Poetry Train Monday - 188 - The Undiscovered Scream

Day 21 of the A to Z Challenge brings us to the letter U.








This is a found poem, taken from one of my works in progress. It's a scene from my gardener story, which you can check out in my Fiction Excerpt Archives.

I tightened the language of the scene for the poem. Otherwise it reads as it does in the story, which follows this little laundry maid and a gardener from a Victorian country house when they're shipped to Van Diemen's Land as convicts.


The Undiscovered Scream


Helen stood before the gaol
Barred wagon trundled
Towards her

Three more prisoners
Waiting to
Board

How she had longed
To be taken
Last summer

The days since then had
Crawled on famished hands
Exhausted knees

Horses' hooves clapped
On cobblestones
It seemed she

Stepped outside herself
Watching as she moved
Through the hours

Fatigue helped
To blur the moments.
The women beside her

Held hands
The man jumped down
Opened the latch

Impossible
But Helen felt.
Tendril of fear creeping

How certain she'd been
No more feelings
Left at all

She looked down
Worn fabric
Draft curled around

Her ankles. One woman cried.
The other kept patting her.
Near the harbour

Sea birds cried
Reality entered the
Box like a fourth

Passenger.
Waterfront hurly burly
Men called orders

Cargo nets hoisted.
Jagged masts
Sky clutter

Draped with shrouds
Monstrous webs
Of rope

Helen shivered on the
Wharf, the rough men
On deck stared back

The numbness was gone.
An undiscovered scream
That no one seemed to hear

- Julia Smith, 2009

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

As we head into the final week of this month-long challenge, I'd like to say thank you to all of my new followers and I look forward to getting to know you, as well as everyone I've followed during this event. The sheer scope of this over-1000-participant blog carnival makes it impossible to visit and comment the way I'd hoped, but it gives me something wonderful to look forward to.

Poetry Train Monday - 185 - When He First Appeared at The Bottom of the Stairs

Here we are at Day 3 of the A to Z Challenge.





Monday is poetry day here at A Piece of My Mind, so I'm reposting a found poem from a year-long project I did two years ago.


This poem is fashioned from a diary entry I made on Jan. 12th, 1980 when I was 15.


C is for Clark Gable


When He First Appeared at The Bottom of the Stairs


Michelle and I
Watched
Star Trek - it was Charlie X

That's so
Funny too
Because
Every Friday night
Michelle and I
Guess
What episode Star Trek will be
And Michelle had guessed
Charlie X

Mom, Dad
Michelle
Connie and I
Went
To the Rebecca Cohn
This evening
To see
Gone With the Wind

So many people came

At intermission, the
Line-up in the washroom was
A mile long

The movie was astounding

It overwhelmed me

Vivien Leigh
Was
So good
As Scarlett

What an actress

Clark Gable, of course
Was
Terrific

When he first appeared
At
The bottom of the staircase

At Tara
During the barbeque

The whole audience
Sighed
And burst
Into applause

- Julia Smith

© - Jan. 11, 2009

Original diary entry - Jan. 12, 1980













For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train - 178 - On That Glorious Day

I'm on Day 14 of NaNoWriMo.

For the Poetry Train this week, here's a teaser from my current NaNo manuscript, currently at 23,000 words.

This is a found poem taken from my prose work-in-progress. It introduces the Lady Elysande, the noblewoman who takes the adult Scorpius - featured each Saturday in my serialized fiction - to work for her as her chamberlain when he is released from captivity along with her cousin, a hostage of a rival royal family.

The events of this poem take place in Elysande's young childhood and just as she comes into womanhood, as a youth. But it's narrated by the man in her life, Xaviero, the captain of the guard at her family's estate. For readers of my Weekend Writer's Retreat, Xaviero is a figure from Richolf's storyline.
















On That Glorious Day


His body trembled
Trembled with the knowledge that it
Was finally over

No more waiting
His beloved approached
With slow
And measured steps
Her skirts rustling as she
Crossed the stone floor

Xaviero dropped to his knees
Beseeching her with
A tormented gaze
“You don’t know what you’re asking of me.”

He'd knelt before her once before

On that glorious day
When they'd first met
“How do you know how he feels?” he'd asked
Meaning the guard he'd put to the lash

She'd shrugged

“Do you submit to me, darling one?" she asked now
She smiled at him so sweetly
She was like an angel
An angel of vengeance
Sent to make him pay

He could barely see
Past thick tears
He didn’t need to see anything
Not in this moment
Of complete surrender

“Look at me, my lady,” he'd said on that first day
In a tone
That would not tolerate
Anything
But obedience

She'd done as he'd commanded her

“I have a feeling
You’re not like most of
The other little girls. Hmm?”
He'd smiled a secret smile
One that already knew something about her
That she didn’t know herself

“It’s good to feel pain with your pleasure,” she said now.

“Yes,” he whispered

“Most of the time
You don’t feel
As if you should
Have any pleasure at all
Do you?”

“No,” he said
Twisting his face away from her
How could she know that
About him? Why
Did it feel as though she’d
Brought him before a mob
Disrobed him before a thousand condemning eyes?

He'd gazed at her
On that first day
And said, “You think I should have been kinder.”

She'd clutched her ribs
As though finding it tender to breathe
“He’s in so much pain.”

“What were you doing out there?” he'd asked

“I heard…” she'd begun, squirming
“I heard him crying out.”

“The children’s garden
Is a fair distance from
My guard house,” Xaviero had said.
“I have put other guards
To the lash before
And never once did any
Curious little girls
Come to watch.”

“It’s not right
That you should feel pleasure
When you’ve hurt people,"
Elysande said now
"Hurt them so very badly.”

Self-recrimination
Flooded his chest like
A sucker punch
He gasped

“Make no mistake, my dear one,” she said

He pulled hard
At his wrists and ankles
But cuffs held him fast
“You are going to suffer
As long as I am here to make you suffer.”

He shook his head from side to side

“And every time I make you suffer
A little more of that darkness
Is going to come to the surface
Where I can see it.”

“Please don’t,” he said
Turning away from her gaze
Which burned him

“Tell me what you’ve got buried
So deeply inside you.
You know what it is.”

A surge of rage
Coiled through him
He pulled hard
On the wrist cuffs
Raising up to look her in the face

“The proof, you mean?
The proof of my sins?
Oh, I’ve got enough of those
I’ve got enough sins rolling around in here
To keep us busy for a century.”

“Maybe they’ve heard it before
And never came close enough,”
Elysande had said on that first day

“Perhaps,” he'd said. “Perhaps.
But I don’t think so.
Most little girls
Don’t have the stomach for
Military justice.”

“I’m not like them,” she'd said.

“I didn’t think you were.”

Was it true, what she said
He wondered now
If he did as she commanded
Would some of that horror
He’d put other men through
Finally leave him be?

He was exhausted
He hummed with joy in his chest
He felt lighter in so many ways
His beloved was cracking him open
She would not be stopped
Whatever she demanded, he must
Give to her

He’d used his rage
On those people he’d tortured
Rage that was fueled
By the realization that
She’d been the wrong age
When he’d finally found her

“Perhaps
What I should be telling Nurse,"
He'd said to her on that first day
"Is that her little charge has
Cravings
For things that little girls
Shouldn’t want to see.”

Elysande had pulled herself
As tall as she could make herself
And looked him in the eye

“You may tell her anything you wish.
She wouldn’t believe you,” she'd said
In her haughtiest tone

He'd shifted his weight then
Moving smoothly from a crouch
To a kneeling position

“I know exactly
What I’m asking you to do,” she said now

He shook his head
“You don’t know what I’ve
Done to people, Elysande.”

“I’m beginning to
Get the idea.” He gasped
When she took his face
In her hands
Forced him to look
Into her eyes
With the merest tug

“You knew about me
From that very first day
In the barracks yard."

He winced
As if she’d struck him

“Well, you weren’t the only one.
I knew something about you, too.
I didn’t know what to make of it.”

He tried to shake his head, but
She wouldn’t let him
She squeezed his face harder
His eyes grew large with dread

“Nurse has already discovered things
About you, hasn’t she, my lady?”
He'd asked on that first day
He'd bowed his head
As though he were her servant
And not a man who commanded a garrison
“She once suspected
There was something about you
But it frightened her
And – dear thing – she loved you,
Didn’t she?
Didn’t want her sweet little darling
To be taken away.”

“Who would take me away?”
She'd blurted out.

“I won’t lie to you, lady.
Powerful people
Would take you away.
Have you put to death.”

Tears had welled and shimmered
In her eyes
Xaviero had reached his finger
To wipe them from her cheeks
He'd opened his arms
She'd all but leaped into them

His body now trembled
Trembled with the knowledge
That it was finally over
There was to be no more waiting

“I think it’s safest
That we keep this to ourselves,"
He'd said on that first day
Cradling her into his shoulder

“How do you know about me?”
She'd asked finally
She'd pushed back
So she could gaze into his eyes

“I’ve been different, too,” he'd said
“In my way.”

“Always?”

He'd nodded

“And now?”

Now she smiled at him
So sweetly
She was like an angel
An angel of vengeance
Sent to make him pay

He could barely see
Past thick tears
He didn’t need to see anything
Not in this moment
Of complete surrender

“The proof, you mean?
The proof of my sins?
Oh, I’ve got enough of those
I’ve got enough sins rolling around in here
To keep us busy for a century.”

© Julia Smith, Nov. 14, 2010


For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Detail from Roman Centurian, Legio XX, 1st Century AD by Chris Collingwood

Poetry Train Monday - 162 - Letters and Lists

While sitting upstairs at Mom's table eating lunch during my week off from my day job, I often fed my inner muse by reading The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron. I'm looking after her bird Coco while she's on her own month-long vacation in Michigan, and he needs social time with Brad and me without Mom there. So I have all my meals upstairs and hang out with Coco, read the paper, catch up on a bit of TV, or browse through Mom's gardening magazines or creative books like The Artist's Way.

This piece about a woman discovering her voice really resonated with me. It refers to a technique Ms. Cameron uses in all her workshops called morning pages.

This is a form of wake-up exercises for the writing brain, like athletic stretches or musical scales. Ms. Cameron has found that creating a habit of non-judgmental free writing every morning deactivates the inner critic inside all of us, and releases the real creativity chomping at the bit behind him or her.

I haven't tried these morning pages myself, but I have to say my experiences with my blog have acted in a similar role for me. There was a time I never could have come up with new poetry once a week, or new scenes like clockwork for my Weekend Writer's Retreat. But the habit of daily writing for my blog has cleared my perfectionist tendencies somewhat.

Not entirely! LOL! Getting there.

Here is the found poem I crafted from The Artist's Way:


















Letters and Lists


Phyllis

Leggy racehorse socialite

Hid her brains for years
Behind her beauty
Hid her life for years
Behind her man's

With a great deal of surface cheer
Phyllis tried the morning pages
Leggy socialite's inner conviction
They would never work for her

It had been ten years
Of social letters
Bread-and-butter lists
Ten years since she had allowed herself to write

Phyllis hid
Phyllis allowed no pages
Beauty Phyllis
Racehorse Phyllis

Pages would never work for her
Never bread-and-butter
Never her man's Phyllis
Socialite hid brains

Surface cheer
Racing beauty
Leggy Phyllis
Conviction, ten years

A month into morning pages
Seemingly out of nowhere
Phyllis got her first
Poem

In three years
Phyllis has written
Phyllis' surface allows brains
Phyllis' bread-and-butter is writing

Speeches
Radio shows
A nonfiction book
And poems

Phyllis racehorse
Phyllis beauty
Phyllis brainy
Her man's Phyllis

Phyllis' writing
Works for her

- Julia Cameron, 1992

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Minnesota Mamaleh says Your words? Resonate. Your tips? Hit the spot. And your poem? Divine.

Shelley Munro says You're good at this poetry stuff. A lot of writers I know swear by Julia Cameron's book.

Riia Infinity says Beautiful and lovely poem^^

Poetry Train Monday - 157 - Simon, What Do You Think Of The Weather?

For Father's Day, I've taken a piece of journal writing from my grandfather and fashioned it into a found poem.

That's my grandfather in the seen-better-days photo, with his father. My mom and I found this on a piece of notepaper, in amongst a box of photos. Since he was a photographer rather than a writer, this memory was an absolute delight to come across.

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!



















Simon, What Do You Think Of The Weather?


I went out
To sleep with my dad
At their fisherman's shack

So we would be ready at five o'clock

We would be ready
To go fishing mackerel
At five o'clock

I could hear the fishermen talking

I could hear outside from different shacks
The fishermen talking about the weather
Then I would hear someone call "Simon (who was my father)

Simon - what do you think of the weather?"

He would answer, "Well,
It doesn't look too good.
Might as well go back to bed."

To bed...I felt very disappointed
I said, "Dad
How come we're not going out this morning?

The stars are all out
The sky is clear
And it is very calm."

He said, "Son,
Do you hear a funny noise?
A noise like the wind blowing.

That's the sea
Making that noise.

And the calmness
The calmness in the air.

That is a sure sign
Of a big southeast wind."

And by gosh

Within the hour
You could feel the wind picking up
You could see the white caps
Forming on the water

- Charles Doucet

Please join me this Thursday when I post an art show of thirteen pieces of my grandfather's art work, in honor of his birthday.

Janet says Brilliant! Loved it Julia :)

Systematic Weasel says Beautifully written!

Charles E. Doucet says Thanks so much, my wonderful niece!! The Found Poem moved me a great deal... I imagined myself standing with my father and grandfather in the darkness, with the fish shacks and sea at Grand Etang, waiting to go fishing for mackerel, listening to both of them talking... you gave me a real moment in their lives...thank you!

Poetry Train Monday - 153 - On Account of My Loneliness

Perhaps because I've been writing about Scorpius for the Weekend Writer's Retreat, I thought about this piece of journal writing by my grandfather.

It's written on a piece of notepaper and was in amongst a box of photographs. My grandfather was a portrait photographer, so there are loads of pictures, but hardly any memories written out like this. Something to treasure.

In the first shot shown below, he's the teenager in the center of the picture, returned from a day hunting and fishing with friends or cousins, perhaps a mixture of both.


















The second photo shows his parents, along with Grandpa's oldest brother. Grandpa's mother Arthemise died when he was only six, and he was farmed out to relatives following the loss of his mom.













He grew up in an Acadian community in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, so a reference to 'Joseph à Jim' means 'Joseph, son of Jim'.

For today's Poetry Train, I'm returning to the found poetry format which I did all last year. I'm using Grandpa's journal snippet to fashion this poem.


On Account of My Loneliness

After Mother died

After Mother died
Went to live at Joseph à Jim

At Joseph à Jim, after...

Met this woman
Who went to live there
At Joseph à Jim

She lived there
After I left

I left from there
On account of my loneliness

- Charles Doucet

Naquillity says These are the truest treasures. The ones where you can use old photographs like these and write poetry, pulling from the past.

Sheila says Oh so true, the truest treasures. I loved to watch my grandmother's old eyes as she looked at a faded photograph and told a story.

Travis says So often I see a bit of prose and the rhythm of the language just begs to be re-ordered into a poem.

Poetry Train Monday - 133 - The Latest Year of My Life

Here it is - the final found poem for 2009. I'm using the villanelle form, but without rhyming, as that would interfere with the found poem status.

This is taken from my diary entry for the turn of 1980 into 1981. This was a big year for me - first onstage roles in high school where my theatre bug was activated, and of course my first boyfriend, so my first taste of what it meant to be in love.

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!



















The Latest Year of My Life


Looking back, the latest year of my life
I listened to records most of the day
I opened dams, debuted, changed, conquered, loved

I finished Life Before Man, got dressed, packed
I packed to go to Windsor for the night
Looking back, the latest year of my life

We left as soon as we were all ready
We girls had hamburgers and french fries, laughed
I opened dams, debuted, changed, conquered, loved

We girls retired to Julianne's room
The Top 100 on CJCH
Looking back, the latest year of my life

Read magazines, talked about guys, listened
We laughed and laughed and laughed like maniacs
I opened dams, debuted, changed, conquered, loved

We rang in the New Year with screams, kisses
Screams, laughter, kisses and lots of hugging
Looking back, the latest year of my life
I opened dams, debuted, changed, conquered, loved

- Julia Smith, 1980



















Stan Ski says Here's to 2010.

Susan Helene Gottfried says Brings back a lot of my own memories, my friend.

Apprentice Writer says This was, I think, my first taste of that form of poem.

Poetry Train Monday - 132 - All Morning, Most of the Afternoon

For my second last found poem for 2009, I've returned to my diary from 1980, when I was in grade eleven.
My high school years were wrapped around the Prince Andrew Chorus, and I still cherish my friendships which have continued from this sparkling time in my life.

We used to go caroling at Christmas time, heading towards the home of whomever hosted a party afterwards.

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!















All Morning, Most of the Afternoon


It took me all morning
Most of the afternoon
To clean all the party mess away

Dad and Michelle had driven me
Up to the portable
Quarter after seven
They'd come inside
We'd waited for everyone to come

I didn't mind it, though
Cleaning the party away
Cleaning gave me the opportunity
To think about last night again

Last night Dad and Michelle
Piled all the munchies people brought
Piled them into the car
And carted them home

Dad was laughing so much
Laughing at how crazy the portable is
I felt so happy
Happy to see him enjoy himself so much

We'd all set out at 7:30
To sing our little Christmas songs
It was absolutely freezing
I'd had two layers of everything on

Cleaning the party away
It took me all morning
I thought about last night again

We'd gone a little ways down Spikenard
Down Farquarson and Shawinigan
Down Guysborough and Mount Edward to Kelly
And then to my house

We'd sung two verses of one song
Then We Wish You a Merry Christmas at every house
At Ted's house where
We'd gotten molasses candy
At this other house where
They'd passed a box of Turtles among us
We'd sung a verse of O Come All Ye Faithful
Besides

We'd sung two verses of
Joy to the World
Under the carport at my house
Mom had laughed
At all of us frozen carolers
As she stood in the doorway

Most of the afternoon
It took me to clean the
Party away, but I
Didn't mind
I thought about last night

Everyone had piled in
Had peeled their coats off
Mom had dished out the
Hot mulled wine
I'd scurried to my bedroom
I'd changed into my new dress

I'd danced
Danced
Danced
We'd all gathered around
The piano

As people wrapped their
Arms about each other to
Sing, how it made me
All warm inside

It took me all morning
It took me most of the afternoon
I cleaned all the party away

I thought about last night
How we'd all set out
How we'd sung our Christmas songs
How freezing it was
How I'd worn two layers

How it made me all warm inside

- Julia Smith, 1980

Linda Jacobs says I recently found my diary from 1963 or 4. Hmmm...maybe I'll try a found poem, too!

Michelle Johnson says You share the warmth of your family and friends with us so clearly. Makes one reminisce about their own families during the holiday.

Artpredator says How wonderful for you to have these happy memories written down and saved, to savor in later years and turn them into poems, to share in a way you'd never have expected nearly 30 years ago.

Poetry Train Monday - 131 - He Would Find Me in Testament, Virginia

Heading towards Christmas - woo hoo! 10 days till Christmas Eve!! - here's my found poem which I've reworked from a passage by Jack Kerouac.

I'm currently reading On the Road for the Dewey Reading Challenge.


















He Would Find Me in Testament, Virginia

At Christmas 1948
My aunt and I
Went down to visit my brother
In Virginia, laden with presents

I had been writing to Dean
Dean said he was coming East again
I told him if so
He would find me in Testament, Virginia
Between Christmas and New Year's

I had been spending a quiet Christmas
In the country

A mud-spattered '49 Hudson
Drew up in front of the house
A weary young fellow
Muscular and ragged in a T-shirt
Came to the porch
Rang the bell
I opened the door

It was Dean
Dean had come

All the way from San Francisco
To my brother Rocco's door
"But how did you get here so fast?"
"Ah, man, that Hudson goes!"

In the car
I could see two figures sleeping

Big tall Ed Dunkel
Dean's sweet first wife, Mary Lou

Dunkel worked on the railroad
He and Dean had just been laid off

Mary Lou was the only girl
Dean had ever loved
He'd been living with Camille
Became the father
Of a cute little girl
Amy

Saw a '49 Hudson for sale
Rushed to the bank
Dean calmed Camille's fears
Said, "Sal has pleaded and begged with me
Begged me to come and get him
It is absolutely necessary
But we won't go into
All these explanations"

He zoomed into Denver
Ran and found Mary Lou

They had ten hours of wild lovemaking
I had been spending a quiet Christmas
In the country

Dean pleaded and begged
At her knees
For the joy of her being

She understood Dean
She stroked his hair
She knew he was mad

They arrived at my brother's door
They had not eaten for thirty hours
Except for candy
And cheese crackers

My sister-in-law made a spread
The three battered travellers
Sat down to eat
Southerners
Don't like madness
Not Dean's kind

I saw the Christmas tree
The presents

The madness of Dean
Had bloomed into a
Weird flower

He and I and Mary Lou and Dunkel
Left the house
For a brief spin-the-Hudson
For the first time we were alone
Could talk about anything we wanted

He bought cigarettes
He seemed to be doing everything
At the same time
A shaking of the head
Up and down, sideways
Jerky, vigorous hands
Quick walking, sitting, crossing the legs
Uncrossing, getting up
Rubbing the hands, hitching his pants
Looking up, sudden slitting of the eyes
To see everywhere

And all the time
He was grabbing me
Grabbing me by the ribs
And talking, talking

It was very cold in Testament
They'd had an unseasonable snow

I had listened to the talk
Of the relatives
My aunt and I
Had visited my brother
Laden with presents

Dean stood
In the long bleak main street
That runs along the railroad
Clad in nothing
But a T-shirt and low-hanging pants
The belt unbuckled

His laugh was maniacal
It started low
And ended high

We got in the car
And flew back
To my brother's house

I had been spending a quiet Christmas
In the country
I realized
When we got back into the house
When I saw the Christmas tree
When I saw the presents
When I smelled the roasting turkey
When I listened to the talk of the relatives

Now the bug was on me again
And the bug's name was Dean Moriarty

And I was off on another spurt
Around the road

- Jack Kerouac, 1955

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Thomma Lyn Grindstaff says So evocative. I'm going to have to read On the Road. I think I'd love it.

Akelamalu says I so enjoyed that Julia, thankyou. x

Poetry Train Monday - 126 - A War Against War

Today's found poem is taken from all of the peace quotes I posted during the lead-up to the Blog Blast for Peace, which took place on Thursday, Nov. 5th.

I got the idea for this from Travis, who reposted all of the peace quotes he'd featured in his tireless promotion of the Blog Blast while the originator, Mimi Lenox, was keeping vigil with her father as he passed away.

There are so many Peace Globes launched into the blogosphere, I'm still visiting them all. Even though the Blog Blast officially occured on the 5th, I encourage you to visit them because it's not physically possible to get to everyone on one day.


















A War Against War

If we are to teach real peace
Real peace
Here in this wondrous way we keep
We shall have to begin with the children

This is how change happens
No snowflake ever falls in the wrong place
When we need some relief
Where Mercy, Love and Pity dwell

We teach
Someone picks it up
Action is eloquence
A real war against war

If we are to carry on
If we do our part of the race
When I can’t find my feet
Pass it on. It keeps going

Begin with the children
It's a relay race
Snowflakes falling
Mercy dwelling

This world
These haunts of ancient peace
Goals are dreams with deadlines
We usually get what we anticipate

Let us go there again
Oh,
When I need rest and sleep
There God is dwelling too

Our job really is to
Pass it on
We're very conscious
We usually get what we anticipate

It's a real war
A war against war
These haunts
This peace

And that is how it is


- William Blake / Claude M. Bristol / Mahatma Gandhi / Diana Scharf Hunt / Van Morrison / William Shakespeare / Alice Walker / Zen

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train Monday - 124 - Release

As someone dealing with chronic pain from an injury, as well as recurring migraine management, my experience with acupuncture this year has been incredibly fascinating, to say the least.

I began treatment in June. I started with two sessions a week, then moved to one, and now I'm at one session every two weeks.

My rapid response to the treatment owes a lot to the personal work I do while receiving needles, Gua Sha, cupping and moving cupping. I meditate, visualize, invite healing, and release pain and negative energy.

I see a traditional Chinese acupuncturist, Vivian Yuan. Can I tell you how grateful I am that she emigrated to Canada from China? I only speak to her about my current condition. We don't go into any sort of talk therapy.

But I used to see a past life regression therapist when I lived in Toronto. And when the opportunity to see Vivian presented itself, I recognized that I was ready to heal a whole slew of past life trauma.

Sure enough, as soon as I began treatment I started receiving strong images while I lay on the table, after Vivian had placed the needles and left the room. I've been doing a lot of intense work on whatever revealed itself to me - and there has been a lot.

This past week I'd had a five-day migraine before I went for my appointment. Vivian treated my back with the needles, then did a combination Gua Sha and cupping which she'd never done before. I've been documenting all the healing patterns that emerge from my sessions with Vivian. In a future Thursday Thirteen, I'll be sharing these with you. I'm still collecting them.

I was amazed and impressed with the pattern that formed this time. A fan shape of four meridians flowed down my neck and shoulders. Since Saturday's session, I've had pain in my lower left rib/lung section, which mirrors a sensation I had in my right lung after a previous treatment. As an asthmatic since I was born, this is a familiar sensation to me, very like recovering from pneumonia.

Now, to many people this would not be a cause for celebration. But I know that my body is letting go of cellular trauma. And my lungs hold a lot of that, both from this life and from what I've experienced in previous lifetimes to this.

For my found poem today, I've got an excerpt from an explanation of cellular memory release by two healing practioners who work at the Sedona HeartWalk Center in Arizona.

















Release


Cellular memory stores experience
Not just facts and figures
Experience stored as impressions
Viewed from all senses
Not just the visual

The brain retrieves memory
Shows a picture
A list
A graphic

Cells retrieve a memory
A body sensation
Pain
Tension

You may be ‘frozen with fear’
You may sense a fragrance
The cellular memory of
Physical trauma
Emotional trauma
Mental trauma

Conditioned response
Observed by Pavlov
Ringing a bell produced
Salivation
When initially
Paired with food

Thereafter
Salivation
Happened with only the bell
For association

When trauma is suppressed
Into the cellular memory
Energy is stuck

It takes energy
To hold onto suppressed memories
Conditioned response

Physical trauma
A body response
Accidents
A sensory response
Bruises
A muscle memory
Abuse
A response to an event

Cellular memory release
Shown through body movement
Twitching
Pulsing
Twinges
Tingling

Emotional trauma
Like heartache
Fear
Anger

Cellular memory release
Shown through talking
Crying
Laughing

Mental trauma
Worry
Low self-esteem

Cellular memory release
Shown through verbal processing
Where connections are made
That weren’t visible before


- Phoenix and Leon from the Sedona HeartWalk Center, 2008

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!














On Nov. 5th I'm taking part in the Blogblast For Peace. Won't you join me?

"If we are to teach real peace in this world, and if we are to carry on a real war against war, we shall have to begin with the children."

- Mahatma Gandhi

Nikki says Nice poem Julia.

Jill the Acadian says According that I'm studying to go in an alternative treating career, it's nice to see your experience of one...Thanks!

De-abbreviate As You Like says This whole poem was so much enlightening .. it treads on the lines of faith.

Poetry Train Monday - 123 - Plow Forward

I'm freshly back from the writers' retreat, so my found poem for today comes from a writing exercise book called Now Write.


This particular exercise focuses on revisions, which is a struggle of mine.















Plow Forward


Writing forward
Writing
Forward
Write each draft to the end

Don't, keep, stopping, and,
Going, back, to, correct
Write each draft to the end

In a novel especially
Write forward
Don't, keep, stopping
You will get stuck

Stuck with the first few chapters
If you don't just write
Through the draft
Write each draft to the end

Don't stop each chapter to perfect it
Don't stop each page to perfect it
Don't stop each paragraph to perfect it
Don't stop each sentence to perfect it
Don't stop

You need to get the sweep
The scope
Write each draft to the end

It will probably take you
At least three to five drafts
Before the final clean-up
Plan on more

Keep a pad of paper
Beside you
Write forward
Don't, keep, stopping

Jot down brilliant ideas
Plow forward
Jot down changes you'll make
Plow forward
Write each draft to the end

- Jonis Agee, 2006

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Susan Helene Gottfried says I always say that the first draft is merely for figuring out where the book ends. Once you know that, THEN you can revise.

Gel says I hope the retreat was wonderful. Enjoyed this.

Wylie Kinson says Ooo - I'm going on a writer's retreat this weekend and I'm sooooo looking forward to it.

Poetry Train Monday - 121 - She Had Found Places

Here is a second found poem which I've crafted from the prose of Jonathan Safran Foer's Everything is Illuminated.


She Had Found Places


"There," she said
And she pointed her finger
Into the darkness

She was not crying
Which surprised me very much
But I understand now
That she had found places
For her melancholy
That were behind more masks
Than only her eyes

- Jonathan Safran Foer, 2002

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Kelly Boyce says Love it!!

Jane Doe says You are so good at turning prose into poetry!

Anthony North says Very deep words there.

Poetry Train Monday - 120 - Having Your Cake and Eating It Too

Next weekend I'll be participating in my first-ever Run for the Cure, a fund-raising event for breast cancer. This is a personal milestone for me, as my chronic knee pain from an injury prevented me from joining my corporate team last year.

But now - with my incredibly successful acupuncture treatment from Vivian Yuan - my knee can carry me through the event.

Donations are gratefully accepted. You can click onto my personal sponsor page at the top of my sidebar.

I'm actually walking, not running, with a 12-member team from work, plus my sister, who also used to work at the same office as me.

My sister and I have a personal reason to take part. Our one remaining grandparent is a decades-long breast cancer survivor - Viola Phillips.

And my found poem today is taken from a memoir she wrote up a few years ago. This picture was taken at Easter this year by my aunt. Grandma is shown here at left with her friend of many decades, Sarah Terrio.



















Having Your Cake and Eating It Too


From there on we moved to Grayling
In the North Country
Within a year I was employed
By a family-owned excavating business

There I became
The Controller/Bookkeeper
Doing everything from Tax reports to W-2's

There were six owners in this business
They confided in me
As if I were their mother
Of course
I was older than all of them

I also took care of
The mother's finances
They were wonderful people to work for
It lasted for more than seven years

When I had surgery
A complete Mastectomy
I went back to work
But with the intentions of leaving
As soon as I could train another girl, which I did
I must have done a good job
Because
She stayed there a long time!

After all those working years
My husband Gabe and I
Were living on the beautiful Manistee River
In a cute little cottage style house
For over 25 years

We loved it there very much
The beautiful trees
The river
The wild animals
The picturesque snowfalls on the trees

This was like having your cake and eating it too

- Viola Phillips, August 2005

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry train!

Linda Jacobs says The simple words are powerful!

Shelley Munro says Good luck with your walk, Julia. I'm so glad your knee has improved so much.

Sarah Crowther says This poem really has flow and emotion.

Poetry Train Monday - 119 - Terribly Lucky

I'm currently reading Everything is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer for the Dewey Reading Challenge.

The writing is so exceptional that I could craft found poems from every single page in this 382-page book.

Here is one little nugget.













Terribly Lucky


By her twelfth birthday
My great-great-great-great-great-grandmother
Had received at least one
Proposal of marriage
From every citizen in Trachimbrod

She forced a blush
Batted her long eyelashes
Said to each, Perhaps no
Yankel says I am still too young

They are so silly, turning back to Yankel

Wait until I pass, closing his book
Then
You can have your choice
Of them. But not while
I'm still alive

I would not have any
One of them
Kissing his forehead
They are not
For me
And besides, laughing
I already have
The most handsome man
In all of Trachimbrod

Who is it?
Pulling her onto his lap
I'll kill him

Flicking his nose
With her pinky
It's you, fool

Oh no
Are you telling me
I have to
Kill myself?

I suppose I am

Couldn't I be
A bit less handsome? If
It means sparing my life from
My own hand? Couldn't I
Be a bit ugly?

OK, laughing
I suppose your nose is
A bit crooked. And
On close examination
That smile of yours
Is a good bit less than
Handsome

Now you're killing me
laughing

Better than killing yourself

I suppose
That's right
This way I
Don't have to feel
Guilty
Afterward

I'm doing you
A great service

Thank you, then
Dear
How can I
Ever repay you?

You're dead
You can't do anything

I'll come back
For this one favor
Just
Name it

Well, I
Suppose I'd
Have to ask you
To kill me
Then
Spare me
The guilt

Consider it
Done

Aren't we
So terribly
Lucky
To have one another?

- Jonathan Safran Foer, 2002

For more poems, Ride the Poetry Train!

Stan Ski says The rest of us just die waiting for the perfect partner.

Jane Doe says I love how you take these books and turn them into poems.

Vita Stunder says Lovley :)

Poetry Train Monday - 118 - A Map to Anywhere

For my found poem today, I've taken an exercise from Now Write!- edited by Sherry Ellis - and fashioned it into a poem.















A Map to Anywhere


Why are you writing this story?

There comes a point
In the life of many narratives
It helps
To think about this question

You are writing

Not that
There should
Necessarily be
Direct correlation
Between invention
And autobiography, but
Any fiction writer needs to
Engage
The stuff of his own
Real-life predicaments
In order to write
Work that's strange
And alive

Why write?

I suggest the following
Exercise
For stories or novels
That strike
You as competent
But tidy
Dull
Or inert

Are you this story?

At the very least
You'll have
A clearer sense
Of why the tale matters
To you, so
You'll be able to
Crack it open
On an
Emotional level

...why you..?

You'll also come to a
Stronger understanding
The power of setting
Individual perception
The interrelationship between
The two

...why this..?

Take a piece of paper

Use the whole sheet

Draw the map
A meaningful landscape
A neighborhood
A park
An empty lot
From your childhood

This story - why you are writing

Take twenty minutes
Fill in as many specific
Details as
You can

Story writing

Mark the location
Three significant incidents
On the map

You write

Imagine yourself into
One of those incidents
Write a list
Sensory details
Sound
Smell
You associate with
The experience

This is why

Using the most
Evocative details
On your list
Write
The incident
As a two-page scene

Why you write

Finally, write
Another version
Of the scene
Reimagine the experience
From the point of view
Of your central character

Why you are writing this story

- Paul Lisicky, 2006

Photo by Charles E. Doucet

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Mary the Teach says I like it! :)

Akelamalu says Nice poem Julia. :)

Vita Stunder says Great poem Julia!

Poetry Train Monday - 117 - But Rather Allowed to Lapse

For last week's Thursday Thirteen I did a review of Christine Wells' Regency historical romance, Wicked Little Game.

For today's found poetry, I've taken a scene from her book and turned it into a poem.














But Rather Allowed to Lapse


Sarah heard heavy footsteps on stairs
Footsteps
Paused on the landing

Put her ear to the door
Brinsley's voice
Brinsley
Shrill tones of their landlady

"Ooh, go on with yer, Mr. Cole!"

Short scuffle
Rustle of skirts
Smacking sound
Like a kiss
A kiss

Giggles bubbled
"You are naughty, sir!
What would your lady wife say if she knew?"

If she knew

Sarah snorted
I'd say better you than me, my dear

Brinsley heaved a sigh
"Indeed, it is very bad
But I cannot help myself.
And my wife is
So
very
cold
While you are so very
mmm...warm..."
He gave a lascivious chuckle

She ought
She ought to pity the woman
She believed Brinsley sweet on her
Sarah knew his attentions
Were nothing more
Nothing more
Than a clever way to avoid paying rent

Brinsley craved female attention
Needed to enslave
Needed every woman
Who crossed his path

Brinsley continued up
To their floor
Flung open the door
Sauntered in

"My darling wife," he said softly

He stripped off his coat
Stripped and threw it
Over a chair

"Good evening Brinsley.
I was just about to retire."

With a tug
A tug his neckcloth came away
He tossed it
On the floor
Flung himself down
Down on the sofa

The picture of a beautiful, dissolute rake

Where his lawn shirt fell open
Sarah saw mottled bruising
Saw bruising
Round his throat

"What happened to you?"

She noticed the cut
The cut on
Brinsley's lower lip

"Have you been in a fight?"

He gazed limpidly at her
She took his chin
He gazed at her
She turned his face to the light

"Are you going to kiss it better?"

She dropped her hand
Straightened
Left the room without a word

Without a word
Poured water from a pitcher
Returned to the sitting room
With basin and flannel
Knelt beside the sofa

Wrinkling her nose
At Brinsley's ripe odor
Dipped flannel in water
Squeezed
The excess

Dabbed at his bloody lip
Hoped it hurt
Hurt like the Devil

"Ow.
Oww, stop it."

Brinsley ceased playing wounded soldier
Whisked flannel out of her grasp
Whisked it
Dropped it
On the floor

There could only be one reason
For Brinsley's condition

One reason

She stood
Folded her arms

"How much did you lose tonight, Brin?"

Clear blue eyes gazed
Unblinking
Up at her
His Archangel Gabriel face

"Did I not give you my word
I would not play?"

Sarah sighed

So tired

Tired of these games
This endless charade
Interrogation
Evasion

She knew him too well
Knew him
He lied to her just for the practice

She set a pot of water
Over the hearth to boil
Their staff
A daily maid
Brinsley's valet

How different
From the house she grew up in

Where one tripped
Tripped over powdered footman
Bustling housemaids
Life at Penrose Hall
Grandiose and tiresome

In wedding divinely handsome
Unacceptable Brinsley
A fit of girlish romanticism
She'd made her choice

Her choice
Grandiose and tiresome

Her family had done nothing so dramatic
As to cast her off

Such emotive histrionics
Beneath the Earl and Countess of Straghan

The connection had not been severed
Not severed
But rather
Allowed to lapse

Sarah busied herself
Brinsley came up behind
Wrapped his arms around her waist

Arms around her

Dug his chin
Into her shoulder
She stiffened

The poor deluded man
Still thought he could seduce her
To his will

His wine-fumed breath
Stirred in her ear
"What would you say
If I told you that
You, my lady
Could make us rich?

We could buy a house
Employ servants
Go to parties
You could have
Your old life back."

"I would say, Brinsley
That there must be a catch."

She twisted
Trying to meet his eyes

His eyes

She twisted

"What would I have to do?"

- Christine Wells, 2009

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Jeeves says Poetic verses! Like this a lot.

Joy Renee says Right up until the end where you 'signed' Christine Wells' name to it I thought you were composing it yourself with the picture as inspiration.

Poetry Train Monday - 116 - She Had to Consider

On Saturday I had the pinch-me-am-I-dreaming pleasure of having lunch with historical romance author Jo Beverley.

She's none other than my favorite romance writer. I'm fan-girl when it comes to Jo Beverley.

For today's found poetry, I've taken a scene from Dark Champion, a medieval historical and the first Jo Beverley book I ever read, and turned it into a poem.

















She Had to Consider


Arresting green eyes
Flicked over her
Seemed to see her soul

Not liking what they found there

Bastard FitzRoger sat on a keg
One knee raised to
Support his arm

"State your case."

Imogen's voice froze
Seneschal nervously filled gap
"We were thrown off our property, lord.

By Lord Warbrick."

Why quail because
Bastard FitzRoger proved to be
A hard man? She was looking for a champion

Not a troubadour

"Carrisford land?"
"Aye, lord."
Imogen watched in fascination

FitzRoger turned a heavy gold ring on his hand

"The castle - how many entrances?
How is the main gate protected?
How many men garrison the place?"

Suddenly his questions, the bustle around them

Her heart gave a little leap
"You are going to attack Carrisford."
He stood smoothly and came to her

Hooked a thumb in his belt

"That is my intention, woman."
She stood as straight as she could
"I am Imogen of Carrisford."

"Come with me."

He strode toward the keep
Imogen could not force her swollen feet
To move quickly.

He turned back

Sharp displeasure on his face
Then he looked at her feet
He swung her into his arms

She gasped in surprise

"You stink," he commented
"There are also fleas," she added
He mounted the wooden steps

Looked her over with a frown

He climbed the steep stairs quickly
She was not particularly dainty
She had sought out this man

She should be pleased at his strength

It made her nervous
She had to consider
A protector's strength being used

Against her

FitzRoger carried her through the arched doorway
She doubted she could trust any man
He negotiated a narrow tower staircase

Lord FitzRoger had heard of her plight

Had already been on his way
To champion her distress
He stopped at the upper floor of the keep

Lowered her to sit

"Tomorrow we ride," he said
Brave words did not make brave hearts
Alone, she sagged to the floor

How could she be sure?

Would he turn control of the castle to her?
Would he drain the place of supplies?
The king would see to her affairs

FitzRoger high in the king's favor

She was helpless as a babe
In the keep of an ally
Imogen caught her breath

Why was she so afraid?

- Jo Beverley, 1993

Knight graphic - Crusader - artist Skyewolf

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Stan Ski says Great way to capture the essence of the story.

Gautami Tripathy says You had me breathless reading it!

Jane Doe says I was hooked from first line to last.

Poetry Train Monday - 115 - Private Space

For my found poem today, I've taken part of a scene from Jennifer Leeland's BDSM story The Mask She Wears and turned it into a poem.

The Mask She Wears is one of a trilogy of short 50-page stories I won from Jennifer over at her blog, The Redneck Romance Writer. Her trilogy is known as the In David's House collection, as all three stories revolve around a private invitation-only BDSM club run by David, a wise and protective dom.

I'll be doing a book review for the trilogy in a few weeks. Until then, enjoy this poem taken from her prose text:



















Private Space


Anticipation sizzled
He approached her tiny apartment
No idea what he would find

Anticipation

He approached

She flung the door open
Waiting for him
Strung tight

Flung open

Sizzled

Her eyes flickered
Face to floor and back again
He took his time

Her eyes

Took his time

Observed her space
Allowed into her private life
Who she was without the mask

Private space

Allowed

No family pictures
Artwork on every wall
Dark themes with abstract tones

No pictures

No family

One of the oil paintings
Half man, half wolf
Mask superimposed over wolf face

One painting

Mask

Benign human mask
Covered the animal snarl
Beneath

Benign

Snarl

Apartment neat
No flowers
No doilies

No

No

Bookcases filled
Filled with books
Lifestyle to dark fantasy

Fantasy

Filled

- Jennifer Leeland

Firefox mask by Merimask

For other poems, Ride the Poetry Train!

Jennifer Leeland says Wow!!! That captures that scene so well for Justin.

Michelle Johnson says Nice found poem for Poetry Train.

Stan Ski says Nothing is ever how it first appears.

Poetry Train Monday - 113 - Special Indeed

Fresh on the heels of my step-niece's wedding yesterday, I thought I'd share a memory of my dad from another wedding 16 summers ago. The piece of found poetry is taken from a prose piece in my family history book.



This took place at the pre-wedding breakfast for my cousin, Julianne.















Special Indeed


The morning of
Julianne's wedding

Julianne's wedding to Stephen

The family gathered
Gathered in the dining room for breakfast

Breakfast in the mansion-turned-hotel
The hotel rented out completely
To the wedding party

Dad had arranged
On the morning of
Julianne's wedding
Arranged for a floral delivery
That morning of Julianne's wedding to Stephen

Dad gave all the special women in his life
A beautiful red rose

A red rose for the bride-to-be
A red rose for his daughters
A red rose for Mom
A red rose for Auntie
A red rose for Gram

On the morning of
Julianne's wedding
All the women in Dad's life
Felt very special indeed

- Julia Smith, Aug. 9, 2009 / original text 2000














Ride the Poetry Train!

Ms. Snarky Pants says That is so very, very sweet!

Stan Ski says Lucky women all!

Akelamalu says How lovely - the poem and the photos and the memories!