Creative and Therapeutic Writing

A CRITICAL VOICE

I – as Your Writing – can only speak the truth of the moment. I know no more about the future than you do. The future is unknowable that is why it positions itself in a time not of the present or the past.

Those words settled a disturbance in me about how truth manifests itself through writing. More of my ‘critical’ meaning to come…

In June, I took part in a conference: Critical Voices 2016. 

Version 3

left to right: Graham Shaw, Antonia Attwood, myself, Daniel Regan, delegate from ‘Safe’

Medicine & The Arts

Critical Voices: careful or analytical evaluations to provide insights and conversation.

Artists, performers, erstwhile patients, health professionals and academics came together for the annual conference to discuss aspects of practice, humanity and healing. Critical Voices was held in Tunbridge Wells, Kent. My own contribution was a reading of prose and poems written about (but after) serious episodes of clinical depression.

Theatrical

Those of us presenting spoke from the stage in the Trinity Theatre, somewhat blinded by the lighting, to an audience sitting in tiers. I’m more used to the flat dimensions of a public and neutral space in a community centre, café or university.

The atmosphere was a bit theatrical which was thrilling. I shared the stage with film-maker, Antonia Attwood. It was a brilliant pairing because we had overlaps in our presentations and lives. Mine through words, hers through images. Both about serious mental illness.

Antonia’s films are evocative; the first one I looked at on her web-site really disturbed me. Six minutes long, it felt as if it was going on forever. She had collaborated with her mother (also a film-maker and diagnosed with bipolar mood affective disorder) to make a short film called Everest. A heap of household objects are piled on a bed – all in muted colours of greys, whites, yellows and black – with a rumbling sound track and crashing crescendos as these objects fall off the stack like an avalanche in slow motion. As a short film layered with symbolism Antonia creates a ‘feeling’ of mental illness.

She showed extracts from several films at the ‘Critical Voices’ event. Afterwards a conference delegate said she should have given the audience a warning – presumably as news presenters do about war scenes on television. The nature of Antonia’s work is to depict feelings about what it’s like to be mentally ill. Her films last for just a few minutes. Around five minutes…that’s all. It is a personal war zone after all for those of us who have suffered and have had to live in acute states of mental illness 24/7. It is an unbearable experience with not much let up, even in sleep which may be disrupted. This was an audience prepared by informative notes and a preparatory talk. Mental illness is disturbing and Antonia succeeds in disturbing her audience. That is the essence of her work.

In these blog posts I have written about my own severe depressions, included various styles of writing which have helped me integrate the experiences of my ill-self with my well-self. During a Q & A session, another audience member, working with severely ill patients, made a suggestion to those of us on the stage that we were privileged to use an art form to express ourselves. We had now been joined by photographer, Daniel Regan who had shown stills of abandoned psychiatric asylums.  Taken aback, we both talked about how these art forms contained the chaotic lived nightmare of being ill after recovery, not whilst in a state of incapacity.

The Truth & Lies of Writing

A series of Letters was one of the ways I wrote about my depressive illness long after the episodes I’d experienced in my twenties and forties. The Illness was personified; the replies naturally written by myself.

In my many years of wellness it felt impossible to believe I’d ever be ill again and in 2005 my writing predicted I’d never experience another serious illness. Yet two more illnesses came in 2007 and 2009 which knocked me over and under. That made me feel a deep criticism (this time the pejorative meaning) about my writing.

I had believed my own prediction. How naïve could I have been? How could I have treated this writing as an oracle? There are times when my writing feels magical – as if from an invisible unknowable entity coming through me. It didn’t, however, feel like wishful thinking.

The words were staring me in the face. Visible. Externalised. Evidence of a reality. But was it real, rational? No. It was about the future – also unknowable. But I wanted certainty about being well for the rest of my life. (This correspondence is lengthy and I’ve not included it in any of my blog posts.)

After the first set of Letters and Replies, I wrote a second series (2010) accusing my writing of having lied to me. The two sets of correspondence, written five years apart, have been pivotal to my writing and the presentations I’ve given on mental illness.

Here’s a couple of extracts from the later writing (2010). It’s clear, however, I was writing to both Writing and Illness. Illness is addressed directly:

Illness,
You said emphatically and I quote your own words: I will not be visiting again. And you did. Not: why did you return? Because I know there is no satisfactory answer. Why did you allow me to write those words, those untrue words? Why when I trust you my Writing, did you lie to me? Writing as Liar. I didn’t expect that. I expected better of you.   Monica

By the end of the letter, I’m really addressing my writing. I followed with this piece in the Voice of my Writing:

I – as Your Writing – can only speak the truth of the moment. I know no more about the future than you do. The future is unknowable that is why it positions itself in a time not of the present or the past. It’s unpredictable by its very nature. I can only be true in the moment. It’s not a lie to make statements which are intentions expressed for the future. But the future cannot be pinned down. I’m not a liar in the present.

In hindsight it’s obvious that my writing can only be a reflection of my thoughts in the now of the present. I’ve always been lucky not to have an ongoing condition. When I’m ill I’m very ill. When I’m well I’m very well. Now, however, with a greater integration within my psyche I am more circumspect and humbled about my own vulnerability.

A Whole Self

It has taken me all my life – right past my mid-sixties – to integrate those terrible times into being a whole self. This performance in Tunbridge Wells was of a different quality from previous readings I’ve given. Here was an audience sitting in darkness whilst I was in the limelight. An inverse mirror from the ill experience of being in the darkness whilst the rest of the world is in the light. To be well and on a stage, to be heard by others, including those from the medical profession, to read aloud the words I had put onto the page – all of this gave me a sense of owning my particular power. Completed a feeling of acceptance and wellness.

I remember an occasion when I was in the Eastbourne hospital ward and a tabloid was lying on the table. I saw a piece about a best seller from an author who was part of my writing group. And here was I in the ‘world of the ill’ to quote Virginia Woolf. And my writing friend was in the ‘world of the well’ and becoming known for her historical novels. And all I was able to do was pace a hospital corridor (see poem: Hospital Corridor – March blog).

The stigma surrounding mental illness is finally falling away as more and more people are talking about their experiences – I have witnessed it change in my life-time. Although my parents would probably turn in their graves if they knew I had spoken in public – on a stage no less –about such matters as my own depressive illness.

At last I may rest on a metaphorical ledge from a long uphill climb of gathering all the strands of my life: the bad, the good, the private and personal – with the public acknowledgement of what my mother said (the illness) should never have happened. Life should be perfectly arranged like museum objects behind a glass case. Polished like the antiques in the house I grew up in. Manicured like their garden lawn. These physical structures probably sheltered them from the messiness of real life and also helped them cope with their daughter’s fall from grace.

Well the long and horrible illness did happen. Six times. And I have spoken about them publicly ever since I started this blog in the autumn of 2014. I may speak again. But I am done with writing anything more about them. I don’t like the word ‘closure’. Because I think nothing really ends. In my life I find new forms for what has been. I don’t make endings. I make new connections.

***

ⓒ Monica Suswin  July 2016

Notes:
Antonia Attwood is a film-maker of still and moving images interpreting the phenomenology of mental illness. http://www.antoniaattwood.com

Critical Voices is an event curated by Graham Shaw and part of a growing movement to understand medicine, illness and health, through insights from the arts. This year it was held on Saturday 11th June at the Trinity Theatre, Tunbridge Wells, Kent.

References:
On Being Ill in The Moment and Other Essays by Virginia Woolf [1930] (1981) London: The Hogarth Press.

Extracts from my book ms – Chapter 10: The Truth & Lies of Writing

Standard

Creative and Therapeutic Writing

                     Overlaps, Links and Differences

Version 4

to create
to make something from nothing
therapy
therapeía – θεραπεία – treatment – Ancient Greek

Some while ago I asked myself this question: Where are the overlaps, the links and the differences in creative and therapeutic writing?

Within minutes my brain had gone fuzzy. I kept thinking of pieces that I’d written which answered both aspects. I couldn’t divide one from the other. And yet… I find myself arguing the case to define each.

I draw on literary styles and my writing often proves to be healing. I have long called my slant on writing: Creative Therapeutic Writing with no ‘and’ to separate the two adjectives. It is a phrase that means what it says. A ‘creatively therapeutic’ approach to writing. More so I feel than the inverted description of ‘therapeutically creative’. To me that infers a given therapeutic or healing intention for creative writing in the first instance. Whereas I find writing in itself is often (not always) a therapeutic activity, but I find it first and foremost creative.

When I turned my question on its head, I asked myself: what is the intention in my writing? Then I started to get lots of answers flooding into my mind. If there is any satisfactory answer, I think it has to lie with the writer and the intention of a particular piece. I might ask myself: Is this going to be a piece of prose? Am I writing for the sake of it?

Often in the beginning I may start with an outpouring of scribbles and go nowhere else. The piece may not have any intention at all. That perhaps is the therapeutic end of exploration. Other times I may redraft and edit until I have writing which is well-honed and has a clear form like a poem. A fully created piece.

Writing is an adventure into the unknown. In this blog I quote some words from a real adventurer: a mountaineer. I critique one of my poems which started as a free-write (therapeutic intention) and ended as a prose-poem (creatively worked). And thoughts follow on what my writing achieves therapeutically and creatively.

My Therapeutic Approach

A writer’s life is a highly vulnerable almost naked activity . . .  It is true to say that you are open to all the winds, some of them icy indeed. (Harold Pinter – Nobel Prize for Literature 2005)

In real icy and treacherous conditions, the Austrian mountaineer Heinrich Harrer (1913-2006) described how ‘true confidence’ and knowing himself with ‘unsparing clarity’ was vital when he climbed. He said: ‘Unless you cross inner lines, you cannot encounter great adventure.’

My writing helps me know and understand myself better – makes me more confident as well as, at times, more vulnerable. I write to know what I think, how I feel and how I might act in any given situation. If I cross my own ‘inner lines’ as a writer, I am down to my bare bones, inside my skin, my naked self clothed with words. This is what I know about those times:

I come up against the forces of myself
the rawness of myself
my desires and anxieties
my limitations and my expansiveness

My Creative Approach

But then I use my imagination to develop what I am writing. In this extract I draw on the metaphor of a rope to describe what my writing achieves. I show its therapeutic effect through expressing myself creatively with a range of images.

My rope writing has a very long reach; up to the heavens and down into the bottom of the well with a bucket to draw up surprise after surprise. It is the sort of rope that I twine and weave as I go through time. The strands hold the content and I travel on with less emotional baggage which unravels on the journey. I travel lighter. Emotions like fear, shame, and anxiety are shed and what is essentially mine is not lost. What is left after this shedding of cluttered up feelings is like a steel core through the centre of the rope, through the centre of myself.

My Approach in the Present to Past Experience

The following prose-poem was written in response to reading Selima Hill’s collection: Lou Lou. Her poems – with their extraordinary juxtapositions of different images – entered the world of psychiatric care that she had received when younger in hospital. She gave her bizarre but brilliant poems ordinary names like: Night-room, Day-room, Side-room, Corridor and so on.

Reading them brought up painful memories of my own time in an acute psychiatric ward. Many of those memories were of the corridor. There is a lot of action in a psychiatric ward’s corridor: patients pace up and down like animals in a cage, fights break out, patients are smartly walked in or out. Visitors come and then leave behind their relatives.

My first description was a free-write: no form, a string of words on the page. Later I turned that into a prose-poem. Here it is:

Hospital Corridor

hospital corridor

is where the tramp woman fingered the walls

                                       to find her way

hospital corridor

leads to everywhere I must go

hospital corridor

is where visitors come in and leave me behind

hospital corridor

is where they shouted my name from the medicine trolley

hospital corridor

echoes             my name

hospital corridor

is where I was frog-marched
for trying to use the office telephone
when the trolley phone had been out of order for days

hospital corridor

leads to the doors

they tell you are locked                                    they aren’t                               I can slip through

I didn’t run away     I returned   then they knew they were not locked

hospital corridor

is where I went when I was so out of myself that I needed those walls

***

I read this silently to myself before a Presentation and felt my stomach turn over. The poem became alive, recreated the scene from over twenty years ago. Even though I had felt sick I knew the writing worked; that is the price I pay as a writer willing to read my poems in public. The reward came when several people told me afterwards that it was their favourite.

The creative process began when I redrafted my free-write. I put in line-breaks and spaces to make the lines look like a corridor on the page. (WordPress is limited and this is as near an approximation to placing on the page as I can get.) I changed the tenses from past to present. And wherever I had put in a ‘you’, which tends to distance the experience from both writer and listener, I owned the phrases with the first person pronoun, my own ‘I’ Voice.

Redrafting my original free-write into a prose-poem meant I had taken those memories from out of my head onto the paper. Taking that expressive writing and editing as I have described gave a shape to the lived experience. The naked vulnerability of exposing that experience became clothed with words. This may sound paradoxical but I found this helped my inner vulnerability shift into the body of the poem. The whole process was both therapeutic and creative.

True Feelings

My writing draws on my life experiences with feelings in the moment and old ones from the past. I never planned in the beginning that Hospital Corridor would end up as a prose-poem. I just thought if Selima Hill is giving her poems titles like that, I’ll have a go and see what emerges for me in a free-write.

After one of my readings, a member of the audience asked me: When does a free write turn into something creative? My answer stressed that a free write wasn’t intended to be anything other than writing in a flow with no particular intention. Later I thought of a better answer:

When I take some gems of sentences from a free-write and begin crafting them into a piece I may redraft and edit into something that pleases me. Then I feel I have entered the creative phase.

To end this blog, I return to the rope metaphor. That free-write led on to another, and another, which in turn led to a chapter: Rope-Mates in my book ms.

This rope threaded with words serves me well; it is intertwined with stories from my own life and stories I find in my imagination. I have twined this rope, with my true feelings.

I draft and redraft probably more now than years ago. Every word matters. Every sentence needs to be in the right place. The question of whether writing is creative or therapeutic interests me but in the end I find it spurious. Each piece rests on its own merits depending on how it evolves and shapes up. That’s what the writing process is all about.

Have I said what I meant? Will you the reader understand what I am trying to get across? Will you the reader find my writing resonates with some of your lived experience, some of your feelings? Is that creative? I hope so. May it be therapeutic? I shrug my shoulders. Will I change how I name what I do? Not at the moment.

***

ⓒ Monica Suswin  March 2016

Notes

New terms keep popping up. I belong to Lapidus in the UK which currently calls itself: The Writing for Wellbeing Organisation. In its early days the phrase: Literary Arts in Personal Development was used.

The Metanoia Institute in London & Bristol calls their MSc Course: Creative Writing for Therapeutic Purposes thereby avoiding any claim to the more specific term of therapeutic writing. That means it may draw students and practitioners with a more literary disposition, as well as a wide variety of people from the caring professions.

Yet another – rather side-ways but aligned term – is Creative Non-Fiction. The University of East Anglia runs a course in Biography and Creative Non-Fiction – previously called Life-Writing, which includes memoir, other lives and any writing based on facts. Real life written with a literary style to reveal the narrative.

My WordPress Analytics shows that you my readers come from many parts of the world. I’d be really interested to know about your own experiences of writing within these definitions of creative and therapeutic or healing and wellbeing. Please do comment. I’ve not had one from abroad so far.

References:

Seven Years in Tibet by Heinrich Harrer (1976) London: Hart-Davis, MacGibbon.

The White Spider – the classic account of the ascent of the Eiger by Heinrich Harrer (2005) [1959] p.21

Lou Lou by Selima Hill (2004). Northumberland: Bloodaxe Books.

“Harold Pinter: Nobel Lecture: Art, Truth & Politics”. Nobelprize.org.
http://www.nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/2005/pinter-lecture-e.html/. accessed: 6 Aug 2012

Extracts from my book ms – Chapter 9: A Fox Crossed My Path & Chapter 12: Rope-Mates

 

 

 

Standard

Creative Therapeutic Writing

The Gift of Love and Writing       

Experimenting With Voice

IMG_0833.jpg

If I look back over my life, I’ve probably fallen in love in every decade – from a schoolgirl crush in my teens to passionate love in the next thirty years or so until my fifties.

Love and its strangulations are the stuff of drama. It takes us to the theatre, to the cinema – or maybe nowadays to Netflix. It buries us in books. Writers grapple with their fictional characters and scenarios in their novels; write poems and plays. Because love and relationships are among the most important forces we address in one way or another.

Here I show various pieces I’ve worked on creatively and therapeutically. As my blogs are based on my own lived experiences, this one presents as much of a risk to me as writing about mental illness. But I speak from a place in the future – many years after these were written. That is why I’m able to share them.

One of the advantages of becoming older is to be able to look back over a long writing life. In recent years love and writing have become rather interwoven. I’ve found surprising insights I would never have discovered without my recurrent free-writes and experimental ways of expressive writing. I explored ways of writing during that rosy flush of romantic euphoria when love first lets itself be known. I wrote with Voices spanning different perspectives and expression: the Wise, the Naïve and the Lyrical.

THE WISE VOICE

First is my Wise Voice. This inner voice is not always easily heard so I have to listen very hard. But it is always one I trust. I find it when I’m very still. I described this aspect of the self through accessing the wisdom of King Solomon in an earlier blog on the Wise Self (see: Blog 9). In a way it feels like the Wise Voice speaks through me, beyond my emotions. It makes me feel grounded too. I’ve used Capital Letters with intent:

I have found myself doing the love thing in my writing. And it is held in writing not in the body. It gives me trust in what real love means for me, shows me how it exists, not through owning it as my particular love belonging to me to give – paradoxically of course it is mine – but knowing it exists of its own accord. Love just is. Love is a gift as Writing is a gift. Without Writing, I would be bereft. Without Love, I would be bereft.

That piece of writing showed me how, in the depths of loving someone else, I might discover a place not driven by ego and need. A new experience. Love comes in many configurations. Writing through tapping into my Wise Self helped me find a new form for loving. It taught me to respect the existence and feeling of love and to trust it as I trust my writing. I don’t know where it will lead me, I wrote but as with my writing I had to trust in the great unknown which is essentially the creative process. And by that I live.

THE NAÏVE (or Inner Child’s) VOICE

The next piece experiments with a Voice trying out the inner child’s viewpoint. No grown-up measured self here. Just straightforward language:

And it is a terrible thing if you want to say: I love you and the words are stuck and do not come out of the throat and it is like a ball of sunlight in the heart. If you say nothing the ball stays there. But then it wants to get its rays out and put the words on them. And if you can’t tell these words – the sunlight swirls around and can’t get out and makes the person uncomfortable with a lot of heat.

And if the words from the heart can’t find a way out through the voice they go round and round in the head all day long and all night long. You want to tell the person you love that I love you is what you want to say. But when the words get so close to the heart it is very scary.

I want to stop the going round of words in my head. I want to speak the words and if I can do that then maybe the fire of the sun will not get stuck inside my body and want to make me explode and the sun will shine its rays in the sky where it belongs.

Children don’t speak like this and very soon I called this my Naïve Voice. I found myself describing adult feelings with simplicity. I move around between the first and second person pronoun but the ‘I’ Voice is pretty emphatic; there is punctuation but with this voice it is tempting to use little and stick to the lower case too.

In circumstances where one / you / I might not want (or not be ready) to say three words with such potency, this voice abandons being sensible, abandons feeling reasonable, abandons being rational. It gives such a freely expressive approach.

Here’s an even younger insistent Voice. A two year old in an adult body:

2 yr old:  What I want I want and I want it now and for now and for always and immediately.

Adult Self:   You can’t have what you want.

2 yr old:  You pretend I don’t exist. I do. It’s because of you I can’t have what I want.

Adult Self:  Perhaps. Perhaps not. Anyway it’s good to have the wantings. Wantings are not bad. Just not always possible. A two year old can’t understand how grown ups think. What I really want is the cuddles.

2 year old:  I like cuddles and kisses. That’s what I want too.

And so the foot-stamping toddler was listened to and appeased. And the adult was free to write more lyrically.

THE LYRICAL VOICE

Sweeping Leaves
The eight o’clock sun is warm on my shoulders as I sweep the path on three sides of our house. I sweep and scoop up the winter-curled oak leaves from underneath stones, the withered wisteria blooms which only last week were fresh in their pale mauve scents, bits of twigs, cut the nettles back.

I could sweep for the rest of my day, the rest of my life like the monks set to sweep whilst brains coil and recoil. I am sweeping and clearing all the days up to this one. They line up behind this morning ready and waiting to be swept – not away – not swept away – but here to be brushed down with all that has been.

Old loves too tightly entwined all prised off, fallen and tumbled through too many years. I have no idea how to do a new love which asks for its own truth ever since it surprised itself into existence. Let it breathe lightly in its own expansive way and find its own form as each day speaks and I listen to its voice.

As I swept the leaves I thought of zen monks in monastery gardens clearing the leaves in front of their huts, purposefully lifting an ordinary task to the level of meditative awareness and practice.

I discovered through my writing a refreshing insight which I hadn’t found in other relationships. One that meant Love was not to be owned; a real love survives on its own terms. It exists in its own right between two people, between friends or even sometimes momentarily in the passing of a complete stranger for a second or two.

Discovering this possibility that I needn’t own Love gave me an enormous freedom to explore these different expressive styles. Because I found new ways to write and experienced Love speaking through me, I released a feeling of loving everybody. That was the biggest surprise. And over time this love has grown in richness and fullness for life itself.

Here I’ve wanted to show how explorations with these different Voices have really transformed my feelings and understanding about Love. Matters of my own heart may be private, but experiences of how I have loved is pivotal to my writing. Not to be swept away with the leaves.

I’ve witnessed myself meeting many challenges with different kinds of loving relationships. Even if writing raises more questions than answers, it does the trick of settling me as I watch the page or screen generously accepting all my words and feelings. As a writer I spill my bleeding heart into my drafts but take the outpourings off the page (or screen) as poems or prose emerge from all my scribbling. Writing holds my passion, my creativity, my life. Fitting then, to end with one of my poems called: Love – in the week after Valentine’s Day.

Love

The chrysalis hangs
over-winter by a silk thread on the branch
which spreads itself across the yellow-blaze-risen sky

It feeds from tiny arrows
shot from the deep secrets of the blood-red earth

It unfurls like a green veined leaf on a May morning
as the butterfly opens its darling wings

***

ⓒ Monica Suswin  February 2016

Poem & Prose from my book ms – Chapter 2: Butterfly

Standard

Creative Therapeutic Writing

Visible Vulnerability

Attachment-1Through the process of creative therapeutic writing I have uncovered and explored my own vulnerabilities. The physical act of writing makes visible what has been stored invisibly in my mind.

Below are two poems which nestled in the impulse to form words, rested embryonically – if you like – until each took shape on page, then screen.

This key theme of Visible Vulnerability emerged over a year of giving presentations of my work in different UK cities and counties: Cardiff, Norfolk, my own village in Sussex and at the end of this week a fourth in London.

Because my pieces were written around ten years ago I wasn’t feeling particularly vulnerable in advance about reading them to an audience. I was ready. The writing had definitely helped to integrate the experiences into my present life. Speaking in public and posting my blogs has given me a big step into the open. I feel it is great we are as a society acknowledging long-held taboo areas of life.

Yet wobbly responses came. In Norfolk I instigated a break because I felt a need to go out of the room and compose myself. There and in Cardiff I’d seen tears in the audience. That moved me too. I find the power of this kind of writing lives on the page and as I spoke my own words, they were still potent to touch me emotionally.

One relevant question posed:
how do I write about traumatic events without taking myself back into the original feelings of depression?
My answer:
I write only enough to name what has been without all the details. 
See some of the ways I write in this guest blog: http://www.blackrainbow.org.uk/healingwords/guest-blog-monica-suswin/

Becoming Visible

I first became visible in December 1948. My own beginning was a bungled birth with an inexperienced mid-wife and a mother who knew nothing of childbirth.

HOLED UP

You never knew the way out for me.
Against the hard rock of your pubic bone,
I rammed and butted

hour after hour twisting and tearing
the membranes of your too narrow vagina.

You were pethidined out and the mid-wife
on her first ever shift made the mistake
of urging too soon, too many times: Push

And my naked baby self jutted stuck.
They called Doctor Clark back from the nineteenth hole
to clamp and remove me

It is true this is the story of my birth
just as you told me     just as you told me
this story stays as if I were there
aware of fighting my way out

into my life with the imprint of this birthing
played out like a hymen stretched between me and the world.

***

The following poem, I feel, is a celebration for this life (so far) that belongs to me.

Easter Sunday Blessing

I have stretched finger-tips far into darkness
Now with these two hands
May I give and may I receive
May I keep my feet on my own soil
And as I walk this earth alone
May I not fall over the edge
For we have known for some time
That this globe is round
May I walk its entire girth
And always find my own beginning

***

Staying Visible

I type this while world leaders are debating their responses to the barbaric destructive actions of men and women who are terrorising cities and countries with shootings, bombings and the slaughter of fellow human beings. Their incomprehensible and distorted mindsets allow them to murder and dehumanise the sacredness of others.

After the Paris attacks, my free-write told me all I can do is witness the stories of those affected by listening to those who escape with their lives. All writing is helpful to find out what I think and feel about the outer world as well as my inner one. That metaphorical hymen stretched between me and the world has been pierced. I belong in the world. My writing tells me so.

Over the next few months, I will be posting blogs around the theme of vulnerability. I don’t know which pieces I’ll choose but I look forward to making them visible.

ⓒ Monica Suswin November 2015

Next Presentation:
Creative & Therapeutic Writing – Links and Differences
The Poetry Cafe – Covent Garden, London WC2H 9BX
London Lapidus meets Saturday 28 November 2015
10.30am-1.00pm

Starting at 2pm – the annual AGM for all Lapidus members www.lapidus.org.uk (The Writing for Wellbeing Organisation)

***

If any group of writers would like to contact me about visiting to give a presentation (reading, discussion & writing) on any of my themes please get in touch.

Previous Presentations in 2015
The Truth & Lies of Writing – Lapidus Conference. Cardiff. Wales. (March)
Soul Works – Forest Row Festival. East Sussex. (September)
Visible Vulnerability –  Lapidus East Anglia. Wymondham. Norfolk. (October)

Standard

Creative Therapeutic Writing

                 Ouroborus                                                                                          3rd Century  (Greek)

The Wise Self

Wisdom is a combination of intelligence, experience and judgement

Visiting a friend for the last warm weekend of August, I asked her how she thought about wisdom. Her answer bypassed intelligence and after a moment’s pause she quietly said: ‘heart and intuition’.

Intuition and his ‘accursed human education’ exercised D. H. Lawrence when he wrote the long narrative poem: The Snake. On self-imposed exile in Italy -away from hostility towards him in England – he wrestled with this inner conflict. It is exactly the way he expresses the two sides of himself which draws me to this poem. When snakes have become the theme of my own poems, I’ve found what I can only call my wise voice from the depths. It makes me think that the archetypal energies of the snake seem to direct the writing towards wisdom.

It was the snake’s voice which spoke in the Garden of Eden – the first book of the Bible: Genesis. My own heritage rests within the Judaic-Christian culture. It may be disingenuous to consider the snake’s voice as a wise one since the creature was forever condemned to slither in the dust, after tempting Eve to eat the fruit from the forbidden tree of the knowledge of good and evil.

Yet isn’t being both good and bad exactly the truth about our human lives? This schism is mirrored in the snake’s venom – extracts from its poisonous venom are able to be used medicinally for healing. A perfect holding of the duality: death and life.

Wisdom through the Animal Kingdom

For he seemed to me again like a king
Like a king in exile.

In the poem Snake, Lawrence described an event with a real snake but it also acts partly as metaphor (see: poem in its entirety at the end). Consistently through the stanzas, he traces the conflict within himself between his empathetic and instinctual feelings and ‘the voices of my accursed human education’ (kill the snake). That last learnt voice half-heartedly won out as he feebly threw a log at the snake whilst it disappeared down a hole.

This ‘mean act’ flipped him into regret – and at the same moment he saw the snake as ‘one of the lords of life’, finally elevating him to a state of majesty and making himself aware of his own ‘pettiness’. The inherent wisdom in the poem is the expression of both sides of Lawrence’s nature and conflict.

Expressing Duality

Because the snake sheds its old skin and there is a new one underneath, this has given rise to a further symbolism of renewal or rebirth. Thirty years ago, I wrote a poem called: Snake. My female snake, however, did not slake off her outer skin but revealed an inner pattern of vulnerability which melded with the nature of her outer force.

I wrote this poem so long ago I remember little of the circumstances, but something in me had found this wise voice to articulate the fusing of the old and the new. And I kept it hand-written in my files. I believe I was expressing the experience of merging my outer and inner selves in my mid-thirties: integrating my own power in a new way through my metaphorical snake. Here’s the snake’s voice in the last stanza:

I cleave my power amidst the ancient-wise and each new day
and that is what I need to do
and all I need to do

(1983)

Recognition of a Wisdom

The snake is one of the world’s most potent symbols feeding into mythologies reaching far back into antiquity in continents as far apart as Africa, India and the Americas.

Ouroborus

The serpent biting its own tail
dates back to ancient Egypt and Greece.
The eternal cycle of life is just another of the implicit meanings

There are times when a poem emerges and feels like a voice has come through containing more than you ever thought you were going to write about or had in your consciousness. The wise voice possibly. Here is such a poem:

Ouroborus

Here is the golden snake on his way
along the bridge from eternity to now.

He comes from no beginning
He goes towards no end
When he rests he loops himself
until his mouth encloses his tail
and he sucks in time until it disappears

And there is no end and no beginning
and no separation of heaven from earth
when your eyes are open, watchful
for his sharp tongue, his sudden movement

As long as you know how to let your footsteps
tread along the bridge one foot after the other

                                 ~

Movement here goes into resting with the circular looped image of the snake’s agile body making time disappear. But the concept of eternity is hard to grasp and each of my poems dealt with time and space: the first aware of ‘each new day’ and the next – the treading of ‘one foot after the other’. After all that is how we perceive we go forward in life with a linear concept of time.

Defining Wisdom

Perhaps time to think how I might define wisdom. I took to some free-writing before reaching for the dictionary. The sentence at the top of this blog came at the end of much scribbling over two A4 sides in answer to these questions:

What is wisdom?
Am I wise?
Is so and so wise?
Is another so and so wise?
What is the difference between intelligence and wisdom?

Through answering my own questions (which could be applied I guess to any abstract human quality) I arrived at my succinct and short sentence. Then and only then did I look up my OED definition. I felt really pleased with what I found:

combination of experience and knowledge
with the ability to apply them judiciously 

Wisdom through a historical figure:
King Solomon – the Decision-Maker

King Solomon’s wisdom was praised in the Bible. Living in the land of the Hebrews, he reigned in the 10th century B.C.

And God said unto him….Because thou hast asked for thyself understanding to discern judgment…. Lo, I have given thee a wise and an understanding heart. . .                (1 KINGS 3 v: 11-12)

A very dear friend talked to me frequently about her dilemma about moving house. She was a very good journalist and we always talked about writing. As I often do (whether friends are writers or not) I suggested doing some writing around her indecision. Why not imagine an Internal Decision Maker? I suggested she thought of a person dead or alive who was good at making decisions. Immediately she came up with King Solomon. Brilliant, I thought. An inner wise-self as decision-maker.

Because she loved the theatre, I thought she’d like to write a dramatic dialogue between herself and King Solomon about whether to move house or not. Always full of good writing ideas, I’m used to friends and family not following up my ideas. My friend was no exception and didn’t do the writing.

What we had no idea about was that within two years she would die. By default, it was certainly the best decision not to move house, to be near friends and familiarity. Maybe this without knowing why underlaid her uncertainty.

Nevertheless because I thought it would be a good exercise, I took the liberty of writing on her behalf. Here is the imaginary dialogue:

Indecisive Self:     I have a decision I don’t know how to think about at the moment. I am not ready to make it. Everyone is telling me it is my decision, and either way it is fine. A decision one way or another has to be made but there is no immediate urgency to make it. Only I’m unsure if it’s a good idea to do one thing or a bad idea to do the other. Everyone has said they will go along with my decision and it does affect the whole family. I am so unsure that I don’t even know what I want. I can’t even say: “ ‘No, I don’t want that’ or ‘Yes, I do want this.’ ”

King Solomon: If you do not make a decision, events and time will play themselves out. If you cannot make a decision, don’t make it. Life in the end will make it for you.

Sadly Life did make the decision. With hindsight maybe this was prescient. It was certainly the best decision. Even if she did not know why, my friend had an inherent wisdom and knew what she needed. When the time to go into the hospice came her friends were all nearby. By staying put she had intuitively known what she needed. Sometimes it is best not to do anything and see how time allows life to unfold.

Wisdom & Pettiness

An imaginary dialogue with another historical figure might fit the bill equally well; or some-one charismatic from contemporary life. Asking another friend her choice, she said Pallas Athene – the Greek Goddess of Wisdom. Socrates, through discussing language and the truth of names, in Plato’s Dialogues analysed her name as: ‘moral intelligence’ .

Lawrence drew out his own ambivalence through his long poem ending with that note of ‘pettiness’. Sometimes, I find myself expressing my own ‘pettiness’ vociferously with a momentary satisfaction of gloating bitchiness. The inner wise self has to put up with me not discounting my inner petty self too. I own both selves. Both are part of me.

King Solomon is quite straightforward and one dimensional. Do look up the story about his judgement to divide a living baby in half with his sword to settle a dispute between two mothers each claiming the child as their own.

The snake, however, has slithered through my text drawing me into its complexity and wily ways with so many different symbolic meanings I’ve had a tough time staying focussed on just a few. It may represent eternity as one of its many metaphorical meanings but time and space for blogging is limited and I already take a lot of both.

In my everyday life, I try to take each day as I plan it as well as experience what comes towards me. Being open to that awareness is the kind of wisdom I aim to live by.

Perhaps you have drawn on a creature from the land, sea or air to explore and articulate the wise part of yourself. Or maybe written in the voice of a person whether living or dead.

Please do make a comment.

ⓒ Monica Suswin

Notes
The Bible: Genesis (Chapter 3) & 1 Kings (Chapter 3 – verse: 11-12)
The Snake by D. H. Lawrence
The Dialogues of Plato (Cratylus – 407) translated by B. Jowlett. Oxford University Press (1892)
Extracts from my book ms: Erotic Alert (Chapt 3) & Shifting Boundaries (Chapt 5)

***

(further note: posting a poem in this format does not honour line breaks!)

Snake

A snake came to my water-trough
On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat,
To drink there.

In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob-tree
I came down the steps with my pitcher
And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the trough
before me.

He reached down from a fissure in the earth-wall in the gloom
And trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down, over the edge of the stone trough
And rested his throat upon the stone bottom,
And where the water had dripped from the tap, in a small clearness,
He sipped with his straight mouth,
Softly drank through his straight gums, into his slack long body,
Silently.

Someone was before me at my water-trough,
And I, like a second comer, waiting.

He lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do,
And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do,
And flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips, and mused a moment,
And stooped and drank a little more,
Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning bowels of the earth
On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking.
The voice of my education said to me
He must be killed,
For in Sicily the black, black snakes are innocent, the gold are venomous.

And voices in me said, If you were a man
You would take a stick and break him now, and finish him off.

But must I confess how I liked him,
How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet, to drink at my water-trough
And depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless,
Into the burning bowels of this earth?

Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him? Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him? Was it humility, to feel so honoured?
I felt so honoured.

And yet those voices:
If you were not afraid, you would kill him!

And truly I was afraid, I was most afraid, But even so, honoured still more
That he should seek my hospitality
From out the dark door of the secret earth.

He drank enough
And lifted his head, dreamily, as one who has drunken,
And flickered his tongue like a forked night on the air, so black,
Seeming to lick his lips,
And looked around like a god, unseeing, into the air,
And slowly turned his head,
And slowly, very slowly, as if thrice adream,
Proceeded to draw his slow length curving round
And climb again the broken bank of my wall-face.

And as he put his head into that dreadful hole,
And as he slowly drew up, snake-easing his shoulders, and entered farther,
A sort of horror, a sort of protest against his withdrawing into that horrid black hole,
Deliberately going into the blackness, and slowly drawing himself after,
Overcame me now his back was turned.

I looked round, I put down my pitcher,
I picked up a clumsy log
And threw it at the water-trough with a clatter.

I think it did not hit him,
But suddenly that part of him that was left behind convulsed in undignified haste.
Writhed like lightning, and was gone
Into the black hole, the earth-lipped fissure in the wall-front,
At which, in the intense still noon, I stared with fascination.

And immediately I regretted it.
I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act!
I despised myself and the voices of my accursed human education.

And I thought of the albatross
And I wished he would come back, my snake.

For he seemed to me again like a king,
Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld,
Now due to be crowned again.

And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords
Of life.
And I have something to expiate:
A pettiness.

D. H. Lawrence
Taormina, Sicily, Italy. 1923

Standard

Creative Therapeutic Writing

image

                            buildings of the future

Shifting Boundaries

a cluster of trees used as a boundary  (Old Breton)

When words emerge from inside my head onto screen or paper, they cross a boundary from inner self to outer world to make themselves visible. This blog uses mainly the unbounded form of free writing (see Blog 4) to explore some personal impressions of my own sense of boundaries.

Free-writing by its very nature is without the boundaries of formal writing and considered editing of prose or poems. When I free-write, I value a feeling of freedom within myself. Rather appropriate and paradoxical that this style of writing helped me know my boundaries better.

The OED defines boundaries in terms of ‘limits’ and ‘dividing lines’. A series of short limited journal extracts follow separated with explanatory headings.

Fixed Boundaries

Real walls don’t move – they are built of materials such as mud, stones or bricks, cement too. For thousands of years, they have provided dwellings for humans, for animals and given shelter from heat or cold.

When I look for boundaries I see them everywhere: walls, fences, railings, roof-tops, high rise flats, hedges and lines of trees. All around us in cities, towns and the country-side.

Personal Boundaries

My own boundary is rooted in the sense of myself as a person. My exploratory writing, however, has challenged an assumption that boundaries are definite and static. I discovered, only through writing, that my own boundaries are flexible and often on the move.

Here’s a question I set myself – the answer doesn’t deal with boundaries of time and space, but is more to do with the quality of self and relationship:

Why are boundaries important?

They make me aware of my individuality, more so now having lived alone for six years and being older. I feel defined with a sense of separateness. It has not always been so.

When I am with others I look for edges where I may meet and engage, usually in conversation and empathy. The image of iron filings comes to mind – thinking of the attraction and distances – within the field of energy between me and another person.

I value my personal space and the chameleon like quality my boundaries have depending on how I feel, my needs and responses in the moment and whose company I’m sharing. All of these are invisible indicators to me of the varying qualities of relationship.

Fixed & Permeable Boundaries

This is what I wrote in 2012:

Everything under the sun is on the move; the earth orbits on itself and around this massive ball of exploding gases held in shape through the force of gravity. The air in the atmosphere moves through our bodies as millions of cells inside us are constantly replacing themselves. Yet defining boundaries and the limit of things is what we humans do to the land, to our dwellings, to each other and to ourselves.

Gems in the Scribbles

Rambling free-writes from three or four years ago often gave me insights – like this gem:

It is the boundary between comfort and discomfort in my inner emotional life that I cross when I write in my own creative therapeutic way.

The Comfort & Discomfort Zones

Diary writing is triggered when I’m at my least comfortable – probably ambivalent, angry or upset – or possibly a combination of all three. When I start to feel uncomfortable, I may not be able to express myself in the moment. Sometimes it’s a slow dawning. Or the timing isn’t right. If my writing doesn’t resolve the issue or doesn’t make me feel better, I’ll give myself the boundary of a time limit and return another day.

Often this sort of writing may need a couple of stabs before comfort is reached again. The idea of discomfort stabbing the self may be apt as writing pierces through confusion to find clarity.

Here’s how I dealt with an uncomfortable feeling after seeing a friend:

As I wrote I put brackets around the friend’s name to match my cross feelings. That separated her out from me. I might have chosen to send a letter or e-mail. I chose neither. Although I said I’d be speaking or writing soon, I neither wrote nor telephoned. I later wrote an unsent letter (written in my diary but not sent). In staying silent, I locked her out, showed my passive disapproval – if only to myself.

Writing Life & Emotional Boundaries

Buried in one of my previous long free-writes (2011) was another gem of a sentence, which stopped me in my tracks:

In my personal writing I have no boundaries, which is why I need to do it.

I needed to know exactly what I meant and posed myself two questions:

What does having no boundaries in my personal writing give me?
Why do I need to write?

Here’s the answer:

It answers the creative source inside me. Creativity bubbles up whether from within or without when I am feeling open in mind and feelings. I am truly creative when I am receptive to what wants to come into and through my writing without form. Form in terms of style or working on a piece until it is satisfying crosses into another part of me (wearing the editor’s hat) and I love that too. I love all aspects of writing. But in order to do it, I must be boundary-less within myself. That’s what I experience.

When I first started to explore boundaries through writing about four years ago I quickly realised it’s a complex subject. I had made an assumption that I had no real sense of boundaries. Writing, however, made me see pretty quickly I had a good sense of my own personal boundaries. The writing at the time reflected emotions and explorations flowing every-which-way which I interpreted as a boundary-less place within.

As I write this blog, reassessing what I think and feel, I realise that my sense of inner boundaries has changed and firmed up quite considerably. Shifted in fact. There was a time when exploration was key to my writing. That time is not now. I’m following another direction. There are times for exploration and times for consolidation. Times for explanations. Times for pauses. Limits to the best of things like experiential and exploratory writing.

My current purpose is working with the material already written and explored to explain its power and effectiveness and bring it up to date. That in itself gives me a sense of the boundary I bring to this current blog writing.

ⓒ Monica Suswin 2015

Writing Exercises:
How are boundaries important to you?
What is the link between your writing and your internalised boundaries?

Please do make a comment. Thank you.

Notes:
Skeat, W. (1893) An Etymological Dictionary of the English Language. Oxford: Clarendon Press.

Extracts: Shifting Boundaries (Chapter 5 – book ms.)

Standard

Creative Therapeutic Writing

   A Search for Meaning in Illness

yellow and blue fractal

If there is a meaning in life at all, then there must be a meaning in suffering.

Dr Viktor Frankl  (Austrian psychiatrist and neurologist)

Mental illness is a personal suffering and long ago I decided there was no meaning that I could find in my own clinical depressions. But through writing about them I have indeed found meaning. Not about the illnesses. But in the ways I found I could express myself. And what happened through staying with the process of that expressive and creative writing.

On my shelves is a very small book: Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl (1905-1997). My copy (published in 1963) is a good read which is a curious thing to say about unimaginable circumstances: the author wrote about how he and others survived the concentration camps. The meaning, he means, is not to do with making sense of what is senseless but how man decides and chooses what attitude and approach to take of what is left of his life. Is s/he worthy of his sufferings? (My gender inclusion) he poses.

My trusting attitude could only be found when I was well and wanted to explore something about my illnesses through writing. Here I start with a memory, a disturbing one; meaning came much later.

off the wall

I spent the night in a cave of undergrowth

until dawn when the fox crossed my path

                                                                                        (an event 1993)

Writing Tames the Bad Times

For years at a time my well-being had never been in question. But in 1993 I was ill for a whole year and in hospital for much of it. Allowed home from the acute psychiatric ward, I’d spent a whole night outdoors only wanting to hide like a sick animal under a hedge. When I saw a fox moving through the grass, just yards from me in the early morning mist I noted it, but gave it no more thought. Yet that fox stayed in my mind for many years before I explored the hidden meanings for myself.

Well over ten years later, having moved to Sussex, I’d often see a fox basking in the sunshine from my bedroom window as I woke up to a lovely sunrise. It was usually curled up in the long grasses with its burnished fur, and the contrast would strike me between this waking and that other early morning dawn. I started to write about the fox’s beauty and the disturbing memory. The fox began to hold a symbolic meaning for my mental illness. In the now with its beauty, however, it also represented the good years of wellness. And so a duality was held which is the nature of powerful metaphors. When illness struck, however, it had become the metaphorical stink which entered the hole in my head (see: Blog 5 & Ted Hughes poem). A hole packed with anxiety, terror and fear; at other times empty, vacuous. A void.

Foxes live on the edge of cities and towns, scavenging where they may. Illness too is a scavenger of the body and mind. Illness tipped me quickly into an undoubted bio-chemical ill-balance: a clinical depression. Current research is only beginning to understand why the brain may become dysfunctional but then and now this is my touchstone to some form of comprehension beyond the blame I felt for my illnesses when younger.

Mental illness, also like the fox, is sly and cunning. Creeping up unawares, it always took me suddenly into its jaws and tossed me around, just like a fox or an angry dog might do.

Lion as Metaphor for Illness

Even before the fox became a metaphor, I had tried to describe in a short story, this terrible helpless feeling of being tossed around by illness. The story itself was multi layered with other meanings and events. The metaphor that came into being were golden lions woven into hangings pulled around a four poster bed. The setting was a medieval castle in the fenlands during the thirteenth century. My narrator was nameless to suit the nothing feeling of the ill-self. Her ‘I’ Voice was nevertheless fully owned as she was put to bed with a delirious fever with the warmth kept in by these curtains.

This extract was written in the present tense when the the fever had set in:

I’m crouching around the post of my bed, hiding between the linen folds of the curtain-hangings – they smell old and stale the lions are coming for me, their tongues are poison, their claws are sharp, serrated. I am in the lion’s mouth – chewed and tossed. They are delving into my stomach with their red tongues. I am split apart, torn open – the fodder of these beasts.

I coil up tightly into a quilt amongst the embroidered flowers, the crimson silk is cool and smooth to my skin. The lions arrange themselves into the wool yarn. The hangings are still pulled around the bed-posts. I have no desire to open them. Sleep is creeping over me. The breathing is easing. There is a yellowing of the denseness with the light of noon. I’m stretching out. The shivering is stopping. I draw the covers even closer around me.

I cannot tell you all there is to tell about this time lying on this great bed, hour after hour, day after day. I am alone as I’ve never been in any other time, with no comprehension or yearning.

When I was well and writing this fictionalised version I touched that old fearful feeling of incipient illness, but the writing gave me a new layer of images: these transformed into an imaginary but just as real memory. That contained the healing because something new was created which was not there before, making me feel less in the grip of the memories. A moving forward in life was more possible with this transformative power – only realised after the writing had been done. The process itself was experiential.

The reality I created in the four poster bed with the embroidered hangings allowed the flight of fantastic images. This gave me a clear boundary of how far I was able to stretch my imagination with what rang true. One of the lions having chewed and tossed the terrified narrator in its mouth had to return to the wool yarn of the hangings around the bed-post. And then something else happened as I wrote that passage:

Could it even be that the lions are smiling? Could it even be that the tear-drops are really golden rain? Beautiful. I am bathed in shafts of softness – light diffusing the boundaries which separate my body from the world around me into infinity. This is a joy inside the dimension of life, which claims me, though I am nameless, yet fills me with the bliss of being.

The crescendo of terror had waned into beauty. And that was how I found the ability to express the terrible fear I felt when ill, but the way the writing turned out gave me a wonderful and surprising shift into healing.

I followed the writing. I had no idea this was how it would evolve. It was the descriptions I chose which mutated into the terrifying images, but also succeeded in turning something horrible into something nurturing. During the process of writing, I actually moved into the bliss of being. These experiences were really felt in my body as I wrote. It was not just inside my head. It was all through me spilling onto the page.

I have found this transition with my writing time and time again. I start with a frightening memory and image and during the process of writing something shifts and is healing.

A Blaze of Yellow

Here is a poem which started with another frightening memory and then moved into the time of writing (2006) and a life affirming scene. Selima Hill had recently brought out a collection: Lou Lou (2004). So many of her poems about her time in a psychiatric hospital, resonated with me, and stimulated me to write my own.

A schizophrenic woman, dirty and dressed in rags, was admitted late one night to the high security acute psychiatric ward. I watched her moving along the corridor wall. In this poem, I transferred my own reality of unbearable mental illness through the remembered image of that terribly ill woman.

Nightmare

She is mincing her feet-steps staccato
side-ways, crabbing all four limbs
palms flat open fingers stiff spread
jabbing the crevices for fixings
for holding for the finding of
the hook that isn’t there
in the invisible wall
so she can unzip hang up her lunar jumpsuit
snuggle under duvet into cup of tea morning
yes-saying-sunshine in at the window
forsythia spikes, daffodils, cowslips      a blaze of yellow

Alongside that memory, I called on other images and integrated them into the second half of the poem. There are no separate stanzas. It is a compact and dense poem. Although there are commas there are no full-stops, and apart from the initial capital letter, all is in lower case. This helps the poem to flow along; the lines quicken and gained momentum, as well as getting louder and emphatic when read aloud.

The pace of the poem emphasised the crazy-ness; each end-line, up until ‘invisible wall’, merging into the following one – words carrying the impact until a pause before ‘the hook’. There were no hooks of course on either the hospital or an imaginary wall; I felt it echoed that experience of not being able to release myself out of day or night, not being able to find a dividing line in time. The image of this disturbed woman merged into a me who had hung up the madness, the craziness, through unzipping the lunar jumpsuit.

Every morning as I opened the curtains that April in 2006, the forsythia, the daffodils, the cowslips, all greeted me with their yellow-ness. Yellow is the colour of the sun, of freshness, new life in the garden blossoming; these images confirmed my good inner feelings. The poem is anchored by those last three lines of the welcoming morning cup of tea and the comfort of the duvet. Everything slows down for the last four words ‘a blaze of yellow’; this phrase is separated out on the page, so the bottom line acts as a foundation for the lines above and provided the full-stop to the poem.

All of this only became clear to me some time after the poem was written. There was no formula to draw on a memory, imagination and everyday images. None of the poetic devices were planned – they happened during the draft stages. I never approach a poem with rules but in retrospect and with reflection, I see that is what Nightmare contains to make it work.

Metaphor and Meaning

I’ve found metaphor so helpful in expressing and exploring my emotional responses to life. Unable to find meaning in incomprehensible illness, I have found my meaning in writing and its mysterious processes. None of this writing, however, was known to me before I started. My only intention being to write about the difficult times. And yet writing out of a place of pain revealed the converse to me: healing.

A metaphor works by calling upon a specific image from the real world to represent an abstract psychological state or episode. Ted Hughes explained in his chapter: Capturing Animals (Poetry in the Making – faber and faber: 1967) how to make language come alive, how he made his ‘thought-fox’ live through the words in his poem.

If you have a metaphor for an illness or difficult time of your life, I’d be really interested to hear. Please do make a comment. Thank you.

Read This:

Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl originally published after World War Two. Reprinted with various publications over the years and available. See:http://www.theguardian.com/film/2015/jun/09/viktor-frankls-book-on-the-psychology-of-the-holocaust-to-be-made-into-a-film?CMP=share_btn_tw

Lou – Lou by Selima Hill (2004). Bloodaxe Books.

The Thought-Fox by Ted Hughes. (See Blog 5 for reference)

Extracts:

The Embroidered Quilt (short story)

A Fox Crossed My Path (Chapter 9 – book ms.)

Standard