Steve Rosen reads his poems—and tells us why he writes

Fifteen years ago, after the death of his favorite uncle, Steven Rosen committed his grief to paper. 

Grief took the shape of a poem—“Uncle Lenny.”

It was Rosen’s first. 

Over ensuing years, Rosen, an expert in hematologic malignancies who has served as director of the cancer centers at City of Hope and Northwestern University, has been writing poetry whenever he manages to steal a few moments.

His most recent collection, titled “Heartfelt Reflections,” includes 200 poems. All have been translated into Spanish by Sol Gaitán, a Colombia-born poet, whose sister, Luz H. Gaitán-Dyer, is Rosen’s patient of more than 40 years.

Rosen spoke with Paul Goldberg, editor and publisher of The Cancer Letter. Their conversation is also available as a video. 

Paul Goldberg: Most people know you as the kind of guy who could write a CCSG grant application. Fewer people know about you as a poet. So, this is our opportunity to tell them.

Steven Rosen: Thank you, Paul. I appreciate it. It’s not something that I think about in terms of a professional skill. It’s been just a release, and it’s been fun.

How did it begin? I see a poem that I suspect is important to you—“Uncle Lenny.”

SR: My daughter is a businesswoman, but she went to USC for creative writing and is a published poet.

And when an uncle, Uncle Lenny, died—he was like a second father—she said, “Put your thoughts on paper,” because it was very emotional for me.

And I wrote the poem, “Uncle Lenny.” She liked it, and she said, “Dad, keep writing.”

And so, every time I would get on a plane, for a number of years, I would write a poem if I had the time. And so, she surprised me and took 25 of, say, the first 35 poems, and published it as a little piece called “Stolen Moments.”

And a number of people saw it online when they would Google, and they said, “Keep writing.”

And so, that motivated me to write again, in most instances when I was on a plane, going to a meeting or coming back. And over the years, periodically, after a glass of wine, I’d feel creative and write a poem or two; or when something meaningful happened in the world that I felt that I wanted to respond to in some philosophical way.

SR: Chernick.

Chernick…

SR: My mother’s brother. He didn’t go to college. He served in the Korean War, and then became a rag man on the Lower East Side, with my father. And they worked together. they were the odd couple, for about 30 years, whereas my father was more the businessperson.

My uncle liked to drive the truck and deliver material, pick up material, always chitchat with people. Very passionate, loving individual.

I wonder if you could read it.

SR: Sure:

And that last little statement—“I am freed.” 

Everyone’s asking, what did that mean? And what it meant to me at the time was my uncle didn’t care what people thought about him.

And at his death, I realized that he was right. Be yourself and don’t worry about what people think about you.

Fascinating guy.

SR: Yeah.

Well, and I guess that got you started writing.

SR: That was it.

You were freed.

SR: That was it. And then the next poem was the poem. “Me.” And that sort of is the first poem in the anthology.

Would you like to read that?

Over the years, periodically, after a glass of wine, I’d feel creative and write a poem or two; or when something meaningful happened in the world that I felt that I wanted to respond to in some philosophical way.

SR: Sure. And you can see they’re all in English and Spanish.

And the story behind that was that a patient of many years came to City of Hope, to be hospitalized for CAR T therapy [Sol Gaitán]. And she said that she’s going to be there for several weeks. 

Have I written any additional poems? And I said, “Oh, about 250. But they’re in a drawer.”

She says, “Well, I’m stuck here, let me read them.”

So, she read them. She liked them. She’s from Colombia originally, and her sister is a professor of Latin studies in New York. She [the sister] liked them, and she translated all the poems into Spanish. 

And that’s what appears in the anthology, which I’m very proud of.

So, I’ll read to you:

The last book I have read that was poetry in Spanish and English was Pablo Neruda.

SR: There’s nobody better.

What kind of poetry influences you?

SR: Pablo Neruda. If I could write like Pablo Neruda, that’s all I would do.

You’d stop medicine. I think a lot of people, including your patients, would be very upset. I wonder if I could ask you to read “Leukemia Rounds.”

SR: 

Fifteen patients each with a separate story;
private anguish, shared sorrow
Fate or genetics brought you together; snuck
up on you; no warning the victim
Too cruel to comprehend; too complex to 
Unravel; too painful to discuss
You lie in bed exhausted; afraid to ask 
the critical question: will I survive 
My challenge; find the answers; structure the cure
Hope our mantra; prayer and research both
okay; I will never abandon you

SR: You just pick a page. You said you wanted something from COVID?

I think COVID would be great. You have several COVIDs.

SR: Let me look and see. Which I don’t know if any of them are particularly good, but we’ll take a look. 

Well, maybe I’ll read the first two COVID ones, because they’re short and quick.

An insidious fog blankets the planet
Siphoning life from every shrub
Aligned with the wind sans boundaries
Lurking as a shadow filling each sinister crevice
Cryptic origin absent lucid culmination
We patiently wait knowing the only certainty 
is that our love will endure.

And then the next:

Time has lost its cadence
Days blend without an apparent tomorrow 
Oppressive gloom hovers suffocating joy
Finite or eternal torment
Speculation more concrete than fact
Future now an obscure journey

That was written at the beginning of COVID when… God knows what was gonna happen.

What was it like for you?

SR: It was very lonely. I was here in the executive area of our medical pavilion, and only the medical director and myself were coming to work.

And I came to work in part because I felt the obligation in part because I have patients. And we were all trying to sort out what would happen. I remember living in a hotel for two months, and because my son had COVID very early on, so, yeah. Sorry.

I think it would be amazing to read “Metastatic Cancer.”

SR: 

I have witnessed the anguish of terminal cancer
Emptiness that suffocates
Helpless grappling with the inevitable
No silver lining
Only yesterdays remain 
Wishing there was reprieve

Now, one that’s a little lighter—“Love.”

Love is life’s reward; a feeling without calculation;
speaks to man’s most fundamental need
No labor; no plotting; no pretense
The essence of happiness; the fabric of human
Connection; the glory of each day
Requires no promises; no rituals, no demands 
For love, has a silent voice; words symbolic; intimacy its core
Grow old with me; cherish each memory; whisper our names

What about marriage? Since we’re on that subject. Page 296.

SR: 

Do you measure time by the seasons through the 
shape of the moon in the passage of a single day
Is it the memory of Paris; the subway journey, the onion bagel
Laughter in the tub; a cold winter’s night; walking dogs up the hill
Remember holiday meals, endless sporting 
events, a horseback ride in Ireland
Children’s toes; Chitchat and wine; ocean water mixed with sand
Our first kiss; passion and ecstasy; a life together

Ironically, sadly, that marriage ended, not because of me, but it ended. And I’ve regrouped. 

Let’s see. I’ll give you the one—“Five Decades.”

This one has been published. Others chose it. So, it’s been taken into another anthology. And it reveals a lot about my life, but…

She left me the morning of our forty sixth anniversary
A poignant affirmation of seething anger
Four children, an exquisite granddaughter, hundreds of devoted
friends, a dozen dogs of varied breeds, a quarter horse and 
Palomino, 18 homes, three RVs of assorted lengths, cross 
country and global travel, scores of social events, classic movies, 
shows, and countless sporting contests, beach and mountain
hikes, ten thousand blissful memories and three decades of 
supporting her father—all now meaningless commodities
My punishment for all her disappointments in life
Unconditional love an empty anchor, no longer valued
Hopefully she would at least remember that
I held her in my arms every night

So, now, you know my whole life.

It’s amazing—that’s Uncle Lenny’s gift; right? The way that you were able to do that…

SR: So tell me about you. What are you up to?

Well… I write prose.

SR: I know you write very good prose. Yeah. Very wonderful.

Is there any other poem you would like to read?

SR: I haven’t read this in a long time. I just happened to open the page. I have no idea if it’ll come out good or bad, but I saw a poem that says “Meaning.” So, let’s see what meaning’s all about.

It says: 

We all struggle to find the uniform theme that
brings meaning to the chaos of life
That poignant concept that resonates with our 
mind, heart and surges through our marrow
The great tragedy is the absence of a universal perception 
that can even for a brief moment provide comfort
Age, magnifies the folly of sorting out a concrete motive for humanity
So I just relish in the joy of love and intimacy 
For if you genuinely connect with another
you are joined in the journey

What are you writing now?

SR: The last one I’m a few sentences into is about wine, because I go to a wine tasting and it seemed like something appropriate to write about since I hadn’t written about it. And I enjoy it so much. But besides that, I’m just writing medical things, all the usual things that I’m engaged in.

Do you have any other thoughts? Anything I forgot to ask?

SR: Well, we can do one that’s sort of more pithy about death.

If lucky one to two decades remain
Leaves one numb, more philosophical
and reflective of life’s perplexity
Impossible not to struggle with the finite terms of existence
Can we measure one’s impact when time is ephemeral
Grasp the unifying concept that provides comfort or perhaps value 
Sustained by love I would prefer to live another day

So…

Thank you so much.