I AM MYSELF, THAT IS ENOUGH



The idea of the written word as therapy is gaining popularity with the recognition that both the writing process and the reading of poetry and prose that resonates with our personal experience can be therapeutic.  I have always been able to lose myself in writing, the deep thought and concentration takes me away from the world and my daily routine. Reading fulfils the same function, a good story able to transport me away into another life for a while. Where reading becomes healing is when we find writers whose words help us to access our own emotions, remind us of events in our lives, struggles we have lived and survived, joys we have shared. Sometimes just a single line of poetry can move me and provoke a memory and a release of emotion that I had buried and forgotten, a smile of recognition, a tear of understanding, a flash of righteous anger.

The debate about whether such poetry is art or merely fulfilling a 21st century need to share our emotions is one I reject. There is a place for all forms of poetry; those steeped in the history and technique of language and poetic writing and the genius voices that have illuminated our lives will always be revered as true artists. I do not aspire to such greatness. However, if my words touch someone, bring a little light or understanding, resonate or spark an interest in social justice, equality or consciousness of the environmental challenges we face, I will feel the writing and sharing of my poems worthwhile.

This poem wrote itself on a day when all seemed black. I longed to pick up the phone and ring my father, his loss a year on still reverberating. I heard his words echoing in my mind, 'on the bad days remember the good, we are parts of a whole'.
At first the words reflected only the dark negativity of my mind at its worst but like a harassed parent singing to a child, as I strove to balance the bad with good, positivity started to flow, calm returned, and the writing process helped lift my gloom. A dark day welcomed the light. 



I am

an orphaned child
still startled when the phone rings,
a year since the silencing of his voice.

withered by fear, heart pulsing,
mundane magnified, inhibited,
inhabited by disquiet.

mindful of the dark,
hovering despair descending,
cold fog smothering, choking.

haunted by regret,
wander lost whilst knowing
the folly of looking back.

taunted by insomnia,
the cruel lure of sleep broken,
crumpled into endless nights.

frustrated as knees creak,
aging joints complaining,
breath straining.


I am

a fearless campaigner,
fired by injustice to stand up, 
speak out, face judgement.

a mother blessed with pride
and quiet relief that I both
love and like the four I gave life.

a friend of good fortune,
cherishing those who  
share my joys and troubles.

a daughter raised in love,
embraced by memories of
warmth and wisdom.

a writer finding solace in the
sifting of ideas, distilled emotion,
from mind to words to page.

a woman in harmony,
renewed by wind in trees, 
thankful for a body flawed but strong.

I am myself.
That is enough.




© 2017 Jacqueline Claire Knight.  All rights reserved. 







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