I am not that sort of person , nah just to show anger towards a man , I will not find another man. My love is never an expression of anger. Besides I get angry very intensely. I am like a volcano I burn the one who caused anger. I close that chapter. Not that there is blood shed or anything……. it is truly over. Then I live in that ruin. I wait to feel again. I am not an echo , I do not rebound. I am a whisper that you wish you had listened after you lose.
“What we truly see is what we are ”
There was a hermit staying in a hut outside a village, he spent all day in prayers, teaching disciples and counseling those who sought his wisdom. A prostitute stayed in a mansion built outside the village where she entertained her clients , she stayed opposite the hermit’s hut claimed that all souls were equal in the eyes of God. When they both died , hermit’s soul was in the cauldron of hell and prostitute had attained eternal bliss. Hermit asked the God of death , why such an injustice was done ? God smiled and said , recall your thoughts , recall your vision …You were constantly imagining the carnal pleasures that clients of the prostitute enjoyed , while she listened to your teaching and ardently prayed for me, even asked for death as a blessing. Hence she is with me and you are in hell……..
Moral – Intentions are more important than actions.
You made mistakes , you never knew how to handle the situation at all, I did not know my own self nor my value. In that suffocating bed I had to create a song,even if it was in the springs of the cot or wooden legs. I had to find an imaginary companion, it could not be a stony God. I tried even that. I searched with in, there were songs I had to suppress, dances I could not dance, I had to tie up my legs. Drama was so real.It was not drama at all. Why was I not enough? I had this expanding concept of loneliness, so I searched for a twin. You made it so sexual. I had to reaffirm that it was a mind. You made it so physical , I had to say it was not a body just a soul. Now, you lost my soul. It is in my poem.
Penetrating my mind with out consent
Penetrating my body with out consent
Mind during the day
Body during the night
Dictionary lost many pages
Experience no longer needed words
Atlas showed the way out
I went out of my body
I also went out of my mind
He calls it love
I call it rape
I am searching for my self
Can we judge a book by its cover? Especially if the cover is carrying comments by the “who is who” from various professional walks of life. Being a psychiatrist and a poet, I was enticed to read the book as the title refers to Eros as an overarching theme that takes within its fold the sub themes of desire, disease, delusion, dream and downpour. The five ‘D’s intrigued me and I kept returning to them as if they were the epicenter of an earthquake. And then there were the twin chairs of the cover photograph – perhaps a symbol of duality, of ‘Eros’ + ‘Text’? Truly, if life could write itself, this is how it may read, not bound by a specific structure, word count or rhyme or reason. Insights are graded along six parameters while we study psycho pathology, although Eros is where life originates and Thanatos is the force of death. Opposites contain each other and there are flashes of dying in the section of disease of the body, explored in skeleton, joints, temperature, fluids, breaths, and blood.
In ‘Magnetizing Dead Bones’, a disturbing portrayal of the Intensive Care Unit and the experience of what may remain even after death, just the clean bones? Interestingly it seems to refer to Magnetic Resonance Imaging, a sort of literal meaning ascribed to scientific jargon. Electrocardiography- “A person in the room can sense electricity, invisible photons”, again ‘ultra-sonography’ is mystified in fleeting allusions to sound waves. There is whispering vulnerability, “What can I create despite this urgency…Nothing really, certainly nothing that is worth any effort….” The body is minimized and life is trivialized: “They say imagination can conquer anything even the body. It isn’t true.” There is a relentless search for meaning even as the body suffers: “The lyrics, if they are meant to, will emerge at the vanishing point”. Humanizing the near death experience is a strong effort in this flash fiction. The words are profound as they equate creativity to something that lives after death. I was reminded of Bessel Vander Kolk’s book Body Keeps Its Own Scores in the reference to ash, bone ash and the abrupt escape into bone-drafts of metered text. Starch and the nurse trying to induce a lullaby, the power of breathing, and virility of ash are images foretelling life amidst death. The ecosystem of the hospital dominates the disease in this fiction, a hesitation to explore the disease or a story of hope- open ended, it lends itself to interpretations like a poem or a dream.
Forever is a word
In the dictionary of LOVE
Betrayal is a word in
the bigger dictionary of LIFE.
Compassion is an experience
with out words.
All that I wanted from
you was so complete
With every fragment of cloth
in its place, your hands on
my full sleeved dress
my chin on your shoulder with
shirt,ready to get wet by
Taking less than a minute.
A part of you is underground
A part of you is hidden
A part of you is missing
To let the rest of you grow
Visible growth is a compensation
for unlived life in another earth
“THE BASIC PROBLEM FOR A TRAUMATIZED INDIVIDUAL BECOMES HIS OWN SELF CURE-
Trauma is different from stress.
Trauma is any event that threatened the life or psychological/ physical integrity of an individual, exposure to killings of others ,sexual violence against the individual(rape/being stripped in public/in private by one or more persons) or his loved one , death of a loved one by murder or suicide, bullying, violation of boundaries in public(experiencing slander or circulation of personal material of the person among public i.e individuals with whom the person did not share a confiding relationship)and also being in disasters.
Man made disasters or personal trauma is more resistant to healing than impersonal or natural disasters, where violence does not carry a personal significance.
Events that can cause extreme stress if they occur in quick succession can also cumulatively have the same effect as trauma.
I would like to now elaborate what happens to the brain when an individual is traumatized, as early as 1907 Pierre Janet described “vehement emotions” interfere with integration of traumatic memories, because they are not adequately processed they become separate from ordinary consciousness.
DECLARATIVE NON DECLARATIVE
(verbal) ( Procedural )
Declarative memories are usually non traumatic memories, hence can easily become narratives or anecdotes. Declarative memory has both semantic or conceptual memories and autobiographical memories. Declarative memories are about what happened.
Implicit or non declarative memories are procedures, how to ride a bike or how to swim, how to make pasta, how to wear a braid, how to kiss, how to make love. It is about how it happened.
Even teaching these skills requires action and not words.
This is why we say what we were taught to say and do what we saw our parents or teachers did! If there is a discrepancy, it is embedded in two separate areas. We learn about ourselves by reflecting on our actions.
Traumatic memories were filtered by the hippocampus a part of the brain( Limbic system)that when in a state of arousal sends the signals to be stored in procedural or somatosensory areas, as emotional states, imagery, sensations and will not be integrated as verbal or declarative memory in to the cerebral cortex. We all have a problem verbalizing experiences that caused intense horror, helplessness, humiliation, hurt because they were not verbal memories at all, they are feelings of hot cheeks, red ears, choking throat, pricking eyes, rigid clenched fists, weak knees, beating heart, pounding head, butterflies in the stomach, wish to disappear deep inside a crater in the earth ….Now, is this not poetry?
Traumatic memories are timeless, like poems …They bond us to archetypes, we see the similarities in epics, history, as personal transforms in to collective the traumatic effect reduces. Traumatic memories are processed piecemeal; heart takes time to accept what the mind already knows. And very often poetry and the images that you employ to convey an idea or experience can later help you to construct a narrative or prose. That would be finally integrating traumatic memories to the consciousness, without overwhelming one self…… Perhaps the essence of art is to transfer what the artist feels to the audience or readers.
Cast away all speech
Our words may express it
but cannot hold it
The way of the letters
leaves no trace
Yet teaching is revealed (Zen)
At age four my major milestone
was standing on my head
Weeks of practice were
spent achieving this feat
Shaky starts finally led to
standing unaided at will
When grandparents came for
their annual visit
I planned to be the star of the show
dazzling them with feats of my balance
Slowly I walked to the centre stage
and stood on my head
Grandfather bent down , and joined me
on his head
( Written by Malia grade 8th , excerpts from Teaching poetry writing to Adolescents. by Joseph I Tsujimoto
ERIC Clearing House On reading and communication skills )
Poetry also demands the first person more often, hence makes you acknowledge your own stand, however different it may be from the world. And it creates a dialogue with authority that refuses to communicate in words. It is a an effort to bridge the verbal left brain with the silent feeling right brain the two hemispheres of human brain that do not co ordinate when there is psychological trauma. Right brain often will see the forest , while left brain is counting the trees.
Poetry requires both to be alert….
Passing an upturned carriage
the driver suddenly awakened
Surrendering to sleep invites disaster
Perhaps after writing this poem, one can sleep, because one has learnt where to be hyper vigilant, and where not to be. Poetry is a genre that is emotionally intelligent.
( To Be continued )
If I write a poem of desire
There is moral policing
Search warrant for the source.
If I write a poem of renunciation
There are prescriptions for aphrodisiac.
Some prisons have eyes in every wall.
Ears in every window.
Tongues in the floor that wag with out a bone.
Alphabet does not block the flood gates.
There is a word for every form of harassment.
This is a prison that has abundant air inside.
I breathe air that has no color.