Long Catharsis Poems
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I was cursed with ink
intoxicating blank canvases
with toxic scribbles,
releasing twisted tales
of suppressed troubles.
I was a forsaken ebony rose
in satan's grasp,
kneeling on ungodly needs
in a gothic fortress
of woeful odes,
surrounded by black knights
and colorless blossoms,
searching for legitimate sestinas
and versatile villanelles
to ignite my quill to bleed
without semantic barriers.
Swaying like a pendulant,
on the edge between
light and darkness,
resembling midnight's
black ice queen,
I thirsted for a
universal prophecy.
A poet who would engrave
perennial verses upon my
discoloured healing heart.
To paint antique stones,
during sunless days
in a moonless kingdom.
A calligraphic catharsis,
adorning the sincere crown
of an imperial ivory king,
whose angelic voice
glitters like gems,
soothing insensitive beating drums
within my pondering pensive mind.
A majestic master of his quill,
reviving poetic intimacy,
fusing his musings
deep inside untouched chambers
with an unscratched itch,
of my undanced fandango.
F a t e has a way for
versifiers to assimilate.
From the first drop
of his couplet,
he had my tongue
rhyming to the rhythm
of his unspoken lyrics.
Now, I am a slave to
what I have become.
Handcuffed and blindfolded
by preserved petals
between perfumed pages
written from the tip of his
magical wand like fingers.
I am weaving crystal quartz
words in witching hours,
whilst he pours dulcet musings
incensed in white sage
over my rustic bronze silhouette,
as I am his willing mistress:
a submissive subservient pawn
to his silent slavery.
Throned in intricately carved
prose and poetry,
where monochrome strokes
of thin lines no longer perish.
There’s no need for a sorcerer
when his sentimental sonnets
are an addictive elixir.
I am deliriously comatose
and chained in piercingly
euphoric sagas of his saccharine soul.
Even Lilith seized the moment
to behold what belonged to her
In the name of infatuated love.
So this is me, stealing
scented seeds
sown along parallel paradigms
of his rightful Parnassian paradise,
d r o w n i n g in
metaphorical monograms,
leaving memoirs of a poetess~
seething glitters and gold
reborn from the depths of
a savior that saved
me from burnt chapters
of darkest oblivion.
Clarity, clarity, surely clarity is the most beautiful thing in the world, A limited, limiting clarity I have not and never did have any motive of poetry But to achieve clarity.
George Oppen
If it wasn't for poetry,
how would we portray stars of clarity?
Moon would appear silently ordinary,
how would we express that which is contrary?
Verses without stardust shimmer would be horrid,
no metrical composition would sound torrid.
No sapphire skies nor turquoise tides.
No ivory shores nor firefly guides.
No magic of butterflies dancing under moonlight.
A travesty of no lullabies to ease before midnight.
Horizons would appear blank, dismal and dark -
your muted muse would forfeit their spark.
If a poet's conscience suffers a premature death,
how would you honour their quill's last breath?
How would you express that painful goodbye?
No legacy for our words to poetically beautify.
Unable to honour memories of the deceased -
an unwritten elegy cannot praise a masterpiece.
Autumn would just be a modified season.
Spring slowly blossom without a reason.
Summer would bring no wonder in flowers.
Winter would be grey with freezing showers.
Would music suffer from atrocious lyrics,
unmetered songs only lead to hysterics.
Would poetic love exist?
Would our lips have ever kissed?
No expressions to defeat hate.
No epodic justice to fate.
No sweet sonnets to revere.
Shakespeare's world would disappear.
Romeo would not woo Juliet.
Literature students would forget
bards who bled ballads before us -
what would lovers have to discuss?
No angst or alliterations.
No 3am damnations.
No syllable creations.
No lustful flirtations.
An end to narrations.
All lost translations.
If there were only ugly words,
would it be the end of singing birds?
No emancipation of the oppressed.
No catharsis for the depressed.
Hearts would repress and suppress.
Demons would stress and digress.
If it wasn't for poetry,
I would still be a mystery.
I would not speak in rhymes,
there would be nothing to define.
My soul a misunderstood metaphor,
drowning in an inkless reservoir.
Life would become a burden,
as petals die in my poetic garden
and after everything has been said and done,
there would be no Poetic One.
Ink flows like a river, a poet's soul on fire
A maze of words, where emotions unfold like a desire
Each line a path, a winding road that beckons me
To the heart of the abode, where secrets wait to be free
Fragments of self, embedded deep, like a treasure unspoken
A reflection of the heart that beats and seeps with every line
A dance of words, that weaves a tapestry of heartache and design
A kaleidoscope of pain, a symphony of feelings that entwine
The poet's emotion, like a river's flow, ebbs and grows
Through every line, a symphony of feelings, as the heart overflows
A reflection of the soul, where emotions forever align
A dance of words, that whispers secrets, like a heart that's divine
Most readers glance and pass, blind to the heart's design
They fail to see, the emotion that will last, like a love that's sublime
They read the lines, but don't feel the weight of every word
Of each word's power, that the poet conveys, like a heart that's unheard
For empathy is key, to truly understand the poet's heart
To feel the pulse, of each word's design, a work of art
To be immersed, in the poet's emotional shrine
Where emotions flow, like a river's stream, forever divine
A true poet gets lost in the lines they create
In the labyrinth of words, their heart does await, like a love that's great
For in each phrase, a piece of them resides, like a heart that beats
A reflection of their soul, where emotions forever meet
They pour their heart, into every single word, like a love that's true
A symphony of feelings, that are forever heard, like a heart that's anew
Their emotions flow, like a never-ending stream, like a love that's free
A tidal wave of passion, that crashes on the dream, wild and carefree
In the silence of the night, they find their heart's voice
A whispered truth, that echoes with every choice
Their emotions raw, their feelings exposed, like a heart that's laid bare
A poet's vulnerability, that most people have disposed, like a love that's not there
In the labyrinth of lines, they find solace and peace, like a heart that's at rest
A refuge from the world, where their heart can release, like a love that's blessed
Their emotions flow, like a river's stream, like a heart that's free
A poet's catharsis, that's the heart's esteem, like a love that's meant to be
In this noisy world of busy lifestyle
That seldom show silver lines on dark clouds,
When time speeds so fast one can’t hope to catch,
And goals flex such that one can’t hope to reach,
Where’s that tranquil time with one’s very self
To fill up stillness to its spilling brim--
Absolute silence? It’s nigh but a dream.
One might go to the wilderness of poles,
Or reach to the roof of world’s tallest crest,
Relentless would the heart beat, nonetheless,
The sound of breath taken in and released,
And that ever present noise of one’s thoughts
That whine even when one’s alone with skin,
O Absolute Silence whither art thou?
To escape, one flees to world’s far edges
To be in touch with one’s inner most core,
A few moments far from maddening crowd,
But what when this passing haven’s no more,
Time comes to leave, back to the hell called world.
Oh, so soon from heaven and back to hell!
Fleeting proves such silence sought from without.
Life is to live on one’s abilities,
Experience all one’s possibilities,
To sit beside one’s Self, listen to it,
And in end see the light of self’s lamp lit--
Much harder than scaling a tallest peak.
Man’s mortal weakness starts when he can’t sit
Alone and be in commune with his Self.
One wonders if the truth of this cosmos
Lie buried deep in such silence of self
Along with all of doubts, all of questions,
Man’s ambitions and all mundane desires.
And all this when spill over from his mind,
He needs to be at such secluded spots
Of sheer stillness, be they tall mounts or poles…
Well past hurries to be bodily still,
Past all worries be utterly tranquil,
Hustle, bustle, all flurries, just to chill,
And in touch with man’s true nature to feel.
And still. a passing cloud, a fleeting dream,
Which when ends back to reality grim,
Unless one rises from bottom like cream.
Poets perhaps feel it once in a while
When after all the mental marathons
And catharsis of deep-felt emotions,
A poem just fails to materialize,
And all his being goes in deep silence
Of thoughtless state we call meditation,
And in the end is born that lost poem.
______________________
Reflections |15.12.2024| silence, spiritual
Poet’s note: This is a blank verse. Each stanza is a septet, no septet royal nor any rhyme scheme.
I bent over to touch my toes
and the ground tore open like a backbone.
I tried to feed myself the sky;
to splice my tearducts into the universe
so that, when the pavement cried, it would mean something to me.
My fingernails punctured that slimy membrane
congealed with stars,
and I brought a slice of it to my lips,
hot and slippery like a jellyfish.
Peach juice, chalky-sweet, flowed,
fleshy particles snagged in my teeth,
and the colors erupted within my mouth.
Synthesia took over my lungs.
The hollows between my knuckles flooded with synovia
and all the ectoplasm threatened to separate from my cells
with a sound like thunder.
Diphthong tasted rusty like leukoplakia as it tiptoed across my tongue.
Tomorrow rose like the skeletons of trees,
groping for a feeling similar to catharsis
[catharsis tender as the broken wings of doves,
crunching underfoot like shattered glass.]
The clouds opened their thunderous maws
- teeth snicker-snacking, lamplight-eyes flaming the color of E#'s -
and consumed me.
I felt my skin turn to something other than skin:
thick and rough with scales,
my fingerprints melting into something waxen, smooth and opaque,
like pomegranate kisses on coffee mugs.
A feeling ignited deep in my structure;
cedillas blossoming like lilies from my lips,
fragmented sentences stretching taut as guitar strings
between my thumb and forefingers.
A flutter gentle and demonic as Calcifer erupted from my system
- splattering hot and frothing into my hand -
and fluid rushed in.
I dared to taste oblivion,
and the sky swallowed me.
My lungs failed to be lungs.
They flooded with caustic matter,
and I coughed up reflections sharp as fiberglass;
fighting with organs phthisical and sore.
I struggled to find a way to describe it:
the feeling of consuming something greater than yourself,
of opening your eyes and tasting the sound of rain.
It was like swimming,
but inside out.
I bent over to touch my toes,
and my spine tore open;
the loose laces unraveling, veterbrae poking out
like the tines of forks.
I tried to contort myself into the beginning,
but I only found where I end.
Written: May 12, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
Quote: “Set yourself on fire and seek those who fan your flame.” By Rumi
**********************************
I sliced through the strings
that thawed my dreams in shadow,
tossing them into the time tiara
of celestial orbs and supple styles.
Periwinkle-plum dawns defy time;
Bright blooms grow in cosmic cracks.
Dusk falls on barren land, esoteric embers;
With an aching heart, I walk alone,
serenading with blue lotus meteors.
The wand of Kismet gleams akin to stone,
as cinnamon-glazed magic unravels.
Each shift is a fascinating fight—
light-flecked drape, lyrical elixir, elegies;
curling mulberry-leaf marrow fades.
After the kernel, I strive for clarity
without crash or catharsis, without pain.
A lovely wind touches my smile—
In the pulse of erased promise.
An impending divorce is stipulated.
In echoes of exquisite and ubiquitous,
lavender-sequined crystals of shift,
I sail beyond the rhyming reefs to embrace divorce.
Cut wistful strings, salty lines, diving into rhapsody...
Torn uncanny links below heavy waves,
free to explore unmet routes
amid vanilla plankton tears.
May I find solace in every crooked teal smile.
O, if sepia pearls and reverie state a split,
I release and love what is not meant to stay.
Even with moon megalomania, using past wisdom,
the plants wide wings amid the warm sky
and herbs flexed with a deceased breeze of joy.
I sip in the glorious, gold-and-cherry air,
Clouds of bewilderment have dissipated.
In a captivating cosmos, clarity clings.
Hunger, turmeric-tinted roses follow an idyllic climb,
and whispers shout boldly—unafraid, Nix!
Ominous night glows appear as we fly across the sky.
We claim our position under brilliant beams
and the rose-glazed moon,
while myths merge across endless twilight.
Heartbroken after its fateful odyssey,
among the stars, free from a fixed kismet.
I will sleep calmly, wishing for plum rings
to create a pearlescent paradise.
The Estuary of Esoteric Embers
laces my home with soul-searching chimes,
whistling away in flavors of forgiveness.
Foundation.
Does writing letters help purge negative emotional feelings after a breakup?
Title:
Catharsis
(A man writes a letter to put with many others. He writes one each month to try to calm his mind, regarding breakup advice from a psychiatrist)
Thinking about you and the first day we wed
Spiritually
As I sit here
Under our once favourite tree
Writing to you again through poetry
In the form of a letter I'll save with the many others
So time won't forget us
I still find myself having a familiar feeling
Where originally
I couldn't sleep
Kept awake each night with the lone thought which beat like a heavy drum within
With such zeal
Does she still love me
My Lucy
For love has planted a seed
Then I always used to get a supernatural feeling like I'm being watched by someone who too
Like me has a special touch
A gift of second sight which lets them see too much
For whenever I closed my jaded blue eyes
I used to feel you there
Waiting like a new Lola Carmichael
Ready to judge
Behind my open eyelids
Slowly taking
All in
I sometimes used to hear your low breathing
And when the air turned suddenly colder
And my hair turned a little bit grayer as I got older
I always used to say aloud
May peace be with you
And God carry you
Whenever you need to be to renew and carry in your heart
This thought that our old love which I pray still binds us
And we will never be apart
Amen
And the sudden being watched sensations used to stop
So hopefully,
Wherever you are
You will forever feel satisfied, our relationship was so special
And something so magical
Still in the twilight hours of living
Survives
For it's now transcendental
For although we both once had to wrestle hard like Samson and Goliath with the Devil
Our old love still blooms like a lone red rose
So sentimental and vibrating with such vigour and bliss
And still follows me wherever my life
Goes
And will stand the test of time
Like something once painted by the legendary Michaelangelo
Goodnight and god blessed
My love
For I can feel you're here reading this
Forever yours
Terry
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
video of "Ironic" is for my 'Cinco De Mayo' contribution.
Alanis Morissette, emotive mezzo-soprano voice
and confessional songwriting with a feminist’s choice
Canadian, nineties rock-star famous for Jagged Little Edge
Raw naked cringe-y to the profound, empowering by virtue I pledge
(She’s helped countless women and girls to find their voices, to speak out, and to take up space)
Thank you India
symbolizing spiritual awakening and enlightenment
Thank you terror
acknowledge the challenging and painful aspects
Thank you disillusionment
of life that can lead to growth and wisdom
Thank you frailty
highlight vulnerability and accountability as essential
Thank you consequence
components of personal development
Thank you silence
suggests finding peace and clarity through
introspection and contemplation
let go of something burdensome, which ultimately leads
to personal growth and transformation
A pivotal moment, represents as a turning point
where she gains a new perspective and begins to understand
the value of forgiveness, living in the present, and embracing her own divinity
How 'bout me not blaming you for everything?
blame the moon, release unriquited love and like a bird that doesn't know where their home is, fly away
How 'bout me enjoying the moment for once?
How 'bout how good it feels to finally forgive you?
How 'bout grieving it all one at a time?
Thank you frailty
The moment I let go of it was the moment
I got more than I could handle
The moment I jumped off of it
Was the moment I touched down
How 'bout no longer being masochistic?
How 'bout remembering your divinity?
How 'bout unabashedly bawling your eyes out?
signifies emotional release and catharsis,
suggesting that facing and processing emotions
is crucial for personal evolution
How 'bout not equating death with stopping?
Thank you nothingness
Thank you clarity
Thank you, thank you silence
Ladies sing along with the goddess Alanis
Thank U Providence
Thank U Canada
Thank U Alanis Morissette
Why don’t you come now
To the plot of blue river shore
Where we would
In an intense chocolate mood
Sit in a sun rise satisfaction
On the grainy sand
And create pearl drops of time
From the rhymes of waves
With the vibrancy we behaved
Exchanging those fine chimes
From our moonbeam dialectics
And converging synthesis
Of our hilltop thoughts and marine activities
After a diamond quest
Like the river
Or inside the river too?
How wonderfully we regressed and progressed
Making those radiant rings of time
Sometime winged
Sometime pink tinged
Time is bland and monochrome
Unless from your chromosome
You paint it like Van Gogh
Arresting the wayward clock
During which
Regardless of Greenwich
Taking colours from our river-wave flowers
Taking flavours from our cellular tremors
Taking sounds from our nascent heart pounds
Yours and mine
In our proximity alkaline
Would paint the wavelets
In the cups and plates
Opening the normally closed gates
Of sweet sweats
From each pore
And millions of such pores
From smiling to laughing in a petrichor
Unlocking the thousand doors
Of a colour continuum
From San Francisco to Baltimore
As we exchange our breath
From our deepening cores
Raising a rivulet
In the blue pigeon’s breast
And the bulbul’s beautiful crest
A supreme rest
In a purple tumult
Shadows lengthen in ecstasy
As sessions come to a termination
(No termination is possible though
What happens is a slow transformation
Of one melody to another music
Speeches flowing into lyrics
The sounds into stillness mystic)
So therefore
Bringing to the fore
From the amalgamated core
A flower of fusion
Pure and fresh
Out of the flood
No mire or mud
Looking at us conveying greetings
We look too
And from the meeting
A poem is born
Why don’t you come any more
Very often I look through the eye hole
Of my expectant door
The wishes naturally soar
In case I may see you coming
Dulcet sounds your feet strumming
But it’s all mist
I almost don’t exist
I miss the oasis
Of the cleansing catharsis
_____________________________________
19 May, 2017
For the Contest sponsored by Neyda Ivette Negron
Ah...Satisfactorily Succumbing Into Salubrious Sleep
Aye sandman, I surrender to yar supreme governance
surreal spectacular soiree gifts subconscious sphere
soothing (analogous to natural palliative), ah...REM
member nought, asper exquisite entertaining cerebral
kaleidoscope replete with nonpareil visual trappings
aesthetically tantalizing unforgettable..., but lo' eye cant
captcha scenario upon awakened state, tis bothersome
transcendent, resplendent, quiescent,...transient dream
ticking escapement shuttered against recollections...
aye plead mercy to jog, (and gently jimmy - yeah of
course figuratively) shuttered facet slammed tight soon
nee immediately inaccessible dimension brought forth
teasingly, phantasmagorically, numbingly ephemeral,
nonetheless temporarily liberating, enshrouding, and
cocooning against incessant drubbing mine corporeal
wakeful body electric relentlessly fraught with profuse
inexplicable perspiration (principally palms) recurs
like clockwork (despite prescription medications), this
physiological discomfort hazards livingsocial quotidian
joyless agonizing oft times including courtesy, not
"FAKE" panic attack, these anxiety less debilitating,
when emotionally torturous teenage years wracked
every cell (no matter how fast I ran - just Kuwait, the
mailer daemons threatened) to undermine even flickr
of happiness, hence suicidal ideations (eternal slumber)
tantalized (still populate though processes) as surefire
solution to mitigate despite leaving those who love,
and especially hate yours truly, his existence bereft
of quality, though tranquil physical quasi rural setting
(Schwenksville), a naturalistic, fantastic, holistic balm,
here quiet as a cemetary removed, not considerably
distant from Philadelphia (hubbub disagrees with hair
trigger vulnerability), where madding crowd affects my
innate neurological predisposition, these lovely bones
easily rattled, quite aggravating to live verging upon
tremulous agitation assuaged through writing - catharsis
delivers temporary alleviation as doth solitary voluntary
sequestration poor substitute to relish L'Chaim!