Category: poetry

Is writing poetry theraputic?

Here is a website which says so:

http://www.poeticmedicine.com/

Some people say it is but poets have a much higher suicide rate than any other  people/

I read:It is diagnostic but not therapeutic [Sylvia Plath]

I also read that writing to a strict form is more likely to help you then writing free verse…seems intriguing.I believe if you have suffered a lot in life,writing may bring it to the surface.Fiona Sampson in  The Expert Guide to Poetry Writing advises one to keep the phone number of the Samaritans to hand!That tells you a lot.I wonder what T.S.Eliot would say or Ted Hughes?What do you think?

Seems like the ice is inside me

Air,bitter they call it,whispers to the sweet planes of my face,

Shrieks shrill to my cavities,ears,mouth and nose;penetrates all that’s open;

Probing like a surgeon’s knife,to see what healing damage it might do.

 

A frozen finger,touches my heart;

Seems like the ice is inside me sending urgent warnings.

 

On that high inner mountain,you’ll feel nothing at all…

You’ll be the snowman, a bloody icicle;

An Old Testament of Endurance;

A legend like the pale polar bears,

snuffling uneasily around the summit

 

Touching a woman’s heart is the quickest way to gain her attention

 

I’m looking at you;you’re in pieces.

You’re a puzzle,a jigsaw with two double dynamos.

A broken racing bicycle crossed with two ice skates.

Ten motorboats crashed into a yacht and abandoned on a Swiss lake in winter.

 

Can I leave you scattered like this?

 

You’re a man in a penguin suit;

Diplomatic, attached with the coldest reserves.

You’re a spy from the court of the Vatican City

A screaming Pope;

An unbaptized demon.

A lost angel with no hands;

A half hung side of meat;

An unbroken rampant horse deluded by winds east.

 

We were split,one from another;

Split in ourselves too–thoughts and emotions

Are raw like meat,weeping as they are pulled apart into islands.

 

I see there’s a cold window between us.

I rub it with my damp coat sleeve,like children do,licking on it;

And see your eyes gleam in hope like greenish diamonds.

Yet I can’t touch you,until we learn how to melt glass.

 

Are you trying too as you smile weakly,

desperately holding onto this impossible slippery glass?

We’ll try reach you at the bottom of whatever frozen ocean you sigh in.

 

Here you are,a flat and two dimensional Prospero.

You rise like a non-U-boat already firing at the upper orders.

Here you are walking through what seemed like ruins

And you are not just alive, but burning.

THE KEYHOLE

Image

Sometimes I had my eye too close to the keyhole

    Pulled there by some force like gravity.
    I was gazing with a sharp but narrow focus
    into what I thought was the real.
    But the precision of my gaze
    left out the surroundings, the other doors and rooms
    that  I might have inhabited.
    As he came to me and opened his arms with no rancour,,
    so my eyes opened wider,I took in the new wide vision
    and left my crouched and aching position
    no longer attached like a magnet to your force,
    He was there with his sea eyes.
    He knew the human condition
    And how to inhabit a  conversation.
    Of course he’s had his wounds but never failed to feel
    for himself and others.
    In the night he went through in his mind’s eye the faces
    of his friends;holding them ,like he’d once held fragile rose buds
    when we were married,
    and asked silently for grace.
    The keyhole no longer seemed important
    I suppose narrowing the focus can keep out knowledge of pain..
    But the pain is atill there;
    I have always loved the word “Acknowledge.”

    And now I use it. I acknowledge this pain

Our vocations

??????????????

 

I think my vocation is sacred
I keep seeing visions of God
He’s like a bright light
Exceedingly right
Does anything seem to be odd?

I have a calling to follow
I just do not know the details
I pray and I wait
By yonder lychgate
Do vocations ever get into the Sales?

I would like it if I could buy one
I’ll give you all the money I’ve saved
Sell my idea?
My dear,no fear!
Just consider how well I’ve behaved.

Everyone has a vocation
To be who they know that they are.
Yet I am not me
Without you to be
Here in my arms by the fire.

I’ll get an answer tomorrow
As I dream of God during the night
She will give me an image
And the much needed courage
To go on till I see the Light.

The problem is one of translation,
For God speaks in symbols not words
Symbols are wells
in which truth dwells.
And the Spirit swoops down like a bird.

Why not find your vocation?
It’s possible whatever your age.
Attend to your dreams
and how your life seems
Vocations are now all the rage.

When words are not enough

Imageh,words

when words are not enough
to give our feelings form
music is the language
which many find gives calm

when words are too clumsy
touch may be enough
a glance of compassion
may pull us from the Slough

when words don’t come easy
when music fails to charm
then come to me and tell me;
I’ll enclose you in my arms

gestures,touch and glances
are a language in themselves
words are not enough for us
We need  touch as well.

Autumn love

 

Image

 After summer’s  sultry flowers,

 We get autumn showers.

 Winds that blow.

 Leaves that glow.

 ,Nature’s wealth is ours.

Harvest grain and harvest corn.

 All  our food from earth  is born.

 Warmth of sun-

 Ripeness come-

 Fruits and nuts adorn.

 Trees are turning red and gold

In the glancing sun.

 Leaning down I see your face.

 Autumn love has come

Chaste by good fortune

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Stan woke up with a sore throat.

He had to write his wife a note.

He could not speak without much pain.

Oh,dear,he’s got a bug again!

 

 

Mary made him lemon tea.

He listened to the BBC.

He read the  paper front to back;

Did Su doku,called the quack!

 

 

This is Dr Browne right here,

but only gurgles could he hear!

He drove straight round to visit Stan,

He felt concern for this old man!

garden 2

 

Stan was lying in the hall.

Dr.Browne asked,Did you fall?

No,said Stan,I hate my bed.

I thought I’d lie down here instead.

 

 

It may be draughty,never mind.

Dr Browne is very kind.

What about this long settee?

It looks quite like a bed to me.

 

 

I hope you are not feeling gay!

Oh,my my!.What did you say?

I mean it seems a trifle odd

To compare a sofa with a bed.

 

 

I wonder if you love me, Stan?

Stan said,Doctor you’re a man!

I only love the sweeter sex!

Dr Browne looked very vexed.

 

 

Doctor I never knew before.

You are gay.,Oh,zut alors!

Yes,but I am very chaste.

I never go below the waist

 

 

So you just hold hands and kiss?

Yes,my man,it’s utter bliss.

But were do you meet your lovers gay?

I find them mainly on E-bay!

I place small adverts in the Times.

I joined a club for tasting wines.

 

Some I meet by chance alone.

Can’t you settle on just one?

But you are unfaithful to your wife?

You do not lead a saintly life!

 

 

Oh,Mary is not keen on sex,

She sits in bed and sends out texts.

Once our Lyra had been born,

She treated me with utter scorn!

 

 

 

I’m not God, I do not judge.

He gave Stan‘s arm a little nudge.

Don’t you want a tiny hug?

It really may scare off that bug

 

 

So Stan and Dr Browne embraced.

I assure you it was completely chaste.

Stan went off to make hot drinks

While Dr Browne admired his Quinks.

 

 

Do you use a fountain pen?

I use my Shaeffer now and then.

I got it when I went to college.

Through that pen has passed much knowledge.

 

 

But now my mind has gone quite blank.

I’d like to be completely frank.

Was  all my learning utter waste?

Not at all,it kept you chaste.

 

 

While you had your head in books,

It kept attention from your looks.

But now you’re   empty,Je t’adore.

With that he made for Stan’s front door.

 

 

 

Stan was gobsmacked by this visit.

He called to Emile:Oh,what is it?

Even though I’m 93

All I meet want to love me!

 

The English are mainly very queer.

Oh,said Emile,Oh,dear,dear!

Cats  don’t have much time for hugs

They chase the frogs and sleep on rugs

Being alive

Being alive is joyful

Who has never felt grief
When a small gesture would have helped
but it has, unknowingly, been with held?

How many people have the imagination
to guess what’s in your mind,
And to embrace you rather than push you away?

No-one, No-one.No-one knows.
No-one knows these numbers.
No-one knows these names.
No-one knows how many feel diffident,
Nor how many feel shame.

Being alive is joyful!
Being alive is pain!
Being alive is all we have,
We’ll never be alive again.

I look into your eyes today
I sense your pain and woe.
I look into your eyes just now
And tell you that I know,

Being alive is lonely.
Being alive is good.
Being alive is pain indeed
For flesh is not like wood

Two kinds of “poetry”

Just a brief note before my whooping cough returns.Poetry can be just clever playing with words.. or not so clever!But true poetry stems from  living and feeling.I shall hope to illustrate this with some examples.Feeling itself is not enough for poetry.The poet needs to transmute the feeling using her craft into something that contains and retains the feelings and passes the result on to readers.Being able to play with words is useful, but not sufficient.Maybe that has to be impregnated with feeling?

Amateur writing.How I became an internet poet

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I must have had a wish to write.Because for many years ,I studied books on poetry and creative writing.I began to collect images and events which affected me in a notebook.Then one day I asked,When do I write?I had to start,  unconfident as I was. Time was passing Here is the first poem I wrote.[January 2010]

CHRISTMAS SNOW:

Too old for cold,I stand, now ,against the hedge,
Watching the snowflakes in the glare of neon street lights.
Darkness has come early,and I think of country uplands and huddled sheep.
On Salisbury Plain,shepherds watched their flocks
Just as in Bethlehem two thousand years before,
And then ,exactly when?
“Between the wars”,it stopped. Now we know there is no “Between the wars”.
And who decided
To cull the sheep and shepherds and the space for kindness ?
Now that same Plain still exists,but banned
And closed to human-kind,
For bombs ,not wombs
Nor for birth of lamb ,nor gypsy child ,nor Saviour
Where would He go today?
_
Image,s

From the first poem, I can see my mind was wondering if there is any space in the world now safe enough for a creative happening.After I wrote this,I was unsure if I’d get any more inspiration but I did

Here is a slightly later poem

SUN PAINTING
Bright sun
Paints a shadow picture
On the white wall
Dried stems
Of Michaelmas daisies
A leaf caught in a cobweb sways
To and fro.
I gaze.
Silence.

Murmurs of delight

Source: Kathryn
Wisteria 2012
my name is delight i live inside the flower blossom
and run in sun across green leaves of summer trees
and love the honey bees and wings of butterflies
and dandelion heads floating on the breeze
and all sweet things enjoyed by playful children
i breath out my joy into the world i take it in
what is myself and what is other
no longer matters in this ecstasy
of silence and unopened eyes

 

 

Sympathy

Sympathy is sometimes

Norfolk UK
By K

Sympathy is sometimes good,

Especially if you are  not made of wood.

Empathy can be superior

If to metal,your brain’s nearer.

Do you want to be fulfilled?

Don’t get ground by coffee mills.

Would you like to be superior?

Do not venture to your interior.

Journeys often end in struggle.

As they make the mind more muddled.

Archaic words can be a joy,

But sometimes archaisms annoy.

Do you like tea from Ceylon?

Alas my own supply’s all gone.

Do you want to study grief?

Take your lessons from a leaf.

After short weeks on a tree

To be cast off is destiny.

Into earth the leaves return

To become food for journeying worms.

So it will be for us all,

Regarding not   your status   tall

Trust the Unknown

Trust the unknown”.
All shall be well,and all manner of things shall be well”
St Julian of Norwich

Trust the unknown force that grew you,
From the joining of two cells.
Act of love, of self giving,
Thus to grow a newer self.

Trust the dark,the unseen aspects
Of the life we all do live.
Trust that there is wisdom elsewhere,
To your emptiness to give.

Wait in patience for the time
When inspiration comes at last
Trust in darkness,silence,lowness.
Opposition forms the cross.

Pain is bearable in lowness,
Like the worm in earth I dwell.

When I look I see the sunrise

And I trust all shall be well.

I’m getting buried in the morning.

I’m getting buried in the morning.

Ding,dong the bells will surely rhyme.
I am in no hurry
So do not make a flurry
And do not let me get there  on time.

I’m get buried in the morning
I’m puzzled as I am not yet truly dead.
There must be an error,
But never mind the terror.
I am thinking of those books I’ve never read
Put them in my coffin
And please stop that sinful laughing…
I’d like to die r  beside you in bed.

I’m getting buried in the morning…
We had to book it ten years in advance.
We are running out of space
For the human race..
But why don’t we make love again,just once?

 
If the exertion kills me
It will surely thrill me
And I’m sorry I am so unfit to  sing and dance.
You may die as well..
There’s no way to foretell.
But  why not take this very last chance?

 

The Risks of Love

The brightness of the summer light,
The songs of birds whose brood take flight,
I love to take in these earthly pleasures,
And so to fill my mind with treasures.

The conversations with my friends,
The closeness only death will end,
To share my life with those who care,
How could we have better fare?

Those who suffer pain and grief,
From whom love’s stolen by a thief,
Let us take them to our hearts,
So their healing path can start.

Those who fear friendship and love,
Who set themselves at too low worth,
Do they know how courage grows
Through acceptance of our woe

Life is tragic comedy.
Love may be the remedy.
Though if we give our hearts away
We shall have grief and pain to pay.

But if we lock our hearts up tight,
And keep all feeling out of sight,
We will wither like dead leaves,
Falling down from autumn trees.

With your meditative heart.

 You play on a clarinet;

I play on my  cello.

Your music is poignant;

My music is mellow.

I can’t play from your music;

You can’t play from mine.

Our music must be transposed,

But will not be the same.

I have longer fingers.

You have bigger hands.

You play some from memories

which I don’t understand.

I play from my own history,

You compose your own.

You have tragic feelings,

which I have never known.

Would you play my music?

Then it must be transposed;

but we can’t transpose our feelings,

Unless we are shown

how to draw out symbols

From the dark Unknown.

I love the music that you play

and I know you do love mine.

But can we play together

with a meaningful design?

Transposing keys and feelings

Is an arduous,lengthy task;

Much easier to play falsely

and never,never ask.

I can’t share your lifetime hurts

and you cannot share mine.

Is it easier to share happiness

and in love to entwine?

Oh,play your poignant music for me

with your meditative art.

I shall listen with my ears

and listen with my heart.

And then I shall respond to you.

My instrument is here.

I am playing  quite new  music.

I feel you drawing near.

Suddenly we are moved to play

A completely new design.

I seem to feel your feelings

And I can hear that you feel mine.

Together we seem to make a work

Of torment and release.

This music is so tragic,

Yet its design has brought me peace.

Play on,play on,for now I know

I begin to understand,

without more words or gestures

than those from your curved hands

Light touches

Skin soft yet firm

Divides yet unites;

Paradoxically elegant solutions

to these lyrical questions.

How lightly you touch me,

Yet I feel you so much.

In turn I touch you.

Life is a pattern of mutual grace;

we are all touched

By the light and the darkness.

Forgive us,O God,

For forgetting your face.

Sun piercing through red maple leaves

Patterns the flagstone path.

Hear how the blackbirds call,

As we wander,paradise is not for humans.

Though in the end,every living moment

Is paradise on this warm skin of our world,

as it spins again in the void:

And He said:

Let there be Light.

And there was light

We need to be mended

The wailing wall

The wailing wall

I shall try to explain,

but the world is not logical.

the bank notes are old and crinkling.

your face appears like it’s own negative

the wind glows and the sun howls.

why is the rain blue?

i wanted a new weapon but the rainbow was

too long,i need something small and portable,

like a pen i once had.

just a pencil and paper will be fine,

but please look round.

we’re all related in the DNA

but the fighting goes on for what?

does it matter my great grandfather was a Viking

who killed when necessary

or my grandmother sang in Gaelic

and swooned over dead children?

i can’t see but i hear their voices murmur.

a blue and a brown will go together

like harris tweed.

shall i give you some needles to patch yourself

before it’s too late?

i have long threads and connections for you,

if you will listen.

you don’t need the A to Z of London

in this world

it’s not relevant any more

to know exactly where you are,

just use the finger tips to feel the cave walls.

do we know whether to go back or forward

or even upside down?

trust the sense of bones and nerves

and the sea in our veins

linking us all

into a human ocean

all one.

The fleeing lovers:a sonnet

Puzzled cats by Kathryn

When yet another lover flees my king sized bed
and leaves me cold and lonely in the night
I wonder on the thoughtless  words I’ve said,
Or if  for him my eyes ddon’t glow woth light?

I lure them in with all my female arts.
They feel I’m like a spider with a trap.
to lure ,devour,digest my  handsome guests,
Some think there should be warnings on the map,

But most who find me feel they have been blessed.
I give them my attention and desire
I give them gentle care and sing sweet songs.
I give them comfort by my winter fire

Oh,come back ,sweet one,don’t desert me yet,
The clothes I washed for you are still quite wet.

 

Leave again;leave better.Why not become a better leaver?

.

 

since i lost you i have lost
the keys to my heart
the front door key
my mobile
and my money

now all i have is a large tube of ibuprofen gel max strength
and some feathers from the tail of a baby wood pigeon
that flew into our house when i left the back door open

maybe i need better boundaries
closed doors
and windows

the wood pigeon was so strong its agitation rocked the front door like a thundergod
like you,it did not realise
there are easier ways to leave
than smashing through glass
leaving shards to pierce my heart
not to mention my feet

become a better leaver
have mercy on those other lovers
for charm wears thin but courtesy is everlasting
like love itself

B

Silence and music

trees swirl

I didn’t hear you coming,
then you were by my side.
Happiness fills me.
Standing in the garden
looking at red leaves,
I hold your hand gently,
and share the sweetness
of these green leaves,
the distant doves cooing,
the sun dipping to the horizon.
Life is good.
We hear together
the music
of this silence

See through …

I have read this quote many times in other people’s books  and writing,But I never saw the whole verse before.It is in Goodreads which is an excellent website.You can see which books people read and see reviews too.I have often pondered about seeing “with the eyes” or “though the eyes” and even now I am unsure what it means but it seems important to me.So when I came upon it I copied it and share it with you

 

William Blake > Quotes > Quotable Quote

William Blake

“This life’s dim windows of the soul
Distorts the heavens from pole to pole
And leads you to believe a lie
When you see with, not through, the eye.”

A poem by George Herbert about windows [ The Poetry Foundation,link below]

The Windows

By George Herbert

Lord, how can man preach thy eternal word?
    He is a brittle crazy glass;
Yet in thy temple thou dost him afford
    This glorious and transcendent place,
    To be a window, through thy grace.
But when thou dost anneal in glass thy story,
    Making thy life to shine within
The holy preachers, then the light and glory
    More reverend grows, and more doth win;
    Which else shows waterish, bleak, and thin.
Doctrine and life, colors and light, in one
    When they combine and mingle, bring
A strong regard and awe; but speech alone
    Doth vanish like a flaring thing,
    And in the ear, not conscience, ring.

Windows by Charles Baudelaire

Looking from outside into an open window one never sees as much as when one looks through a closed window. There is nothing more profound, more mysterious, more pregnant, more insidious, more dazzling than a window lighted by a single candle. What one can see out in the sunlight is always less interesting than what goes on behind a windowpane. In that black or luminous square life lives, life dreams, life suffers.

Across the ocean of roofs I can see a middle-aged woman, her face already lined, who is forever bending over something and who never goes out. Out of her face, her dress, and her gestures, our of practically nothing at all, I have made up this woman’s story, or rather legend, and sometimes I tell it to myself and weep.

If it had been and old man I could have made up his just as well.

And I go to bed proud to have lived and to have suffered in some one besides myself.

Perhaps you will say “Are you sure that your story is the really one?” But what does it matter what reality is outside myself, so long as it has helped me to live, to feel that I am, and what I am?

Charles Baudelaire