Tag Archives: poetry

Saved Despite Scars

I see the cross
Through blades
Trapping me
I can’t reach out
Can’t lay my burdens down
Without reaching for the old ways

I remember His blood
Sign of His grace

Yet I call to mind
Those dark nights
When I reached first
For the danger of the blade

My shame and desire
Block the Holy
Dare not reach out
For the Father’s arms
When I still see the scars
On my own, a reminder of pain

And yet.
It is the cross
Which reminds me
I’m saved from shame
And made new by His grace

My wounds are healed by His.
A poem reflecting on the guilt so often felt by those who are, or have struggled with self-harm. Author Anonymous.

Springtime Blues?

I’ve heard of winter blues, but it occurred to me today that spring makes me sad. It has made me sad for quite a long time. When the scent of the air is thick and sweet, smelling of blossom and freshly cut grass stirs in me so many memories that hit me in the solar plexus. I wrote about it this time last year and I thought I would share that writing here, in case any others feel the same.

“Today is a sunny, bright day.

The smell of freshly cut grass reminds me of those Bank Holidays and Saturdays when Mum and Dad would be outside gardening, or clearing the garage out and I would be inside, by choice, hiding from the sun to sit at my computer and write stories full of death and destruction and loneliness.

Later I would sit in the same seat working myself into the ground; colour-coding notes, reading textbooks and studying diagrams. The sun reminds me of the days when Mum would be reading the paper in the garden and Dad falling asleep in front of the telly.

Of days in Mr. Besant’s garden with Jessie, building dens, lying on our stomachs in the grass chatting and reading for hours on end. Going to the park, playing on swings, having picnics.

Wandering to the ice cream van to get sweets with Jessie to enable us to survive two hours of music theory.

Having lunch in the forest with Michelle and Freyja, before returning to school for afternoon lessons.

Walking in the sunshine to the sandwich shop near Avon House, getting a sandwich and a diet coke each for Liz and I. Sitting in the pub with Nancy, glass of wine in hand, putting work and the world to rights.

The sun reminds me of sunny afternoons, getting the bus to see my psychologist after work, scars irritated by the heat and feeling faint. Of listening to Marya Hornbacher on my iPod. Sitting in Andrew’s office. Crying. Catatonic.

LST. Sun shining. Balmy evenings at the Gate. Short bright skirts and picnics on the grass. Watching the boys play football whilst lazily flicking through revision notes.”

The sights and smells of spring awaken in so many memories. Some are lovely and precious, others are unimaginably painful. I don’t think I am alone in this. That the sun can hold as many bad memories, as good ones. The Spring, the start of the sunshine awakens these memories from the cold chill of winter.

And yet. There is hope. Hope because memory means survival. Hope because there is opportunity for more memories, better memories.

I end with a poem, written around this feeling of the darkest of times remembered in the light of summer sunshine.

There is something about the sun

That shines in my memories

My darkest days, I remember in light

Of hiding from the happiness

That came with the sun

Behind closed doors

And curtained windows

I delved into my depths

Searching my darkness

For the light

There is something about the sun

That casts its harsh glow

But makes everything seem ‘right’

So easy to hide from reality

Blinded by the sun

Searching the dark

For the truth

Of what’s within

Wanting the depths

Of the darks’ comfort.

There is something about the sun,

That rises and sets

The beauty of normality, ritual.

It pierces the pains

A glimmer of hope

A new dawn,

A new start

Emerging from the dark