Healing Via Poetry
Anne Sexton says that poetry milks the unconcious.
In poetry we can express emotions that we dont have the words for
or to express wishes and dreams that we cannot say aloud in any other way
Poetry is a path to healing -a path to catharsis and a path to solace
Please read this document to see some of the ways poetry can heal
https://www.poetrytherapy.org/pdf/NAPT-IntegrativeMedicinePacket.pdf
we will be having a discussion about Using Poetry to Heal this Sat Nite Mar 12 at 10 pm ET ib the Guided Discussion Room
Led by @KRNGRFL and I.
This ia a prelide to our Poetry Discussion Group the next day whre poets from 7 cups will share their works
Please join us
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Silence
My mother has never spoke of what happened during the War,
and probably never will.
Her aunt made a video
And she spoke about the camps.
So the story has been told, she thinks
her pain untold.
She says the essence of her anguish
has been expressed by others of millions of times
only the words differ
Such that only her silence is truly hers.
I who have been wounded by mere silence,
fear her words and allow her her silence
@2genpoet
"I who have been wounded by mere silence, Fear her words and allow her her silence"
@2genpoet wow...
Where are we?
We are being off,
Told to find what we can never find
Thats why most of us
are frail;
Are sad;
Are lost,
Because in finding whats missing
Makes us unsearchable by our finders,
And the stars remain the same
Or so I think
Because as science told us
Told us off
That stars dont stay as is
And there we start missing the point.
There we lose it again,
Will we ever be found?
@KRNGRFL
Amazing - the seach for something missing!
@heartfulMusic18 thank you <3 yeah indeed missing </3
Trigger Warning - Poem about Holocaust
History
My mother has no history,
Only labyrinths of possibilities,
radiating from junctures in time.
What if, on the causeway ,
we had pulled Hensche with us,
and piled her a mound of gravel on which to stand,
propping her between our shoulders,
pinching her when the officer neared
to stand erect.
She might have lived.
But instead my Mother and her sister sent her to the other side
to the children huddled about their Mother.
They said, she will help Mama, so the little ones wont make noise,
We didnt know, we couldnt know.
But even so,
Would fate have dragged Hensche from within the furnace
Or would she have plunged all three to oblivion.
For in a place where death is immanent,
And survival a chance occurrence
There is no surety, there is no surety,
And destiny tempted turns easily vengeful.
The paths not taken are not overgrown with green
But alleyways of blackest cinder
Or burrows of swirling dusts,
Barbed and spiny.
And when memory allows
My mother travels these passages
And bows her head against the raining blows.
Poem Backround - On the causeway at Birkenau there was a selection. Elderly and children to the right - healthy adults to the left.When my motherr's family got to selction- her mother and the little children were sent to the right - Hensche who was fourteen but tall didnt know if to stay in the adult line or to go with her mothers. My mom and her sister encouraged her to go help their mom. It turned out that that group got sent immediately to extermination. It is stories as these that explain the tremendous emotional energy that my mother had to expend in order to repress the guilt and the shame and why silence was so necessary - and how easily trauma get passed from generation to generation. But i am breaking this silence and facing the guilt and the shame because in the darkness the shame festes and perhaps by talking about the trauma and the pain we can heal
@2genpoet Ohhh! thank you for sharing
Silence
My mother has never spoke of what happened during the War,
and probably never will.
Her aunt made a video
And she spoke about the camps.
So the story has been told, she thinks
her pain untold.
She says the essence of her anguish
has been expressed by others of millions of times
only the words differ
Such that only her silence is truly hers.
I who have been wounded by mere silence,
fear her words and allow her her silence
Tears
The souls of the dead lie dormant
under the filmy wrapping of the years
in anticipation
like a who child hides beneath a blanket waits
to be discovered .
Our cries of protest do not move them
nor do our tears of indignation,
they huddle tighter at the bolts of anger .
But when we whisper their names
and cry tears of longing that they have yet to know.
Then the warmth of the tears caresses their foreheads
and they blink open their eyes,
astonished
and stir themselves, loosening their limbs,
to fly down to our dreams
@2genpoet "tears of longing they have yet to know" <3
ooh! I like this! :) I always use my poetry as a sort of therapy, a way to get my emotions out safely.
@TheLPSoldier , Glad you are checking out this thread. Welcome .
@KleeJassy
there is a lot of pain here
also a lot of violence - teeror - blades
i hope this violence is not turned inward
we are going to have a discussion on our original poetry
i would hope that you and @LPSoldier will come
tagging @Annie
@TheLPSoldier
retagging
great choice
this is i poem that i wrote last night, right before going to bed.
Shh! Don
ShatteredDreams
Dreams were the enemy
Because they looked for ends and beginnings
In a world where middleness survived.
In a world where time needed to meld into
Daysmonthsyears
Dreams lengthened the minutes
And drew the notch ever tighter
And all the dreams they hadnt allowed
Were bequeathed to us.
And I became a child of expectation
Presaged and impendent
Who ran from the dreams surround .
But dreams return, on wings of hope,
to shatter ever stronger.