IPTN

Welcome to Irish Poetry Therapy Network - IPTN, a non-profit organisation that provides an environment where participants explore at first hand, through the use of poetry therapy and bibliotherapy, the healing power of poetry as a means of identifying and dealing with various life issues.

Find out more about us and how to join our network by checking out our site.


Confidentiality Agreement: IPTN Sessions are held in a confidential space. Participants, discussions and poems are only published with agreement. These sessions use poetry as therapy and are not psychotherapy sessions.

Saturday 7 November 2015

Poems from Rhythm of Life Workshops

Thank you to all those who attended our 4th annual Poetry Therapy Conference 2015. The feedback from participants has been very positive and we would like to share some of the poems composed on the day. For confidentiality purposes, authors are not listed:




The Secret Garden


I wandered along the way,
collected seeds and bulbs.
gathered pebbles,
bright and dark
small and big.
While walking on a path,
a door opened on a secret garden.
I stepped in and unravelled a thread.
Slowly and consciously.

Unravelling

Stopping.


Planting seeds
Putting a stick in the ground
and tightening the thread around it.


I kept moving in different directions
going straight
Forming a circle

Stopping

Planting seeds
Putting stick in the ground
and tightening the thread around it.


Then, I displayed the stones around it
creating a carpet.
I sat down
contemplating
breathing
As I looked at each seed growing
at each buds opening and blooming.
I heard my own heart beating
"Thank you" and "Kindness"
I opened the door,
I invited others
to pick my growing flowers
to collect seeds from it
to plant their own garden.



Rhythm

Recognising the rhythm of life.


Happening in ourselves.

Yelling it to the world.

Taping it on our heart.

Hoping to keep it while

Moving amongst other beats.




Rhythm of Life

My drum sits silent
for long stretches, gathers
a layer of dust, and waits
until my energy stirs, rises,
lifts, becomes the tingling fingers
that must touch skin, must tap,
must make their mark on
the silence, must pull the sound
from the air, must call the blood
to keep pumping, keep pumping,
must make the feet start
to move and move.

My drum calls me, tells me my
name, over and over, it calls
out my name, and says Here I am,
again and again. Here I am, it says.
Yes, here I am.


Say to them


Say to them,
the people who call you to battle,
the crisis-shouters, the ones who won’t
believe there is a future
brighter than today:
say to them that your heart is what
you will give; your breath, and your salt tears
if they want them, but not your hand,
and not your hardness.

Say to them that
there is no battle, because we all want to sleep
the night through with the breathings of our babies,
safe under our roofs, and we all want to put our bones
down, in our own time,
in peace.

Say to them that your breath is not theirs,
your blood is not theirs,
your heart is not theirs.