A lot of us have something we have done; perhaps a small childhood incident or something in adulthood which threw our self image against the wall and broke it. These things could seem quite small from the outside or they could be huge. Either way they can arrest our growth when in our own heads we let these events or crimes define us. The same mantras of regret run like cart tracks down an ancient lane to the same dead end. Til one day we stop driving the broken horses, unhitch them and wander into a different meadow to seek a new view and meet a new version of ourselves and a future undefined by our past. Or our view of our past

Cocoon 

Cocoon. Then move through.
Choose your green-veined awning.
Bind to stiff xylem your dun hideout.
Hunker down, drapes drawn.

Unplug. Slice though wires.

Digest the old, dream the new.
Imaginal cells spin in fertile dark.
To birth your imago,
Nourished in compost of what’s past.

Shake the ash from your wings.

Storm Breaks by Polly Oliver:

Too full of their burdens,
the clouds’ sides tear.
Veil of tears brushes earth,
Washing away the grime of days
Dashing flotsam down drains.

A pluviophile lies listening
Thrill of thunder
Clarion of fresh starts.

-Polly Oliver

A mother of two boys, scribbling from the Western coasts of the UK, mainly poetry, but whatever comes out really. Former journalist and PR professional, the first whispers of middle age and declining eyesight made having a real go at ‘real writing’ a little more urgent. A Cornish native, I made my home in South West Wales so the sound of the sea sighs through my work every now and then. Lover of nature, yoga, boutique coffee shops and occasional (and very dreadful) surfer.

From Anxiety Journal—Spring 2015

“The mind is the cause of our distresses
but of it we can build anew.”—William Carlos Williams

I.
Walk: One step at a time,
one breath at a time.
Make yourself notice
the cherry blossom petals
scattering along the sidewalk
and floating in puddles
in the street. Deliberately stop
for a moment to admire
the ancient magnolia,
gnarled and weathered,
still flaunting its
opulent green.
Pay attention to
the House finches trilling
from all directions as you resume
walking looking deeply
into intense blue.

II.
Living with nerve ends
a little too close
to the surface:
They vibrate
like steel strings
strummed with a razorblade.

III.
Saturday a.m. music:
Steel guitar soars,
opens vistas over the plains
expanding out from
the edge of town, riffles
the tall grass in gentle
waves rolling out
to the infinite horizon.

IV.
Sitting on the cushion,
legs rock like a small boat
on a rough sea but the hands
ride smoothly atop.
Return again to the breath

V.
“The narrow, frightening light
Before a sunrise”—George Oppen

Thin lines of ashy yellow
seep through slits in the blinds
when I raise my head
at 4:30, grasping
at snatches of scattered
early birdsong.

VI.
Late spring night in D.C.,
where I wait at a bus stop
on 16th St., shivering
though it isn’t cold.
The peent of a nighthawk
catches my ear. I follow
its flight by the calls,
straining to see
the flash of white
on its underwings.

VII.
Home from work,
find some music,
jangle and discord
of melodic lines
jumping jagged like
an electrocardiogram,
so I stand still
and breathe, then
into the kitchen,
chop onion, grate cheese,
keep breathing
and the music smooths
and slowly soothes.

How to Be a Mad Poet

First, be mad.
Then own it.
Breathe in the anxiety,
use it as fuel.
You might have to lie down
and breathe through the depression.
It’s ok, think of it as recharging.
Be mad at the mad world
that doesn’t want to hold a place for you,
but don’t let its madness make you mad(der).
Put it down, put it all down,
write it all out.
You’re not alone.

-Gregory Luce

is the author of Signs of Small Grace (Pudding House Publications), Drinking Weather (Finishing Line Press), Memory and Desire (Sweatshoppe Publications), Tile (Finishing Line) and Riffs & Improvisations (forthcoming from Kelsay Press). His poems have appeared in numerous print and online journals, and in the anthologies Living in Storms (Eastern Washington University Press), Bigger Than They Appear (Accents Publishing), and Unrequited and Candlesticks and Daggers (ed. Kelly Ann Jacobson). In 2014 he was awarded the Larry Neal Award for adult poetry by the D.C. Commission on the Arts and Humanities. Retired from the National Geographic Society, he lives in Arlington, VA, and works as a volunteer writing tutor/mentor for 826DC. He blogs at https://dctexpoet.wordpress.com.

I’m naturally drawn to anything relating to art, so this challenge was a no-brainer for me. It’s helped me find ways of describing themes I didn’t think I’d be able to address. Together with other challenges I’ve taken on this year, it has given me more confidence in my creative goals.

-Lydia Wist

Diving into beautiful images to see what floats or splashes up.

-Holly York

Usually I work from words already rolling around in my head, this was more akin to feeling my way through dark water with a stick. The challenge has been a great adventure, with much inspiration. Seeing how different responses are has been a joy.

-Peach Delphine

If I’m honest it has been really difficult. Both in finding the time and the inspiration. I struggled to connect with many of the images and I now realise I’m not very good at writing on demand.

That said Paul, it was good to try it and I really appreciate the time and effort you put into it. And I’ve some drafts to work on that I wouldn’t otherwise have. Thanks for all you do for me and the wider artistic community!

-Gaynor Kane

…tweet..

i spend thirty days writing
one eye closed, storm building.
you never know what goes on
behind the scenes.
there are pictures each day
some seem similar
some seem a memory now.
a daily challenge

-sbm

The challenge has been different this time. Same issue how to write an original poem every day for a month. My solution to let ideas flow uncensored. The result: I discovered humour in these little stories. Different and more spontaneous. Plus as usual a great sense of community.

-Dai Fry

The images, especially the Marcel Herms have often been unsettling, dug into the disturbing places I don’t usually like to go. Terry Chipp’s sometimes mysterious images has allowed for a change of register. It’s been a demanding and fruitful experience altogether.

-Jane Dougherty

Challenges exist to surmount, but also as learning experiences. What I enjoy most about being asked to work from other people’s prompts is the element of surprise, and what my mind imagines from such stimulus. It’s a great opportunity to also discover and expand your abilities.

-Sarah Reeson

Thank you for organizing the ekphrastic challenge and publishing my work. I surprised myself, being able to produce a poem each day. It was a joyful, enriching experience and an honor to appear in your beautiful Wombwell Rainbow alongside such talented artists and poets.

I’m grateful to Paul & participating artists & poets for inspiring me out of a writing slump. I was struck by how often we mirrored each other, like Matisse & Picasso painting uncannily similar subjects despite being separated by geography & war. I’ve loved the collective energy!

-Gayle J Greenlea

And How Did The Artist’s Feel About The Response To Their Work

I was very honored and pleasantly surprised to see the beautiful poetry my work gave rise to.

-Marcel Herms

Even though I freely talk about my domestic abuse, it’s still a hard subject to broach. First, it’s important to acknowledge my story isn’t everyone’s experience.

I was abused at an early age from the time I was 9 until I found the courage to leave home at 16. Mentally I was made to feel less than and worthless. A lot of the mental juggernaut was from my mother’s religious hypocrisy believing I deserved to be punished for my hearing loss (I wasn’t deaf yet), even though she herself was hard of hearing. She turned a blind eye to everything that happened to me, deeming it god’s will.

My stepfather was the penetrator of sexual and violent abuse. I outed that abuse in my poem ’When Hunger’ published by Temz Review ( https://www.thetemzreview.com/sage-ravenwood.html ).

When Hunger

Growing up this was the only kind of love I knew. I never escaped when I left home. There was always an abuser. If not violent, mentally degrading. Human beings tend to seek out the familiar. My normal was a far cry from anything safe or loving.

I Only Know After

That whole look what you made
me do, girl, bitch, your fault,
trifecta after. The before
there are too many reasons for.
That holier than thou drumbeat
against a wall, rabbit quick;

Gaping hole fist sized, skull sized,
never quite body bag size after.
Split lip, puffer fish (you look fine),
I can’t even see blood gorged eye,
you’re a bruise eater after.
That cracked bone, indigo
finger print body canvas after.

Get it yet? Hush, Mr. Policeman,
stop asking. I don’t know why.
That whole knowledge
is power, save my ass knowing.
Better remember quick like,
those rabid sucker punches,
face palming, gripping your face
after. Too soon after.

That pink water, creeping crimson
river; is that blood, glass,
flesh, what even after.
The over, done, finite, muted,
can’t feel my body, exasperated
I’m still here after.
Holy damn, I’m smiling,
the mirror is lying.

Quiet now, we’re not done after.
Bruised thighs, take a lick, a knee.
And I still don’t know
what the hell, I did after.
Glanced sideways, spoke too soon,
breathed wrong. Bloody bubble snort.
How many five fingered discounts
Before the cracks let the light out after?

I knew how to survive inside the violence, a fist said love. My poem ’Sparsely Decorate’ tells the story of my awakening. I was more concerned with saving a tree than I was for my own life. Sometimes it’s the strangest things that breakthrough. It took a year after that incident to walk away to begin the journey of healing. I believe it’s also why I rescue, saving animals is another form of trying to save myself.

Sparsely Decorate

She was evergreen, coniferous, Douglas Fir in
appearance. As real as could be, to a heart who

loved the forest deep – untouched. Wire branched
soft pricking needle spread tipped like an open

hand delicately waiting to be held. Built level by
level into her mountainous 7ft girth. See how

she now lies beaten, felled, stomped to pieces;
abandoned/trashed amid shattered ornaments.

Much like a woman bloodied and bruised beyond
pain. There lies childhood and every inescapable

holiday dread. How does a babe birthed on this
day, save a wretched tree, when home

is where pain gets swept up in broken shards?
This is how: twist the branch arms tenderly like

a child playing doctor with wire and duct-tape.
Branch by branch love/care, speak softly to the

wounds, build her from root to trunk, strengthen
from the base up until she can once again stand

on her own. Sparsely decorate with parts of
us left unbroken; shining half lit brightly into

the night once again. This is how we survive
our broken places.

I have days, I still fear looking in the mirror horrified at what I might see, no matter how much time has passed since the broken bones, the full-body bruising, and the bloody remnant of who I was. Moreover, like most victims – I still blame myself for everything, my childhood, my desperation for love at any cost, my disability, even my indigenous blood.

–

Sage Ravenwood

is a deaf Cherokee woman living in upstate NY with her two rescue dogs, Bjarki and Yazhi, and her one-eyed cat Max. Her work can be found in Glass Poetry Press – Poets Resist. She is an outspoken advocate against animal cruelty and domestic violence.