I often write poetry as a form of therapy. But, I have found in recent months that, some events or feelings for which I would have written a poem, instead I have made a note of it, under a heading “to bring up with my therapist.”
It need not be this way. Longer ago, further back, I would write the poem, and then discuss the poem with my therapist.
One such event that I took to therapy without writing a poem happened at the end of October, after a concert I performed in, involving the delay my brain sometimes has in processing inputs. I talked about it with my therapist at my next therapy session. But as a result, there’s no poem. I’m going to rectify that soon, and will add the link when I do.
Curled up in a ball
Wrapped up in a hammock
Swaying in the salty breeze
Saline stained cheeks turn salty red
Red ball dips below the water line
Or, buried in the sand
Naught but head
Protrudes from mock grave
Sand a bearable weight of being
Brings calm to anxious limbs
Deepens once shallow breaths
Huddled ’round a 55 gallon drum
Fire burning low
Fingerless gloves the compulsory style
Company sells tragedy cheap
But Rails sing a compelling song
To be part of the wave
Buried in thoughts of death Unbidden He seeks new life
Dark the night sky, Fell, the foul zephyr. Brackish black water Broken by two beady eyes.
Iago has returned.
Creeping up the coast, He seeks to insert himself Where least welcome is his self; They’d prefer him to roast.
He hears a patrol Coming down the lane, Hides among barrels of petrol; They’ll not have his mane.
The patrol stops, Blocking his intended path. To avoid the cops He’ll have to subdue his wrath,
And take an alternate route. Sneaking down a back alley, He has no time to dally; When bright lights remove all doubt:
He’s been followed.
Spinning ’round, He sees the patrol closed in behind; In front lie the hounds, He sees he is confined.
“Welcome to my table,” Greets the queen, Gesturing to that of fable, Round and now white and green.
Ambushed.
At the Siege Perilous, Sits formidable foe: Sir Galahad looks ready to row. Iago takes a seat, voice querulous.
“At this table, all you have to say is heard by all,” the queen instructs. Iago’s face falls: This rule his scheming obstructs.
“You are now cursed to always meet at this table, Every time you set foot upon our shores. Think not that you are able To remove this curse from your core.”
His vitriol laid bare, He tells the reasons For despair; But it’s not his season.
“So you have naught but speculation To lay before this confabulation? Each of your points in turn countered?” The queen sees his plan has foundered.
“Then you are dismissed, Thank your for your time. Now back into the brine, Return to the abyss.
Wounded, I limp back from the shore Where Iago and I dueled a week before. Though I see no scabs nor scars, Infection festers under my skin.
Simple suggestion, Not banshee wail, Was his effective weapon. What cure is there for my ail?
I sought an answer from the sea, But there was no reply. I requested knowledge From the rolling hills,
An answer faint Floated away on the breeze. The city streets I pounded, Pleading for release,
But it was temporary, Ill effects of Iago’s dart, Wolf pack of lies Still closing in around my heart.
There are labors to perform, So I gather my strength; Wounds mention but not at length, Mostly I ignore.
Floating o’er the ether, Slipping through the speakers, Dulcet sounds envelop the space.
No siren song luring away, No piper’s call to come and play; No healing light in which to bathe. Naught but work and banter.
Yet it’s what I needed, It seeps inside; Finds the wolves, Turns the tide.
I’m ninety percent there But the day is done; I try again the city streets. Still no cure, but I quicken my pace.
Almost home, bits become current, Current transduced into a familiar song; Strength taken from the bridge:
But if you’ve got the angst or you’ve got the ardor You might faint from the fight but you’re gonna find it For every challenge could have paradise behind it
Blues Traveler, Stand
Elation finds me And takes away The remaining tinge; My skin feels whole again.
Author’s note: I wanted to end this on a positive note, but TBH, Iago will be back. I’ll have to do a part 2 sometime; maybe that will have a happier ending?
Musings of a Kunderian Monster 
The Impact of Therapy on Creative Writing
I often write poetry as a form of therapy. But, I have found in recent months that, some events or feelings for which I would have written a poem, instead I have made a note of it, under a heading “to bring up with my therapist.”
It need not be this way. Longer ago, further back, I would write the poem, and then discuss the poem with my therapist.
One such event that I took to therapy without writing a poem happened at the end of October, after a concert I performed in, involving the delay my brain sometimes has in processing inputs. I talked about it with my therapist at my next therapy session. But as a result, there’s no poem. I’m going to rectify that soon, and will add the link when I do.
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Posted in commentary, journal
Tagged cathartic, communication, therapy