, feel free to send me an email via the little envelope button under my bio or the contact form, both of which can be found on my About page.)