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Thread: There really are monsters under my bed...

  1. #11
    Quote Originally Posted by Firemajic View Post
    I write my poems on pristine paper
    dirty secrets I dare not speak
    and I hide them in boxes under my bed
    where they disturb my sleep

    A heavy burden for small shoulders
    my notebooks full of shame
    hidden in shadows under my bed
    these boxes full of pain

    Unspeakable acts of terror
    inscribed on paper kept out of sight
    abominations happened in the dark
    almost every night

    Recorded in my poems
    my helpless fear and rage
    painstakingly printed with trembling hand
    page after secret page

    These notebooks hide my monsters
    but they are howling in my head
    and they lurk in the darkness
    in boxes under my bed

    Years have passed and still I write
    that's what keeps me sane
    and the monsters... they are silent now
    in those boxes full of pain


    Quote Originally Posted by ned View Post
    yes Fire, that is what I said, and is exactly my point - despite writing down the experiences, they are still 'howling' in the narrator's head - that is the message.



    yet the way it is expressed here sets up a contradiction that weakens the message.

    the monsters are memories, whether they are written down or in the mind, they are the same thing.
    and to say the written monsters are hidden away, while their awful memories still persist is hard to make sense of.

    perhaps, if you related the incentives for writing down the experiences in the first place (to give you a voice?)
    and at the end, reveal that despite everything, the monsters still lurk in the narrator's head.

    but it's a difficult poem to critique or give advice for Fire.................Ned

    O.... suddenly a light bulb went off... I think I understand, so I added another verse... maybe this resolves the message and brings closure to the poem... hopefully ... maybe.. this is what you mean?
    She lost herself in the trees,
    among the ever-changing leaves.
    She wept beneath the wild sky
    as stars told stories of ancient times.
    The flowers grew toward her light,
    the river called her name at night.
    She could not live an ordinary life,
    with the mysteries of the universe
    hidden in her eyes....
    Author: Christy Ann Martine

    Death leaves a heartache no one can heal,
    love leaves a memory no one can steal....
    Author unknown.

  2. #12
    Quote Originally Posted by Jacqui Jay View Post
    I hear you.
    There are things that can never be excised.
    But without the writing the monster will get out from under the bed.
    And you can't allow that to happen.
    For your own sanity.
    Thank you for your thoughtful, kind response... "for your own sanity" .... yes, and that inspired my new, last stanza... so I included that...Thank you for the inspiration...
    She lost herself in the trees,
    among the ever-changing leaves.
    She wept beneath the wild sky
    as stars told stories of ancient times.
    The flowers grew toward her light,
    the river called her name at night.
    She could not live an ordinary life,
    with the mysteries of the universe
    hidden in her eyes....
    Author: Christy Ann Martine

    Death leaves a heartache no one can heal,
    love leaves a memory no one can steal....
    Author unknown.

  3. #13
    Quote Originally Posted by Underd0g View Post
    Mis-post, til I can figure out how to delete... my apologies. I was insensitive.

    No need for apologies...
    She lost herself in the trees,
    among the ever-changing leaves.
    She wept beneath the wild sky
    as stars told stories of ancient times.
    The flowers grew toward her light,
    the river called her name at night.
    She could not live an ordinary life,
    with the mysteries of the universe
    hidden in her eyes....
    Author: Christy Ann Martine

    Death leaves a heartache no one can heal,
    love leaves a memory no one can steal....
    Author unknown.

  4. #14
    okay Fire (one glass of wine later)

    you've added a verse, that at least gives resolution that takes the analogy of written and mental monsters further.
    yes, it's a neat comparison, but in the original, I feel it sidetracked you from giving any deeper meaning.

    what was, and what is still confusing, are the tenses - the title, there really ARE....(don't give the title a tense
    'real monsters under my bed' ?)
    and all the other present tenses, when you are relating to past events -

    for me, that was a source for a lack of understanding of the original (and still is now - but would be a simple fix)

    don't make me come back to you after half a bottle!.........................Ned
    grasp the mettle of things unsaid
    and strike the nail upon the head

  5. #15
    WF Veteran SilverMoon's Avatar
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    Dearest, Juls. It also began at age three for me - when the mind is bald, rubber-like, so easily pliable. For a child who's not been abused, shadows in their room can be scarey or the idea of a witch's crippled, yet strong fingers scratching the mattress beneath the bed. Monsters. Some fears most children have who've not been abused.

    But for not your every-day/night children. The monsters are flesh and blood.

    When the familial are not craddling us in bunting but rocking our small world to pieces, we cope in desperate ways. You could not speak. I disappeared into walls. The causes for these kind of escapes are born from unfathonable fright which cannot be dismissed nor erased. I agree with you. Your poem could not be written anyother way.

    Here, brilliance and bravery in the raw. And you've succeded. It's said that "The body never forgets" - I may not recall all of the memories but something very disturbing is rumbling in my solar plexus. Just this powerful, your poem.

    Is this the change you made to the last stanza? Or a new stanza?
    These notebooks hide my monsters
    but they are howling in my head
    and they lurk in the darkness
    in boxes under my bed
    So techincally well wrought. But most of all, a testament to the monster's grip on memory to this day.

    You put the Monster in a Box (such a keen metaphor). But not even a strongbox can muffle such horror.

    Juls, thank you for this poem. It will stay with me. Stronger than the monsters, perhaps. Yours, Laurie
    “The man who cannot visualize a horse galloping on a tomato is an idiot.”
    Andre Breton

  6. #16
    Quote Originally Posted by ned View Post
    okay Fire (one glass of wine later)

    you've added a verse, that at least gives resolution that takes the analogy of written and mental monsters further.
    yes, it's a neat comparison, but in the original, I feel it sidetracked you from giving any deeper meaning.

    what was, and what is still confusing, are the tenses - the title, there really ARE....(don't give the title a tense
    'real monsters under my bed' ?)
    and all the other present tenses, when you are relating to past events -

    for me, that was a source for a lack of understanding of the original (and still is now - but would be a simple fix)

    don't make me come back to you after half a bottle!.........................Ned
    Okk, Now I am drinking... .... Ok... I fixed the "past tense" issue... and with the new last stanza~~~ well, I feel it is more complete and I am satisfied... I left the title alone, because the monsters will always live in those boxes under my bed... and I am ok with that... so, have another glass of wine and drink to the quiet monsters who lost their power to poetry....

    Thank you Ned and DarKKin for helping me sooth my demons.... sometimes "thank you" is so inadequate....



    Quote Originally Posted by SilverMoon View Post
    Dearest, Juls. It also began at age three for me - when the mind is bald, rubber-like, so easily pliable. For a child who's not been abused, shadows in their room can be scarey or the idea of a witch's crippled, yet strong fingers scratching the mattress beneath the bed. Monsters. Some fears most children have who've not been abused.

    But for not your every-day/night children. The monsters are flesh and blood.

    When the familial are not craddling us in bunting but rocking our small world to pieces, we cope in desperate ways. You could not speak. I disappeared into walls. The causes for these kind of escapes are born from unfathonable fright which cannot be dismissed nor erased. I agree with you. Your poem could not be written anyother way.

    Here, brilliance and bravery in the raw. And you've succeded. It's said that "The body never forgets" - I may not recall all of the memories but something very disturbing is rumbling in my solar plexus. Just this powerful, your poem.

    Is this the change you made to the last stanza? Or a new stanza?
    So techincally well wrought. But most of all, a testament to the monster's grip on memory to this day.

    You put the Monster in a Box (such a keen metaphor). But not even a strongbox can muffle such horror.

    Juls, thank you for this poem. It will stay with me. Stronger than the monsters, perhaps. Yours, Laurie
    Dear Laurie.... I can't thank you enough for reading, understanding and for your unfailing support... I appreciate... my revision has been posted under my original poem....
    She lost herself in the trees,
    among the ever-changing leaves.
    She wept beneath the wild sky
    as stars told stories of ancient times.
    The flowers grew toward her light,
    the river called her name at night.
    She could not live an ordinary life,
    with the mysteries of the universe
    hidden in her eyes....
    Author: Christy Ann Martine

    Death leaves a heartache no one can heal,
    love leaves a memory no one can steal....
    Author unknown.

  7. #17
    Fire, you could have written this poem and all the others you've shared and just put them under the bed with your monsters; instead you've shared them and that not only took courage, but it was therapeutic for yourself as well as others. I've found that sharing your problems with others is a good way to put them behind you, and you've proven that those monsters no longer have you in their power. Keep up the good work.
    "Self-righteousness never straddles the political fence."

    Midnightpoet


    "If it weren't for sin, what would we write about?"

    Midnightpoet


    Hidden Content Hidden Content

  8. #18
    My favorite midnight poet.... thank you so much for your words of kindness, they mean so much to me... I think it is so important to speak out about abuse... abuse of ANY kind... Silence perpetuates abuse, fear is often the tool of the abuser to ensure that silence... I only wish I could have told someone, because through MY silence... this monster abused many others... but they have remained silent... by sharing my poems, I hope to maybe give just one person the courage to break the silence... anyway... thanks for listening... love you bunches...
    She lost herself in the trees,
    among the ever-changing leaves.
    She wept beneath the wild sky
    as stars told stories of ancient times.
    The flowers grew toward her light,
    the river called her name at night.
    She could not live an ordinary life,
    with the mysteries of the universe
    hidden in her eyes....
    Author: Christy Ann Martine

    Death leaves a heartache no one can heal,
    love leaves a memory no one can steal....
    Author unknown.

  9. #19
    Hello Fire -

    just to let you know, I like the revision and you were absolutely right to keep the original title.

    I had to see the whole, completed revision to realise that..................Ned
    grasp the mettle of things unsaid
    and strike the nail upon the head

  10. #20
    When I posted the first version of this poem, something about it bothered me and I was not completely satisfied with it, but... I did not know what was wrong with it and if you cant identify the problem you can't fix it... so I appreciate all your patience and your and DarKKin's insight.... maybe I was too close to this poem ... anyway, thank you and I probably owe you a very nice bottle of wine
    She lost herself in the trees,
    among the ever-changing leaves.
    She wept beneath the wild sky
    as stars told stories of ancient times.
    The flowers grew toward her light,
    the river called her name at night.
    She could not live an ordinary life,
    with the mysteries of the universe
    hidden in her eyes....
    Author: Christy Ann Martine

    Death leaves a heartache no one can heal,
    love leaves a memory no one can steal....
    Author unknown.

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