poem – Julia Fry – Psychotherapist, Neurodivergence Coach, Writer, Poet, Artist.

When I Write About Rape

Poem and call and response song

When I write about rape

It takes its toll on my body

As pain, grief, rage spiral

Threatening to pull me apart

With the tension of

Wanting to stay

And wanting to run.

Thinking she knew when I was 9

How could she not?

I saw the signs…

His body tightly sprung,

Ever more so as the day wore on.

How could she not?

As bedtime drew close

And I’m sick on the floor,

Begging to extend my time with the telly

In the relative safety of the lounge,

But no,

Disgusted by my plea,

She sent me to bed.

How could she not?

I hate bedtime even now,

40 years on.

It’s okay for him.

He’s dead and gone,

But I’m still here

With a tightly wound body

That remembers what my mind forgot.

Only now, I’m not losing the plot.

I’m seeing clearly how we forgot

Our connection to Earth

And the object projection that entails

The lack of relationship with

Our Great Mother,

Makes it necessary to treat one another

As things to conquer, to control,

But actually all we need,

As 4 young men once said, is love.

Reciprocal love that comes by

Singing and listening

To the animism present in everything,

Which makes things beings.

Alive!

The chair you sit on.

The shoes that got you here.

The trees, oh, the trees with

Whom songs appear

When we listen.

So Much More

I wish I fitted into my brown trousers comfortably.

But I don’t.

I wish I could love this fat body.

But I don’t.

And who is the I in this case?

Small I soaked in patriarchal values.

Sexist.

Racist.

Ableist.

All the ists exist in this I

That has narrow eyes,

Pursed lips,

Calculates and demands,

Constructs beliefs from spurious evidence

So it can fold in on itself with narcissistic glee.

A smirk twitches the corner of its lips

As it caves into itself with denigration.

The other I watches,

Curious,

Loving,

And sees without judgement

The games played,

The means manipulated,

And utters a simple phrase,

“That makes sense,”

As her gaze

Casts wider

Into the contexts

That pattern themselves restrictive

For all involved.

She breathes deep and long,

Appreciates the battles

With self,

With others,

With the world,

Feels the sharp sadness spike her heart,

Sheds soft, soft tears

That roll and tickle their way

To her throat

Where a hatch opens,

A tiny hand reaches out

To catch the rain,

So beautiful in the sunlight

That dapples into the darkness,

Touches the pipes

That begin to warm

So she can make the sounds of love.

She sings

Of warmth

And beauty

And rage

And soon the I’s are soothed into remembering:

There is more than this.

Always.

So much more.

Different threads linking me to the past

Different threads linking me to the past

Through my time and beyond.

I carry the ancestors’ blood,

Their woes and joys

And unspoken trauma.

Like lightning it finds its path

To easy ground.

I stand helpless as it works

Its way through me.

Tired, I want to rest

From the touch of

Its relentless fingers,

But I fear there is no end.

I feel pains in my flesh

As if time collapsed

And the trauma is happening now.

This will pass, I tell myself.

Yes, and it will come again.

I bow my head and weep.

Cold Medical Model Didn’t See Me

You left me.

Wounded.

I needed help.

You turned away.

Hardened yourself.

Wrote a prescription.

Back to the Heart

There are no words to express this pain.

They touch the surface of it;

Graze and glance off.

“It’s not fair,” is the childish refrain

That strikes my heart,

Tries to open it,

And squeeze inside.

Natural Awe

Gliding through shimmering mirrors

Passing reeds standing sentry.

Even slow speeds cause ripples,

But oh! What ripples!

Calm grace sliding by

Orange beak, white feathers

Flat against the back;

This life sings its own song

This life sings its own song,

If I let it.

Red velvet loosely covers my sins.

Loving is powerful,

Trapping and freeing.

Singing it sends me home.

I feel it rising,

Heart Womb Room

“Seriously,” said Sandra, “if you feed it, it will grow.”

“What shall I feed it?” Said I. I didn’t quite believe her yet.

“You’re the only one who can answer that,” she smiled and a tiny dimple stroked her cheek briefly.

“But I don’t know the answer!” I felt hot and the words left me quickly. She smiled again. I shook my head, then stared at her. Silence.

Then, “what?” She laughed.

Fucking pigeons!

They land on the balcony and do their little dance.

Beady eyes spying the corner where they laid eggs before.

That sound as they land alerts me to them and I jump up and wave my arms.

Sometimes they leave immediately.

When it doesn’t work I turn the window handle to the open position.

Yes, we make a nice, soothing cup of tea

Light pours through my window.

It does not trickle, it floods.

Some things get covered.

Some remain in the shade;

Slightly cold and damp to touch.

It is a poor second to being outside in the woods.

Like a cat I find a sun spot and let the sun caress my toes.