Tag Archives: pain

Hafiz – Poem 27

All images created by Rebekah Marshall’s prompts using AI on Gencraft.com website.

I am reading Hafiz’s Little Book of Life, poetry by Hafiz-e Shirazi. He is challenging me to become more comfortable with ambiguity. I will share his poem and some of my thoughts on his poem (sometimes with the help of experts when the concepts are too hard for me), followed by a poem and some art inspired by his poem.

Hafiz’s Poem 27:

My pain

Best left concealed
Than revealed
To dubious do-gooders

Some thoughts:

Not everyone has our best interests at heart. Growing up in the south, rather sheltered in a tight-knit family, religious community, and small town, I truly thought most people meant well and could be trusted. My naivete still remains somewhat intact, so this poem is a good reminder for me. I still want to believe that people are kind and honest and compassionate and empathetic. And that may be true about most of the people I have chosen to surround myself with. However, that is not everyone. And we do well to remember that our deepest vulnerabilities should only be shared with individuals who have earned both our respect and fidelity.

I guess in modern days we call this boundaries. A big part of healthy communication in relationships is learning to set boundaries and respect other people’s boundaries. Both can be hard to do consistently but are worth the time and effort. A tight circle of dear friends who I can trust with my life, let alone my pain, are all I need. They know who they are, and for them, I am very grateful.

My Poem 27:

Our deepest wounding
we guard diligently
access denied
until a sliver of light
cracks our resolve
a trusted witness
proves worthy, faithful,
capable of holding
without judgment
keep confidence
without being asked
and a burden shared
becomes lighter.

Hafiz. Hafiz’s Little Book of Life. Translated by Erfan Mojib and Gary Gach, Hampton Roads Publishing, 2023.

Hafiz – Poem 26

All images created by Rebekah Marshall’s prompts using AI on Gencraft.com website.

I am reading Hafiz’s Little Book of Life, poetry by Hafiz-e Shirazi. He is challenging me to become more comfortable with ambiguity. I will share his poem and some of my thoughts on his poem (sometimes with the help of experts when the concepts are too hard for me), followed by a poem and some art inspired by his poem.

Hafiz’s Poem 26:

How may

Fresh poetry

Come

To a heart heavy with sorrow

Some thoughts:

Some poets find great inspiration in the “depths of despair,” but Hafiz does not seem to be one of them. He, like me, questions how inspiration can flow when the heart is weighed down, when creativity is struggling to breathe. He yearns for something fresh, new, insightful, but is so filled with pain that there is nothing but old blood, recycled phrases, and stale thoughts. Fresh poetry represents the best words in the best order that arrive like an honored guest, flow through the poet, and onto the page. This kind of poetry he seeks cannot be forced or coerced into existence.

I don’t have the answer for Hafiz, since I, too, struggle with this question. But it feels affirming to sit in this space and ponder, with my fellow wordsmith, the slipperiness of inspiration and the heaviness of sorrow. We poets love juxtaposition and imagery. I wonder if Hafiz was inspired to write this little gem while in the depths of sorrow. If so, he has answered his own question by writing, despite the pain. I suppose the only way to know for sure is to experience it for myself.

My Poem 26:

How heavy is a heart?

Google says less than a pound,
but it depends on gender, age
cardiovascular health, and body size.

I say it depends on how much
what is lost meant to the heart
that must continue to beat.

Hafiz. Hafiz’s Little Book of Life. Translated by Erfan Mojib and Gary Gach, Hampton Roads Publishing, 2023.

Eleanor Oliphant is completely fine (Book Review)

TRIGGER WARNING: This book addresses difficult topics including mental illness, suicide, abuse, violence, and trauma. Some scenes and references may be distressing for certain readers.

Gail Honeyman is a master of dry wit and understatement in Eleanor Oliphant is completely fine. Eleanor is so unpleasant and awkward as to render her completely unlikeable at the beginning of the novel. I don’t want to see her bullied by her coworkers or strangers in public, but I could certainly see why they might. She invites side-glances with her oblivious rudeness and is a closed book. She doesn’t want anything to do with anybody and seems perfectly content in her isolation. Of course, it’s all a ruse and protective defenses, but those walls are tall and seem impenetrable.

The chance encounters, unusual incidents, and course of events that occur begin to bring about a soft opening of Eleanor. And the unfolding of her past, the development of some friendships, and her observations and realizations throughout the process are so endearing that I couldn’t help falling in love with her. She and her circle of people are everything that is wonderful about humanity, especially when coping with everything that is horrible with humanity.

Once again, I was disappointed by the rushed feel of the ending. I hoped for the same level of deep introspection at the end of the book that was delved into throughout the rest. What is with these authors rushing their endings? They need to be every bit as perfect as the beginnings and middles. But other than wanting more, I can find no fault with this witty, honest, hilarious look at a lovely woman who is absolutely NOT completely fine, but who will be. The author’s voice is refreshing, hilarious, and wonderful.

Honeyman, Gail, Eleanor Oliphant is completely fine, Penguin Random House, 2017.

The Gulf of Mexico

AI Generated images prompted on Gencraft.com by Rebekah Marshall.

My first time in the ocean today, I got knocked down. I was trying to get to waist deep but did not have the strength to stand against her playful nudges. She seemed surprised and almost irritated that her friendly gesture toppled me and sent several really hard slaps to push me further toward shore.

Maybe she was trying to help, trying to get me back to safety, saying, “This one’s too delicate to be out here. She won’t last a minute.”

What she didn’t know is that I’m too weak to stand up once knocked down in her waves. I must get deeper to be more buoyant to be able to stand, especially with no balance and ever-increasing frequency of waves. Trying to crawl further out to sea became impossible. She made it impossible.

“You don’t understand, tiny human. I am dangerous. Go back to your dry land!”

We were not communicating in the same languages. Mine became unstoppable laughter, hers, ever-strengthening waves bent on pushing me to shore.

Somewhere about here my husband grew concerned. He wasn’t sure if I was communing with nature or in trouble and came closer from his comfortable beach chair to see.

“Thumbs up?” he questioned.

I shook my head no and waved for him to come rescue me. I couldn’t stop laughing as he began the slow trek my way, the gulf all the more insistent I exit the way I came.

I could stand or steady myself. I could not do both. So, with his presence, I stood, then grabbed his hand to help with balance, his stable strength what I needed to walk back to shore.

It was lovely. Not scary. Not painful, beyond the usual discomfort of being upright with joint pain. I went back to watching and listening from my shaded chair, exactly where I belong. This is how the ocean and I commune best. We sing to one another and just enjoy each other’s presence. Everyone is happier with that arrangement, especially my husband.

Addendum: I went back in twice more. He had to rescue me the 2nd time, as well. But the 3rd time, I made it to waist deep and back on my own two feet and felt so very, very pleased with myself.

A Good Doctor

(Poem 355 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/ZQgPOS

I didn’t expect to be heard,
for him to sit across from me
and create space for all my woes—
the back, the knees, the hips,
the medications, the liver problems,
the dreams of being a dancer again
someday if only the pain would permit…
nor expect him to examine
my movement, strength, balance,
coordination, and flexibility.

He was thorough and kind,
asked about my living situation,
support system, emotional health,
career, hobbies, and activity levels.

He made suggestions,
asked my opinion,
answered my questions,
and then we made a plan—
together.

@Home Studio – 355th poem of the year

Ways I’ve Thrown Out My Back In My 50s

(Poem 270 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/K6aM9w

Washing dishes (scrubbing a cookie sheet too hard.)
Rolling over in bed.
Holding up my cell phone to show my daughter a video.
Sitting up straight in my chair.
Bending over to pet Cotton Eyed Joe (my granddaughter’s cat.)
Typing.
Opening a Splenda packet; shaking it too vigorously.
Brushing my teeth.
Scooping a cup of dog food into the dog’s bowl.
Waving my Harry Potter wand.

@Home Studio – 270th poem of the year

Grieving Mother – House of the Dragon

(Poem 180 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/3PTiet  https://gencraft.ai/p/rcoJcL

The mother does what
any mother must do after
receiving the worst news
imaginable; she mounts
her dragon and flies as far
as she must for confirmation
with her own eyes that her
son has been taken from
this world in a vicious attack.
She must reckon with the
knowledge that all could
have been prevented by
her every step of the way,
so she has herself to blame
for her baby ending up in the
belly of the enemy’s beast.
A son for a son will become
the battle cry that brings
only blood to the realm.
Winter is truly coming.

@Home Studio – 180th poem of the year (after watching Season 2, Episode 1 of House of the Dragon)

Condal, Ryan and George R. R. Martin, creators. House of the Dragon. HBO Entertainment and Warner Bros., 2024.

Runner ups for the Grieving Mother photos to accompany my poem:

Aches and Pains

(Poem 177 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/03OiGx  https://gencraft.ai/p/G96GID    https://gencraft.ai/p/BbJsEh

Aches and pains
pains and aches
knees and hips
whatever it takes
hard to bend
walking is tough
getting off the
floor is enough
trying to focus
on a word
when agony strikes
is quite absurd
take deep breaths
slow your heart
please pace yourself
if you’re smart
not enough spoons
too many knives
push too hard
here come hives  
snap pop crack
click rattle break
every slight movement
injury at stake
I would like
to cocoon here
or float in
space a year
to maybe be
from gravity free
that is now
my earnest plea

@Home Studio – 177th poem of the year

Runner ups for the Aches and Pains photos to accompany my poem:

Prescription Refills

(Poem 128 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/mFTsj4

One, two, three…maybe four
prescriptions need to be filled
because I grow old and less
able to take pride in health
and vigor like I used to, as though
I somehow earned the youthful
ease with which my joints bent,
and my muscles contracted
instantly, and every sinew
responded to my whim with
instant graceful movement;
those people who complained
of aches and stiffness were
somehow at fault for their
functional inadequacies and
I did not recognize my future
reflection in their eyes because
that woman’s lined face was
contorted with pain.

@Greg’s house – 128th poem of the year