Archive for the therapy Category

Mid-line Crisis

Posted in Mental Health, Poetry, therapy, writing with tags on August 11, 2015 by Graeme Cooper

I have no idea who I am.

This room attempts to suggest

My presence in metaphor;

Mere narrative echoes

Of a story which is only partly mine,

Although told in the first person.

I have no idea who I am.

These more or less comfortable clothes

Try to define me in outline until

Illusion is exposed by removal,

And all that lies

Is a costume on the floor.

Too much skin around haunted eyes,

Too heavy with the responsibility

Of unanswered questions

Flung back by insistent mirrors,

Of glass and flesh,

Suggests I am older than is logical.

I have not made a decision

In an hour, or forty years, or millennia.

I have simply followed or ignored words

Of unspoken voices which I took for mine.

This body has brought me here, which is fine,

But I still have no idea who I am.

Why You Sing The Blues

Posted in death, love, Mental Health, music, philosophy, Poetry, therapy, War, work in progress, writing with tags on March 14, 2014 by Graeme Cooper

Conscious of too much,

You are not primitive enough;

Sufficiently enlightened to see your folly,

Though unable to escape it.

As ego drowns instinctive sense

Of scale and wonder,

You cannot comprehend life

Except through the death you pursue wildly.

Whilst trying to deny self-destruction,

The only path which makes any sense,

You gorge your maniac lust on annihilation,

Invoking broken-mirror deities to justify

Chemical, consumerist mass-destruction insanity.

Why do you live if death

Is the only great adventure left?

Because somewhere behind this twisted madness,

Lies the irrational hope of love.

Hide and Seek

Posted in birthdays, Mental Health, Poetry, therapy, winter, writing with tags , , on January 16, 2014 by Graeme Cooper

Change crouches

Beyond  peripheral vision,

Unseen but sensed, unsettling.

Its scented breath is felt;

Searching stretches senses, strains

Muscles around  eyes, making

Bridge of nose ache,

Dragging concentration into

Wordless void.

Is it hope or fear

Which so distracts?

From this moment so empty,

Which waits for the future to

Explode into view?

And what then?

HOPE

Posted in death, love, Mental Health, Poetry, therapy, writing with tags , , on September 30, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

Turbulent volcanic waves

May be ridden;

Earthshaking quakes damped.

Hurricane’s insane roar

Can be made quiet;

Blows of the terrible beast cast aside.

Quenched may be hell’s deafening inferno.

But these feats are not finite.

The fight must be daily waged,

Lest fires engulf fevered souls,

Turning to dust their molten core.

Sunrise, blessed relief,

Blinds terror but temporarily until

She finds her eyes

And, worse, her voice again.

Clawing words slash wildly inside the mind,

Casting doubt on defences until

Sleep submerges time once more.

But time undrownable gasps,

oh too soon, demanding

The barricades be manned again.

For to let go;

To let the monsters roar;

To allow the flames and earthquakes

Do their will;

To take cover, watch

The inferno burn itself out,

Is a risk never to be dared.

Is there breath enough

To dare dive, headlong,

Into that depthless ocean?

Where the oozing leviathan,

Hunts and stalks unseen fathoms?

To wrestle and overcome?

Then is there the reach

Left to surface?

Find daylight?

What revenge may other spectres take,

On their kindred’s slayer

Emerging into air again?

Why look,

To unreliable skies,

To bring relief?

Any maternal embrace

Of gentle sun

Has long since set

Over the western horizon,

Never to return

Untainted by cancerous night.

Speak of peaceful dreams,

By all means

But the eyes will always tell

Of fighting dragons still.

Then tomorrow…

Oh, great myth of tomorrow!

Tomorrow nothing changes.

Tomorrow looks at faces,

Says words.

Stays damned.

Give up hope

Of rescue, go native,

Become the beast

Which gnaws the brain.

Spit poison at the weak to numb the pain,

If you must. Reflect

Sour sunlight’s stinging daggers

On one outwardly more wretched. Yet,

In the evening,

Still no redemption will come.

And My Head Says…

Posted in Mental Health, Poetry, therapy on January 6, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

I have ridden turbulent volcanic waves,

I have dampened earthshaking quakes,

I have quieted hurricanes’ insane roar,

Blunted the bite of the terrible beast,

Quenched Hell’s deafening inferno.

But these feats are not finite,

The fight must must go on daily,

Lest fires engulf my fevered soul,

Turning to ash my fragile core.

Each sunrise is blessed relief,

But blinds Terror only temporarily,

Until he finds his eyes and,

Worse, his voice again.

Clawing words slash wildly inside,

My mind.  Making me doubt my defences,

Until the time comes around to be,

Submerged in sleep.

From which, too soon, I must awake,

And man the barricades because,

To let go,

To let the monsters roar,

To allow the flames and earthquakes,

To do what they will,

To take cover and watch,

The inferno burn itself out,

Is a risk I dare,

Not take yet.

Do I dare dive,

Headlong into that terrible ocean?

Have I breath enough,

To wrestle the restless leviathan,

That haunts and stalks,

The unseen fathoms?

Even in victory, do I,

Have the reach to surface,

To find the daylight?

And what revenge may,

Other spectres reek if I emerge,

Into the air again?

Neither dare I look,

To unreachable skies to bring,

Relief, since the maternal embrace,

Of the gentle sun has,

Long since set over,

The western horizon,

Never to return untainted,

By cancerous night.

And tomorrow? Oh the great,

Myth of tomorrow.

Tomorrow nothing changes.  Tomorrow,

I will look at faces, say words,

Tomorrow I will still be damned.

I have given up hope,

Of rescue, gone native,

Become the beast,

Which gnaws my brain.

And still,

No redemption comes.

Snow Day

Posted in christmas, love, Mental Health, Poetry, therapy, Uncategorized, winter, writing with tags , , , , , on December 4, 2012 by Graeme Cooper

When I went to bed last night,

It was snowing.

The garden lay crystal white,

And I slept imagining,

The beautiful wintry sunrise to come,

But when I awoke, rain,

Had the promised beauty undone.

The world was grey and cold again.

And I remembered when I asked you,

To be patient with me a while,

Saying I needed to work out a few,

Niggling doubts and then I’ll,

Be the man you believe in.

It seems long ago now,

Your patience is wearing thin,

And my faith in me is low.

Miracles did happen but I,

Didn’t see them, they couldn’t find,

A dry place to settle upon my,

Gritted, brown-slush mind.

Though my trust in finding answers,

Has faded, please don’t let go,

We might yet see those tiny dancers,

Floating with the snow.

No, I don’t believe it either,

But what else do we have?

Too late to admit our error,

Only faint hope keeps us alive.

Though regret’s black shadow stalks,

Pay no heed, hold on to this,

That within our threadbare velvet box,

We are perfect still as that first kiss.

As the spectre of promises unfulfilled,

Whispers “There will be no snow days”,

Like a bitter wind, my bones are chilled,

And the weight of waiting weighs,

Heavy as the sky,

Crushing us both.

I love you is the only truth I know,

But if to love you is to let you go,

Then that truth will surely kill me,

And the dreams we clung to will be,

Scattered, soiled, debris.

Hold on for the morning, dear love,

For it will surely come,

And these night terrors must, love,

Thaw these senses numb.

And so,

Through a sharp entanglement,

Of grasping hands,

Like barbed wire around my heart,

Hold on, please,

And never let me go.

Unafraid

Posted in Poetry, therapy, writing with tags , , , , on July 12, 2012 by Graeme Cooper

It seems so long since,

The magic mirror morphed me into,

Grandfather and schoolboy.

Ploughing the ground with horses,

And clutching a satchel for school,

Each of us glad,

We were not the other.

 

 

Though they sent me solice,

They suggested sadness also,

And I mourned the loss of both,

Fearing disappointment’s sting.

 

 

Though I now greet both,

With a smile,

I no longer need,

To be either.

I am the wise person now,

Yes I know that was the point.

 

 

I no longer define myself,

Through use of dark metaphor,

But play with my own monsters,

In the bright daylight still.

Josephine Corcoran

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