Courage Comes A-Callin’

I didn’t trust it,
But I drank it anyway.
The wine of my own poetry.

It gave me the daring,
To take hold of the darkness
And to cut it into pieces.

~ Lalla, a Sufi Poet

 

Perfect
~annamarie~

Everyone told me how perfect he was –

            how lucky I was that he wanted me

            when he could have had any other girl.

When his shallow smiles or his searing slights

            or his fierce fists find me, I wish on each falling star

            that he’d chosen any other girl, any girl but me.

 

I slip from the beneath the covers

            the covers that make the bed perfect for him

            and of course it should be perfect for me, too.

In the deep night, after the rolling dusk is long gone

            and the misty breeze blows into shore,

            I shoot the shadows across his perfect tiles.

 

And while he slumbers I am briefly paroled

            from the endless silence sifting between us

            from concocting lightness among rusting tin pillars.

Barefooted I roam the sand dune labyrinths and imagine

            purple jasmine blossoming in the silky moonlight
            and that I am Persephone set free upon the solstice 

  

Poetry Processing

What do you do when you identify with something you’ve read?  It strikes a nerve, a nerve so deep you have a physical and/or psychological/emotional reaction to it.  Now you have this storm of emotions, thoughts or sensations running through your mind and body.

Take a Deep Breath.  Slowly.  Air in through nose all the way to the belly button (aka diaphragm).  Then take another.  Pick up your pen and write it.  Write the words that describe the emotions, the sensations.  Don’t worry about spelling or sentence structure.  Don’t worry about sentences.  When you finish writing, take another Deep Breath.  Slowly. Take another.  Relax.  Feel the emotions and sensations subside.  They drained out of you and live on the paper now.

There are Certified Poetry Therapists, Registered Poetry Therapists and Certified Applied Poetry Facilitators.  Two sites where you can get more info:  www.nfbpt.com and www.poetrytherapy.org.  FYI, I am not a formally trained poetry/bibliotherapist; however, I believe writing can help the healing process for some people working through certain situations/emotions.

One with Medusa
by annamarie

 I have become Medusa walking that barren corridor
between the living and the dead.
Purple-blue, almost-black bruises
snake around my wrists and dot the inside of my thighs.

 I beseeched heaven for protection from this god-like
man, from his persistent pounding.
My head swimming and drowning
until he stopped.  And left me with a good-bye kiss.

 I have become Medusa blamed for her own rape –
so lovely, Poseidon helped himself.
Team captain said he couldn’t help
himself – that I knew better than to be alone with him.

 My gut wrenching; I screamed: “But it’s not my fault!”
and all who looked at me were stone.
I cry to the gods: “Release me from my
shame and hate.” Still, I walk the edge of the living world.