Ekphrastic
What is poetry
The Window Maya sat by the window of her grandmother’s old cottage, a steaming mug of tea in her hands and a wool blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The autumn wind whispered through the trees outside, scattering golden leaves across the garden like forgotten memories. It had been years since she’d last been here, and everything smelled like time—dust, dried lavender, and something older, quieter. The window was the same. It framed the garden like a painting. Ivy crept along the wooden sill. As a child, Maya believed the window was magical. Her grandmother used to tell her that if you stared through it long enough, you wouldn’t just see the garden—you’d see what the garden remembered. Back then, it felt like a story to help her sleep. But now, at twenty-eight, sitting in the same chair her grandmother used to rock in, Maya wondered if there was more truth in her grandmother’s stories than she realized. She reached for the journal she found in a drawer earlier that morning. It was bound in worn leather, its pages filled with neat handwriting and old poems, each dated, each signed: L.R.—Lilian Rose, her grandmother. She flipped through them, stopping at one that seemed different. It was titled “The Window Remembers.” She read the poem aloud, her voice soft, hesitant: "Through pane of glass and time’s slow thread, The window watches what’s long dead. But those who sit and truly see, May glimpse what once was, used to be." As she read the final line, a chill ran down her spine. She looked out again. The garden shimmered, just for a second. The apple tree that now stood bare and twisted suddenly blossomed, white flowers blooming in an impossible instant. A younger version of her grandmother appeared beneath it—laughing, holding hands with a man Maya had never seen before. Maya blinked, and they were gone. The tree was bare again. The garden was quiet. She stared at the window, her breath caught in her throat. Had she imagined it? She flipped back through the journal, searching for clues. Page after page told of the garden, of love, loss, and someone named Thomas. She’d never heard of him before. There were poems about waiting, of a love who went to war and never returned. Her grandfather’s name was William. Who was Thomas? Curious and a little shaken, Maya went outside. The wind tugged at her sweater as she walked to the tree. At its base was an old stone, nearly buried in earth and moss. She cleared it with trembling hands. “Thomas Hale – 1922–1944” A date. A name. Real. Her grandmother had never mentioned him. Never once. Yet he was buried in the garden, remembered in poems, and shown through a window that may have held more than just glass. Back inside, the window stood still, silent. Maya sat again, her thoughts spinning. What was the truth of her grandmother’s life? What parts had she hidden in poems? How many of our memories are buried under silence? She picked up the journal and turned to the last blank page. Taking a pen from the drawer, she began to write. Not a poem. A letter. To herself. To her future. To the people who would one day sit by the same window and wonder. And outside, unnoticed, a single white blossom bloomed on the apple tree.
By Muhammad Saad 6 months ago in Poets
The Pain
If I do not change I only have myself to blame For I am who I am Because of the pain Thank you for reading my work. If you enjoyed this story, there’s more below. Please hit the like and subscribe button, you can follow me on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram @AtomicHistorian. To help me create more content, leave a tip or become a pledged subscriber. I also make stickers, t-shirts, etc here.
By Atomic Historian6 months ago in Poets
The Knock That Shouldn’t Have Come
The Knock That Shouldn’t Have Come Blurb When a knock echoes through the house at midnight, the narrator thinks it’s nothing more than a prank. But the silence that follows, the footprints on the floor, and the stranger waiting in the bedroom tell a different story. Some doors should never be opened.
By Wings of Time 6 months ago in Poets
Healing in Verse: The Power of Psychological Poetry
Healing in Verse: The Power of Psychological Poetry For as long as she could remember, Mara had lived with a storm inside her. It wasn’t always loud or violent—sometimes it was a quiet gray that followed her into every room, like a shadow she couldn't shake. Friends called her "the deep thinker," teachers praised her essays, and her voice carried calm in conversation. But inside, she was always swimming in thoughts too big to name. At seventeen, after a long season of silence, Mara’s therapist gave her a simple suggestion: “Try writing what you feel. Don’t worry about sense—just sound.” So that night, Mara opened a notebook and wrote: > “My mind is a house where windows blink, Walls whisper, and silence sings.” It didn’t make perfect sense, but it felt true. That was the night poetry found her. Over the weeks that followed, Mara poured her quiet chaos into verse. She wrote about feeling invisible, about dreams that spoke in symbols, about the strange comfort of being alone. Her words didn't rhyme, and her lines didn’t follow rules—but something inside her began to shift. With every poem, she wasn’t just venting emotion—she was decoding it. The act of writing made the unnamed parts of her pain visible, and once visible, they became livable. --- The Psychology Behind the Pen What Mara didn’t know yet was that she had stumbled into an age-old practice now being explored by modern psychologists: poetry therapy. Psychological poetry—sometimes called therapeutic or expressive poetry—is the use of poetic language and structure to explore, understand, and even heal the mind. Research has shown that writing poetry can reduce anxiety, increase emotional resilience, and improve self-awareness. According to Dr. James Pennebaker, a leading psychologist in expressive writing, the process of putting feelings into words changes how the brain processes trauma. It's as if the act of writing allows the mind to reorganize painful memories, giving the author both distance and control. Unlike clinical talk therapy, poetry doesn’t demand clarity or explanation. Instead, it welcomes metaphor, ambiguity, and emotion. For many, that makes it safer—more intuitive. In Mara’s case, poetry became the bridge between her inner world and outer reality. It gave her a voice when she didn’t know how to speak plainly. --- A Blooming Mind One morning in early spring, Mara stood in front of her English class and read one of her poems aloud. It wasn’t about depression or trauma—it was about a tree that forgot how to bloom, and the wind that sang it back to life. > “And so the branches shook with song, Until one petal dared to wake.” When she finished, the room was silent. Not the awkward kind—the holy kind. One classmate had tears in their eyes. Another came up after class and whispered, "That poem felt like me." It was then Mara understood: poetry doesn’t just heal the writer—it heals the reader, too. --- Why Psychological Poetry Matters In a world full of fast communication and emotional noise, poetry invites depth, slowness, and reflection. It lets people: Name the unnamable (grief, fear, longing) Find meaning in pain Transform wounds into art Connect with others in silent understanding And it’s not just for “poets.” Anyone—with or without experience—can benefit from writing or reading psychologically rooted poetry. Whether it’s a journal scribbled in at midnight, a spoken word shared on stage, or a single verse taped to a mirror, poetry reminds us: You are not alone in how you feel. --- The Final Line Years later, Mara became a counselor. On the shelf behind her desk sat a stack of empty notebooks, free for any client who needed them. When one young boy asked, “What if I don’t know what to write?” She smiled and said, “Start with how it sounds inside your head.” And so the healing continued—line by line, soul by soul.
By Muhammad Saad 6 months ago in Poets
