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It must be madness for a woman to sit in a lonely room, by a lonely fire, looking at the vast emptiness of the desolate Moors to create the world's greatest masterpiece. That is called survival mechanism. That is called luminescence. That lonely woman has given me immense solace and courage over the years. There have been moments when I have been so spellbound by her brilliance that I have walked her walk guided by her light. I must admit, there have been several moments when I have envied her, envied her with so much vehemence that it is hard to fathom. I have spilled my soul on the wall to wall Persian carpets and harvested poems in the deep regions of my obsidian heart. I have walked in the gardens of elysium hungry for a poem that never arrived. And in those dark moments of wordlessness that Lone Warrior from Yorkshire never fails to arrive with a light. merci beaucoup.
If people get time from seeing kitten videos, they might read some poetry. You know, by the way, just saying, it is also free!
If this is the humankind God could painstakingly design, I am quite certain he does not have a chair that can recline.
So I write poems like a woman possessed
the mad woman upstairs, plunged in darkness a line inside my head, a word rebels, undressed the trajectory of iron loss hisses in cold water the pain ricochets against the sound of laughter I have the ability to murder, to scream, to choke I make embroidered shrouds for clouds of corpses a river floods on the tips of my shaky uncertainty an ocean rises effervescent in its appalling audacity the mad woman upstairs tiptoes bearing a torch the world is extinguished with the fire in her heart moors bleed into the darkness, flowers breathe despair the sound of rain is heart filling with the silt of unrepair they call me the mad woman upstairs, I live in her lair when bitter nights howl in the destitute cities of the sky the mad woman murmurs- its a lie, the world is a lie it did not know her and she did not know why. © Jaspreet Mann The Sycamore speaks of a long journey, the silence of two continents in between
a sacrifice unknown, unseen; a walk on fire, symmetry of uncertain feet that bleed long hours of pondering, short hours of packing, small doses of spring, big meaning the tree of Hippocrates- wrapping secrets in the sharp edges of the jagged leaves summoning courage from the shivering arteries running inside the rind of her skin the sycamore's eyes see streets of Jamaica, the mist in the borough of Queens the first time, the first flight, the first timid leap, the first long distance sanctimony Six terminals, four runways, six decades of quest, two score years of emptiness twelve red roses, twenty four endless hours breathing time zones of nervousness the hell of conscience, the blight of common sense, the heaven of finally meeting the Sycamore speaks in colors dipped in the psychosis of morning wooing evening the fear filled passages of secretive rummaging, the tear tripped roads of heeding seasons, storms, sunrise, sunset, dissolve in the sanguine spell of her solitary lord she believes, she retreats, she weeps under the doom of the sharp edged sword the Sycamore has a heartbeat, her verses resurrect the wind, she has songs to sing the Sycamore laughs, the Sycamore weeps, the world is an axe on her branches the light of the Gods reside in her heart, the hell of mankind stumbles in her art nobody knows her, nobody feels her grief, heaven is heedless, hell is long, life is brief. © Jaspreet Mann It's very easy to tell people to break the bell jar. By saying this they minimize a person's struggle for survival. They are doing the best they can and psychological issues can be a complex thing. Saying, 'snap out of it' to a person who suffers from clinical depression, is unmitigated cruelty. Think about it.
Long, quiet, treacherous stretches of empty darkness
prairies, palm trees, desert winds, hell of Patagonia stark nakedness of dead winding streams of Colorado the songs of the lonely lark, the sighs of the cuckoo all stifled in electric echoes of existential emptiness roads cave in, card houses fall on their shaky knees trees, birds, windows, dreams dissolve in the whirlpool the world is small in the throes of breathless confines the universe is large in the galaxy of reluctant cries people peep paralyzed behind painted wooden doors places with pseudonyms pretend they exist no more one more day, one more night rummaging the soul one more second, one more death inside a sinkhole. © Jaspreet Mann The bravehearts from United Kingdom, United States, Myanmar, China, Israel, Australia, Russia, Japan, Laos and several other countries involved in rescuing the Thai children from the Tham Luang Cave and fighting against the worst possible odds have clearly shown that the world is capable of love, peace, humanity and empathy. It is very inspiring to see how countries have set their differences aside and shown an abundance of generosity by donating equipment and all kinds of support on an outstanding humanitarian level. Prayers with the family of the Thai Navy Sgt. Saman Kunan who lost his life in this mission to save the children. Prayers with the entire team and the little boys who have shown remarkable tenacity and courage in such a catastrophic situation. Respect. May all the good vibes of the universe conspire to bring you back safely to your home and hearth. 🙏🏻
“she’s like a swallow, possessed of her own barbaric song, strange, dark.” ~Aeschylus, Agamemnon, trans. by Robert Fagles, 1049-105 Poetry therapy, a supplemental treatment for mental disorders, as highlighted by Psychology Today, dates back to the time of the Greek physician named Soranus in the second century AD. The ancient Egyptians are also well known for writing words on papyrus and giving them to the ill with the firm belief that those words had the power to heal. Pennsylvania Hospital, the first hospital to be established in the United States employed this approach way back in the 1700's. Most people would not be aware that Eli Griefer, poet and pharmacist actually offered poems to people filling prescriptions and forms. This spectacular initiative resulted in the conception of poetry therapy groups headed by psychiatrists Dr. Jack L. Leedy and Dr. Sam Spector.
In modern times, it has become heartbreakingly painful to see that poetry has become a dying art with more people preferring to watch kitten videos than read a page of meaningful poetry that has depth and intensity. My experience as a woman (and I have been accused of being possessed by the Sylvia Plath Effect, but who cares) who has embraced the warmth of words at every step in my life, I can vouch for the efficacy of poetry in healing. Words offer a safe, non judgmental and an open landscape for expressing unsettling or challenging experiences. William Butler Yeats had exactly this in mind when he emphasized, "we make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry". We need more poetry today than ever before. There is a need to validate emotional experiences in order to understand the need to reflect and explore the complex map of the human mind and heart. Poetry is needed to perceive reality and come to terms with the challenges of the modern world. Poetry is needed because it gives hope. It heals. So write a poem today. Say what you have to say. Each day is a new day. |
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