Writing about being unwell can seem confining, even confronting — but with The Venetian Blind Poems, Paula Green gifts us a book that feels boundless. This is a moving chronicle of recovery unfurled through a series of short, untitled poems, like letters to an uncertain future: ‘Inside once upon a time / I spy once / upon a now / but I am not even thinking / about once upon a will’.

The collection assembles work penned while Green was in hospital for cancer treatment and later when she was back home healing. It’s these cycles of pain and healing, not pain or healing, that colour the poems. Green’s sickbed imaginings (picturing herself a ‘a sleepy beetle’ beneath a pōhutukawa , or costumed in blue for ‘The Day of Underwater Dreams’ ) combine with plainspoken truths about the labour of illness: ‘...when I am in the thick of it / all I focus on / is managing the thick of it’.

Intimacy and immediacy are the strengths of the collection. Though the individual poems can be read on their own, many seem to build on the others’ rhythm, forming a whole that suits being consumed in one sitting (as I did). This is particularly true of the first part of the book, ‘The Venetian Blinds’, but similar imagery ripples through ‘The Open Window’. Over and over the poet finds herself anchored by mountains, harbours, gardens — and the nourishing force that is art. That poetry can bring solace in tough times is a cliché for a reason. Cards and poems from others become ‘daily immunity boosts for [Green’s] heart’, and dreaming of writing her own gives her the same peace as sleeping in clean sheets.

Yet The Venetian Blind Poems reminds us that finding our own peace doesn’t mean blinding ourselves to reality and turning from the hardships of others. Imagination can be a salve, but it’s not a cure. I respect how Green resists being complicit for the sake of being comfortable:

… My repugnance
at the devastation of Gaza
is not eased by the soft light
on the Waitākere Ranges
or a canny arrangement of summer nouns
or Boy Genius on the turntable
or even a warm bowl of chickpea tajine

There’s the acknowledgement that words will not always be enough to soothe the world’s troubles, or our own. In one memorable poem, pain marches in mid-stanza; the body at war with the mind: 

… This morning I count
how many times the day
rhymes: blue in the sky
blue in the song, blue
in the novel, pain
in the gut
pain on my tongue

The work in this collection might best be described as attentive, whether to big societal events, the familiar sounds of a hospital ward, or the particular shade of the sky outside. Like the world viewed through Venetian blinds, everything is patterned in shadow and light. I enjoy the quiet mystery of poems such as this one, where hope is elusive but still in reach:

In the basement of song
there are jars of pickled zucchini 
worn shoes well-thumbed novels

I am hearing sad rhymes
I see corners darken
I glimpse hope

I sing extra sweetly
in the basement of song

Similarly, in the next poem, ‘a night of dream scavenging’ leaves Green with stars, skylarks, vegetables, and the ocean. These brief poems are effective without being over-worked; direct and sincere without being so diaristic that they feel more for Green than for the reader. It feels special that she has opened up her experiences to us, which will be deeply resonant for anyone who has ever struggled with a long illness or looked after someone who has. This is work that is hopeful and generous, speaking of resilience and regrowth; of ‘building a house / for warm winds / open windows open doors’.

Reviewed by Anuja Mitra