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Torin Jun 2016
The ocean is not deep
Its not a beating heart
In your chest as you sleep
As you dream

The ocean is not peace
Its hammerhead sharks
That want to eat
As I swim

But its a river in my mouth
A river of life
The transitory nature of water
You can't step in the same river twice

The ocean in not deep
A game of inches and trenches
A rock on the sea floor
And islands

The ocean is not love
It is continual struggle
Swordfish and coral reef
Beauty and disbelief

But its a river in my mouth
Flowing down hill
The path of least resistance
Reaches your heart

The ocean is not deep
A rock in a current
Soaked and worn by bitter tides
And big fish

The ocean is not truth
A rock has always been wet
Lustful for a starfish
A sea horse rides away

The ocean is not deep
There is not an ocean
Prolific Pacific or tragic Atlantic
I can't walk across

Still its a river in my mouth
You on a shore
Cupping your hands
And drinking

Drink
My love
Drink until your drunk
Drink the river in my mouth
Torin Jun 2016
You've been through the night before
These eyes that long to hold
Watch as a summer breeze brings the dusk
A sun is setting
Somethings lost
It will be the night once more
These eyes that saw a light
Watch as a witching hour compells the malevolent spirit
Creatures roaming hills
And living ghosts

I lift you up so high
You were the morning
The sun in the sky
The sun has to fall
And even my hands can't hold you back from the night

But as a veil falls over the world
And a shroud falls over your eyes
I'll still shine a distant star
I'll be there in the dark
  Jun 2016 Torin
RAJ NANDY
Dear Poet friends. After reading Dolly Lama’s poem ‘Poetry Helps Heal’, I was reminded of a poem I composed many years ago titled ‘The Healing Power of Poetry’. This poem is not a work of fiction, but based on reality. Hope you like it, and tell your friends to read the same. Thanks, - Raj, New Delhi.


  THE HEALING POWER OF POETRY:
    KNOWN  AS  ‘BIBLIOTHERAPY’

The word Poetry derives from the Greek word ‘poesis’,
Which means ‘a making’ of a literary art form,
Where language is used for its evocative, aesthetic,
and emotional response.
A poem is an emotional-intellectual-physical construct, -
meant to touch its reader’s heart!
Poetry links one individual to another by its
distilled experience.
Through its rhythm of words and imagery,  -
driving away our inner loneliness!

‘Words are the physicians of the diseased mind’, -
Oceanus  tells Prometheus in ancient Greek
Mythology.
Thus the Oracles at Delphi used the healing power
of poetry, -
Through their various ritualistic chants and
incantations;
And tamed many a savage mind into subjugation!

The Roman physician Soranus in the First Century
AD,
Had prescribed poetry and drama for his patients
who were mentally oppressed;
Tragedy for his maniac patients, and Comedy for
the depressed.
The great psychiatrist Sigmund Freud had clarified,
That it was not he but the Poet, who had discovered
the Subconscious Mind!
Freud went on to say that the human mind is a
poetry-making *****;
Focus of ‘poetry for healing’ is self-expression and
growth of the individual.
Whereas focus of ‘poetry as an art’ becomes the
very poem itself!
But both use the same technique Freud had said;
Words, rhythm, metaphors, sound, and images,
But in the end the result is the same.
The word ‘therapy’ comes from the Greek word
‘therapeia’, -
Meaning to nurse or cure through dance, song,
drama or poetry;
Perhaps the divine way to poetic therapy!
It is therefore not surprising that Asclepius, the
Greek God of Healing,
Is the son of Apollo, the God of Poetry and Medicine!

The first hospital for the mentally ill in the American
Colonies,
Was set up in Pennsylvania in 1751, by Benjamin
Franklin.
Where a number of ancillary treatments were used,
Including the writing of poetry and reading it aloud.
Written by the patients who were mentally ill.  @ (see notes)
‘Bibliotherapy’ was the term used for poetic therapy,
Which had become popular during the Sixties and
the Seventies.
It was also effectively used in Group Therapy,
With patients sharing their feeling and emotions,
Providing a release for their inner pain and tension !
The rhythm and repetition of words often created
a hypnotic trance, -
Reaching out to those ‘secret places’ - creating a
bridge, -
To that unconscious mind from which poetry springs!
Friends, in support of what I have just said let me
quote,
Those immortal lines which Robert Frost once wrote;-
“The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
  But I have promises to keep,
  And miles to go before I sleep,
  And miles to go before I sleep” # (see notes below)

Foot Notes: ** Initially poetry was ****** recited and also sung to the accompaniment of the lyre. After the invention of  writing, it started to develop its own form. Forms make arrangement out of derangement, harmony out of discord, and order out of chaos!
@= Writings of some of these patients were also published in a newspaper titled “The Illuminator”.
# = Lines quoted above are from Robert Frost’s famous poem, “Stopping by The Woods on A Snowy Evening”, - were extensively
used for poetic therapy at the Hospital.
        All Copy Rights Reserved By the Author Raj Nandy

--------------------------------------------------------­------------------------
  Jun 2016 Torin
RAJ NANDY
A short and an earlier popular poem of mine. Hope you like it! Thanks, - Raj, New Delhi.

       THE SURF-RIDER !
See him riding gallantly the crest of
waves,
With dexterity and poise and flowing
grace!
He rises to descend, to rise once more,
As the waves keep rolling towards the
shore!
Like those surfs the Rider continues his
mellifluous dance ,
Be it in England, in Spain or in France;
Riding high on waves as if in a trance!
The wind churns up the waves as it rises
and swells,
As the Rider manoeuvers his wake-board
riding those crests before it breaks !
Like a gymnast he executes strong cutbacks
- to reverse his turn,
His spirit dominate as the waves rise and
churn!
He did take his time to perfect his art ,
Having loved the sea  and the surf from the
very start!
He learnt to live in moments just like those
dancing waves,
Floating on their crests as his blood within
raves!
Those surfs like musical notes rise up and
fall,
Where some surfs are short and others tall !
Like a philharmonic conductor par-excellence,
He commands those waves with his skilful
presence!
Friends, riding on Time’s moments is no mean
art,
But like the Surf-rider one must make a gallant
start !
                                          -Raj Nandy, New Delhi
Having read about surf riders and having seen them in action, I was inspired to compose this short poem for you. For reading thank you! -Raj
Torin Jun 2016
All
It was sidewalks below
And airplanes above
Walking through lonesome streets surrounded
                by buildings full of heavy doors                  
Crowded lonesome streets
Slowly speeding cars
And when you couldn't see much more
You saw it all

It was painful yesterdays
And hateful smiles
Turning the radio off but still hearing our song
                                    cut through a strangers lies                
What kind of evil radio
Won't grant you silence?
And when you couldn't hear much more
I said it all

It was all those times I bled
And all those tears you wept
The countless breathes meaningless
                             The clouds in your voice               
Every time you say nothing
You say my name
And when you couldn't feel much more
You felt it all

Lover you must
Turn off the light
The day has been long
And your eyes grow weary
Such is the discomfort from living
From seeing                              
From feeling                  
From loving          

From being
What you always are
As you are in my dreams
And when you couldn't be much more
You became everything

From being
All that is strange
Becomes my home
All that you are
Is everything to me
Torin Jun 2016
Where the hills don't roll
They sink low
And fall into the ground
The sky swallowing what is left

We can be backwards

The hub is the heart
The roads are the veins
Highway arteries
And the river is polluted

Fort Worth stockyards
Cattle drives and mavericks
Rangers in the field
And stars on ice

A place out west where the cowboys lose

A place I saw my blood first hit the ground
My childhood home

I havent been there in such a long time
Its no longer real to me
  May 2016 Torin
Pablo Neruda
So that you will hear me
my words
sometimes grow thin
as the tracks of the gulls on the beaches.

Necklace, drunken bell
for your hands smooth as grapes.

And I watch my words from a long way off.
They are more yours than mine.
They climb on my old suffering like ivy.

It climbs the same way on damp walls.
You are to blame for this cruel sport.
They are fleeing from my dark lair.
You fill everything, you fill everything.

Before you they peopled the solitude that you occupy,
and they are more used to my sadness than you are.

Now I want them to say what I want to say to you
to make you hear as I want you to hear me.

The wind of anguish still hauls on them as usual.
Sometimes hurricanes of dreams still knock them over.
You listen to other voices in my painful voice.

Lament of old mouths, blood of old supplications.
Love me, companion. Don't forsake me. Follow me.
Follow me, companion, on this wave of anguish.

But my words become stained with your love.
You occupy everything, you occupy everything.

I am making them into an endless necklace
for your white hands, smooth as grapes.
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