THE POEM
Future Memory
by Kelly Hanwright
Ive seen her again The ghost of a child running around this place in the yard An outcast with tangled hair and half a smile And then
shes ten wondering why her period has to start and mom told her what it was like but didn’t buy her anything to keep clean so shes shoving paper towels into her underwear and whos that — Same girl now fifteen coming down the steps on the way to work They gave her a voucher for which she was proud and relieved She steeps in the aura of success but five more years will turn her bitter and The scene changes to —
a girl who almost looks like her runs in chasing butterflies zipping along while her free mane flies in the breeze but the film jerks/flashes and her white dress fades mingling with bright clouds against the blue sky
THE STORY
When I first got into therapy and realized my mom had been schizophrenic, it dawned on me that my entire perception of the world so far was completely skewed since I’d gotten it through her eyes.
It was too much to compute. I could not get any words out on the subject – I couldn’t talk about it to anyone, not even closest friends or my husband. I couldn’t even say the word “schizophrenic.” So I tried writing about it. I had discovered journaling in my teens as a tool to help me process my thoughts and feelings, but it wasn’t helping this time. I couldn’t even write the words down!
That’s when I turned back to poetry. It wasn’t really a conscious choice – more of an exploring of tools that might help me get something out so I could even begin to process this new knowledge that the reality of the world I grew up with wasn’t real!
Like others who suffer with complex PTSD, I often struggle with allowing myself to recognize and feel my own emotions. Poetry gives us the powerful tools of metaphor and imagery. I tend to think in images. I dream in color. I didn’t know what this poem was going to be when I started writing it. I was just trying to describe a feeling. It turned out to be unexpressed, and I think previously unnamed, grief of my lost childhood. But that grief had to happen before I could move on. This poem was a gateway into that emotion.
Coincidentally, this was also the first poem I wrote about my experiences growing up with a mentally ill mother that basically got me started on the path to writing The Locust Years. I could try to break it down and explain all the images but I feel like too much analysis kills a poem, so I’ll just let you read and interpret as you like.
Got something you need to get off your chest but it seems almost too much to even tackle? Try using the metaphors and images available through poetry. It’s a powerful tool for healing, I promise!
Have you ever written a poem to help you access an emotion? I’d love it if you share below!
**By the way – I’ve been fooling around with painting the past year or so and I’m planning to try to paint this poem! Stay tuned for more on that 🙂
I wrote a poem that helped me express my disappointment when I found out my idol wasn’t the perfect, infallible person I’d believed them to be. It was hard to accept I couldn’t look up to them like I used to.
Wow, Kate, thanks for sharing. Yes, I recently went through something similar. “Takin’ it Back” was the poem I wrote – still in draft mode. It does relieve some of the pain to at least get to freely express that disappointment and let it out. Thanks for sharing, sis <3
Don’t Fight
By Mushroom Montoya
“Don’t fight,
No matter what!”
My dad would command.
“Better to be called a sissy
By the other boys,
Rather than a troublemaker
By the teachers.”
But dad!
“Don’t talk back to me!
If you fight,
Even to defend yourself,
It will always be your fault.
It is always the dark skin’s fault.
Always, You’ll see.
Life is already hard enough.
Fighting only makes it harder.”
My daydreams sneak up on me,
Fighting violent battles,
Ripping off faces with a trowel,
Slicing heads off with a sword,
I cringe and chase the wraiths away
Begging, pleading, please stop haunting.
They leer and slink around the corner
Of my shoulder,
Waiting for the next opportunity
To splash blood and horror
Buzzing around my eyes
Like wasps and flies
That won’t go away,
No matter how hard I swat,
No matter how hard I pray,
No matter how much I meditate.
They sneak in,
Even then.
And they tease,
Whispering,
“We’re here for you
To kill,
Kill your enemy,
The one who wouldn’t fight,
Refused to fight,
When his heart knew
He should.”
Mushroom! Yes. I know this feeling. Not the feeling of having different skin, but of knowing I should fight the bullies but being afraid of repercussions at home. Thank you for sharing your beautiful poem.