Songs in the Desert: Celebrating the Poetry of Marydean Martin
Marydean Martin. Photograph courtesy of Angela M. Brommel.
By Angela M. Brommel
Tucked inside my copy of Who will love the earth is a photocopy of a poem James Kavanaugh wrote for Marydean Martin after her mother’s death, “For Vassie, who passed just before Christmas.” This February, Marydean Martin passed just before Valentine’s Day, just shy of ninety-seven years old. Much has been written since she passed about her extraordinary career in advertising and her philanthropic legacy, yet those who knew her well also knew Marydean as a constant and attentive poet.
Marydean Martin was born in 1929. Her family came to Nevada while her father worked at Hoover Dam. Since childhood, she wrote every day, throughout the day, in whatever notebook or on whatever scrap of paper or napkin was nearby. Because she was a night owl, I often woke to an email containing only a sentence or two about some extraordinary beauty she had witnessed the day before, sometimes accompanied by a photograph and a brief poem. She often invited friends—and soon-to-be friends—to write poems from prompts she pulled from her handbag, always following up later to ask for the finished poem.
Marydean was a poet of place whose keen eye captured the beauty of Nevada and the people who call it home. From early elementary school until recently she wrote daily about the land and the people she loved. There was no one she loved more than her husband of sixty-six years, Charlie Silvestri. Decades into their marriage, she continued to write tender reflections about her love and admiration for him: “A marvel, the kind of a man / who happens only once.”
Like Mary Oliver, Marydean walked daily, finding beauty and writing it down to share with others. Her daily walks, reading, and writing formed a kind of contemplative practice. Once, I noticed a small pyramid of books beside her sofa. “That’s my to-read pile,” she said.
She fiercely protected time late into the night for reading and writing. In the daytime, she wrote constantly in the margins of work notebooks and on napkins while waiting for clients and friends. Wherever she was, she noted beauty. I do not doubt that in her lifetime she wrote thousands of poems beyond those she chose to publish. One of the most splendid things to imagine is how many people may still be connected through the small poems Marydean sent us on any given day.
Once, I remarked to Marydean that neither her first nor last name was capitalized on her stationery or business logo. She told me this was because her favorite poet was e e cummings. There are many more stories I want to share about Marydean’s poetry, and someday I will. But for now, I will end with her own words, which capture both her poetry and the way she moved through the world: “you taught me / a new way of belonging.”
Untitled
By Marydean Martin
If, as the say,
we are incurable
romantics
then, so be it.
And when we see
rainbows in soft mists,
and when we hear
songs in the desert winds,
they ask us to interpret.
If, as they say,
we are incurable
dreamers
then, so be it.
And when we dare
to live imagined schemes,
and when we leave
boundaries behind us,
they ask us to teach them.
If, as they say,
we are incurable
wanderers
then, so be it.
And when we walk
paths not yet taken
and when we sail
magical calm seas,
they ask to come with us.
Who will love the earth
By Marydean Martin
The people I seek to tell
my dreams, weave my spells
around, preach my causes,
the few I invite to touch
my mind, see my nakedness
are fleeting bits of light
finding a way through dense
foliage, forming shafts of
brightness, reflecting on
soft leaves, glistening as
mirrors on moist particles.
I need those who never refuse
or elude fresh experiences
whose primary motivation
is to fully utilize their
contact with the earth.
Constantly I search among
the foliage for those who
live a duel between the
base earth and the spirit,
who have need of isolation
and thirst for the throng,
who yearn to fly, yet need
to stand firm on the land
as they divide into fragments
still able to remain as one.
The people I seek are those
who will love the earth when
I am gone, are you among them?
Marydean Martin, Who Will Love the Earth. Scorpion Press, 1982. Reproduced with permission.
Angela M. Brommel is a Nevada writer with Iowa roots. Brommel is the Clark County Poet Laureate (2022–2024) and is the author of Mojave in July (Tolsun Books) and Plutonium & Platinum Blond (Serving House Books). She serves as senior advisor and executive director for the arts at Nevada State University, where she oversees the Marydean Martin Writers’ Project. You can also find her at The Citron Review serving as editor-in-chief and poetry editor. angelambrommel.com