Poem

#TBT-poetry style part 3!

While I love writing about recovery, exercise science, yoga, and all things about making life new, I like to throw in a few fun things. I have done music play lists, dance, and the occasional look into my young, tortured, poetic self. I have enjoyed the later so much I am doing it again! I am always inspired to share my old, angsty, wannabe emo writer self, because they do remind me of my good times/bad times/crazy times, and just what it was like to be sixteen again. Who doesn’t want that? ;). Honestly, a part of me to hopes that they still speak for those who have these feelings but can’t find the words themselves. Isn’t that the main purpose of writing? For my previous two poetry throwbacks, click here and here!

~~~

*Intimate, a tritina

Silver moonlight hits your eyes,

The pools of blue tell me that your mine.

And no one else’s, please, hold my hand.

 

There’s nothing more I love than the touch of your hand. Maybe,

Seeing myself, the light reflected in those eyes.

That I love so dear. Can you really be mine?

 

Nothing has been mine.

Ever. You are my first, never let go of my  hand.

I’m all yours, your all I need. Look in my eyes.

 

You are as precious to me as the gleam in your eyes and the locket in my hand that is not only mine, but yours.

*Pink Floyd Mash-Up (a mash up is a blend of one thing, these are all Pink Floyd songs)

Our weary eyes stray to the horizon as promises light up the night like paper does in flight. Then I think of all the good things that we have left undone…

Oooh babe don’t leave me now. Remember the flowers I sent? I need you babe.

What do you want from me? Should I sing until I can’t sing anymore?

Oooh babe don’t leave me now.  Remember the flowers I sent? I need you babe.

I’m not the one you need. And I gotta admit that I’m a little confused by that. Remember when you were young, you shone like the sun? Or the time I woke to the sound of drums, the music played. The morning sun streamed in, I turned and looked at you; and you had that certain look in your eye and an easy smile. Shine on you crazy diamond…

Oooh babe don’t leave me now. Remember the flowers I sent? I need you babe.

God only knows it’s not what we would chose to do, well, what I would choose to do. But sell your soul for complete control, money is the bond between the hopeful and the damned. And honey, you fit right it. Just remember, for long you live and high you fly and smiles you’ll give and tears you’ll cry, I won’t be here.

Make your name like a ghost, hide your wings in a ghost tower and stay within the shadows. And get out of the road if you want to die old.

*Metaphoric Words

My words are powerful.

My words are like arrows that hit you right in the heart.

My words are like butterflies that gently float across a page.

My words are like a fleet of ships getting ready to set sail.

My words are atomic.

My words pierce your soul.

My words are restless waves washing against the sand.

My words leap from my heart as a frog would leap from lily pad to lily pad.

My words can make you cry.

My words can make you smile.

*Everything I’m Not

I could sing of the body electric. I could weave daisies in my hair. I could be the girl of your dreams…

I could walk the straight and narrow. I could dance on through the night. I could be just another number on your list…

I could paint a picture with your hands. I could light your fire. I could be the one…

I could tell you otherwise. I could play this game of love. I could be just another dumb girl..

But, I’m not.

*The Calling

I’m on this road, long and winding,

Speeding, reckless, driving on my way to you.

I have to close this gap between us,

It is way too long.

I couldn’t stand an hour, I can’t stand five.

I’m gonna make you come back with me this time.

 

Music playing on the radio,

Making this strong woman weep.

Avett Brothers seeping through the stereo,

Their bluegrass instruments play my heart.

Every lyric is the story of your life,

From shame to all my mistakes to the smoke in our lights.

 

I was foolish to let you go.

But you didn’t help the cause.

Absence does make the heart grow fonder boy,

I had you on my mind day and night till I called you.

One night stands and countless rendezvous didn’t ease my pain,

I still saw your face.

No one was good enough, no one was like you.

 

My car can’t go fast enough, it wont’ go past 80.

And on these mountain roads that’s too fast,

But not fast enough for me.

My heart goes faster than my car can fly,

My heart is the speed of light,

My heart is the speed of sound.

Can’t you hear my calling, “I’m coming for you hun. I won’t rest till you are mine again.”

 

I’m calling your name,

I’m calling,

“I’m coming for you hun. I won’t rest till you are mine again.”

I’m calling your name,

I’m calling,

“I’m coming for you hun. I won’t rest till you are mine again.”

 

Never thought I was capable of love,

I shuddered wen you wrote me that in an email, laughing it off.

Then realizing, I loved you too.

Baby, honey, my better half.

No one gets me like you,

I should’ve never let you go my darling…

 

I finally  made it to your door.

And I’m calling,

I’m calling your name,

I’m calling,

“I’m here hun. I love you. Yes, I love…”

 

~~~

And of course  no Throwback Thursday is complete without pictures!

 

 

 

 

J.Alfred Prufrock and New Friends

This past weekend was another yoga teacher training extravaganza. While I didn’t have any panic attacks or  self-harming, I did have another break through…well in a way. I found two other lovely ladies who are rising above the same situations as I am. I felt so alive and happy to know that I am not alone. When you suffer from ED’s or other mental health issues you feel alone and that no one understands you. Then you find someone else you automatically feel relieved and have that extra support. It was such a blessing to discuss our situations and become support sisters! Now, I know that if I am having a depressive mood or feel overwhelmed with this training I have two other ladies that I can talk to openly and not be afraid of what they will say because they will understand where I am coming from! Joy. O the 12 Steps at work….this sharing is a prime example of Step 12 (sharing with others to help them on their recovery journey).

While on my drive home I began to think about this weekend and one of my favorite poems: The Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock. It is such a sad, powerful, emotional poem. Ever since I first read this at the age of 16 it struck a chord with me. I knew the sadness Prufrock had. How it can be overwhelming to be in crowds and talk to people (even though I am EXTREMELY extroverted), that we all prepare our face to meet those new faces/hide a bit of ourselves or all of ourselves, will one change we make really change the world/can we change it?/do we dare to make the change?, the losing of precious moments, gathering the strength to make the next move and just to live fully. There is so much that this poem encompasses that literally I could write five blog entries on it alone.

There are so many beautiful lines that scream heartache and self-doubt, which all of us, not even those with mental health issues, can face. We all have our own love song. What is yours?

~~~

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S Eliot

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
               So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
               And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
               And should I then presume?
               And how should I begin?
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? …
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head
               Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
               That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
               “That is not it at all,
               That is not what I meant, at all.”
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind?   Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.