“A term invented by author Gregory Venvonis to describe the devotion to positive spiritual growth amid underlying darkness.”
Though the glimmer might be eradicated (from time to time), it is always capable of shining again. Though it can be hard to see when cloaked in midnight, your mind is capable of fabricating untruths like a ruthless politician or an adversary.
(It’s why we tried to give the enemy a name – to make him easier to talk about then just an abstract concept.)
But the boulder that buries itself on top of you, smothering your breathing and swallowing your light, is also capable of eroding.
It might feel like centuries have passed you by, but just know – after every winter, we see flowers blossom.
You, too, will blossom again. I will resurrect from this darkness and discover my light from within. (Even if I have to excavate my soul like some damned archeological dig.)
It’s too easy to surrender, but we’ll fight through the frost, push past the sparrows’ wings that beat furiously against our bones, and surmount our devils.
(The ones we have named and even the anonymous ones who prefer to cower in the darkest places inside us.)
“A feeling best described as sorrow that has no clear cause.”
We thought by giving him a name, it couldn’t break me so badly, but the agony still extinguishes the illumination within my irises, within my pupils, within my soul. There is a darkness deeper than I care to admit, but I cannot hide from forever. (My fire has not ignited in days, yet I cannot hide in bed and relinquish myself to the shadows completely.)
I swore to myself I would not drown in thoughts such as these, but sometimes, the devastations are greater than I can control.
It sometimes feels as though I am caught in a riptide, the ocean current pulling me away from everyone who loves me until all they are is a speck of sand, a memory.
(My honesty is raw, my words are plain. I usually hide behind an ornate metaphor crafted carefully and I tread with caution – not to overstep the boundary lines.)
I have picked up the pen several times, but the ink well is dry and my thoughts crystallize like honey thickening as it cools. Nothing makes sense when the demons take the reins & I try to swallow the bile down.
I try to offer a courageous smile, but I feel weak and collapsing is the only option I have sometimes.
Don’t judge me for the anguish I carry. Each one is a sparrow beating its wings inside my chest, desperate to be released but finding a home buried deep in my rib cage alongside that dimly burning crystal that is a barely beating heart.
(I cannot swallow for all the feathers that have climbed from my chest to my throat, from my throat to the wet insides of my mouth.)
So, instead, with this inexplicable sadness, I lie here, my heart – my sparrows – knocking against my chest (an unspoken tragedy bearing down on me).
I remember a photo I saw of a two-hundred-year-old cherry blossom tree. I imagine the events it must have borne witness to: births, deaths, tsunamis, the rise and fall of empires, but still its branches spread with pink and red blooms. I wake up some mornings, an elegy for self on my cracked lips, gazing upon my scars and wondering why I’m still here. But to some, I’m still blooming and they don’t see the fractures I think define me. Perhaps I still have some life in me.
If a tree can withstand two-hundred years of storm and sun, I, too, can live and love a little longer.
I was so excited to interview the poet EJ Kuhl tomorrow for my Poet Spotlight for Global Poetry Writing Month, but this week has really been overwhelming for me.
Alfred just recently shared with me a reader review which I feel entitled to share a part of with you all before including his interview. A reader of Alfred’s poetry had said the following:
The candor of this review honestly speaks volumes about Alfred Gremsly’s poetry, and while I am just starting to familiarize myself with his poetry, I can tell he has the same intentions I do with my writing and my day job – to provide a voice to communities normally stigmatized.
Alfred Gremsly is an American born poet who writes about mental health and the struggle that comes with it. A lifelong sufferer of anxiety, depression, and other mental illnesses, Alfred began writing poetry at the young age of twelve as a means of escaping his own mind.
Whose poetry style is most like your own?
I don’t know if anyone’s poetry is like mine. I don’t read a lot of poetry, and if I do read, it’s going to be something that’s complete opposite of what I write.
Have you received formal training for writing? If so, what’s your background? If not, what got you interested in poetry writing?
I started writing around age 12; I was a very depressed kid. We lived in the country and had nothing to do, and so, I would make homemade books for myself of my thoughts and feelings.
Who are some of your favorite poets?
Some individual poets I like to read are Jan Serene, Ashley Jane, Angie Waters, Margie Watts, and Sarah Kay Collie.
How do you feel when you’re writing a poem? Is it cathartic or do you find it draining? What types of emotions do you experience when writing poetry?
As I, myself, am a lifetime sufferer of depression and anxiety, I have extreme highs and lows. Unfortunately, it takes being in those extreme lows in order for me to get out what I’m needing to say.
I sometimes feel as if writing is a curse of sorts – so horrible would be the feelings and emotions I’m under while writing.
A lot of my poetry features fractured versions of myself as a narrative voice. What subjects do you write about and how are they influenced by your own experiences?
I write about what I’ve been through in life’s journey – my struggles with mental illness, the feelings of being mentally ill. I have overcome a lot through in life through poetry. I now have a grasp on my depression and anxieties, and I’m now on a mission to help others suffering from mental illnesses.
Am I just pretending there are voices in my head? And can anyone else hear a single thing they’ve said? Am I really talking to someone who has been talking back to me? Or have I just become a psychotic mystery? Life’s no fun pretending when you need a friend and a therapist is not the answer when you want the words to end. Can anyone hear the voices that are screaming from my head? I’ll be dead before I’m better ifI’m not already dead
Isabelle Palerma 