Free Associative Gifts

I was asked on the Forum how I use poetry in forensic psychotherapy groups, so for this issue I will explore a brief example of my work. We then have some poems by Cosmin Chita, which are written in German with English translations and a poem by Mabelle Peñalver.

I conduct a small once weekly psychotherapy group with forensic patients.  As part of the group culture we spend a few minutes each week either writing a poem, drawing or painting a picture. We then take a similar amount of time to discuss our associations to the work produced. The patients and their work will remain confidential. I will share a poem I wrote in the group, which apart from a few minor changes, is presented as it slipped off the pen during the group.

Under the same sky
Flanked by sanguine peace
In a fluffy draft of words
Relative to a delicate moment
Shored by the heaving beaches of nature’s frame
Under the same lens of judgement
The same stuttering disbelief
In the basement we sit
Like shackled siblings
Fumbling in the first light
Dribbling our pretence
With food a lust unsatisfied
And love a mumbling crime

Whilst forensic hospitals are considered by some as ‘communities of exclusion’, the poem commences by reminding the group that we are all under the same sky, and later ‘shored by the beaches of nature’s frame,’ we are all in England. Within the group, freedom is represented by the invitation for each member to express themselves with writing or painting in any way they wish. The essence is to find a safe enough space, ‘sanguine peace’. The poem has no direct reference to any individual. It describes a complex atmosphere of contrasting moments of freedom and institutional restriction. As described by the late Murray Cox who worked with forensic patients at Broadmoor hospital, poetry has the capacity to simultaneously contain and confront.

The ending of the poem is perhaps alluding to the possibilities and prohibitions of intimacy. Boundaries and where staff members position themselves with patients and each other are frequent themes in staff reflective practice groups. The most infamous case of boundary violation was perhaps featured in the film, ”The Appropriate Adult” and involves the seduction of an apparently competent social worker by the serial killer Frederick West. Psychologists in the field often warn about the dangerous allure and seduction by the psychopath but this should not be used as an argument to exclude the convicted from psychotherapy. Instead, psychotherapy should be used to explore intimacy, the attuning to, development and understanding of emotions between people.

The poem brings into relief the shackling and infantilising that characterises forensic hospital environments. It identifies the shock and disbelief of being judged and convicted. I sometimes experience such feelings as sitting residually in the group underneath the act of compliance and communal harmony, ‘dribbling our pretence’. The poem is of course all about me and this minimises the alienation caused by exploring painful themes together.

Poems by Cosmin Chita

Der Schreiber

Sie sagten, dass er
Vollkommen sei.
Am Ende des Tages
Strich er jedes
Einzelne Wort aus.
Entgegen dem
Leer gewordenen Blatt,
Erschien ihm
Alles anderes
Als überflüssig.

The Writer

They said that he
Was perfect.
At the end of the day
He deleted every
Single word.
Contrary to that
Empty sheet,
Appeared him
Everything else
As superfluous.

Bei den Lotophagen

Morgens am Hafen begrüsste uns misstrauisch ein Hund,
Folgte uns wachsam zum Strand, blieb nachdenkend,
Als der Onkel an der glühenden Mauer der Kirche
Seine Augen mit Brunnenwasser benetzte,
Unsicher in die Weite des Meeres hinein blickte,
Bevor er barfuss kniete und mit der Stirn
Den steinigen Boden der Heiden berührte.

Ich sah die Verzweiflung, den Argwohn, den Hass
In den Gesichtern der ersten Sonnenanbeter geschrieben,
Alle auf der Suche nach Rast auf dieser Insel ohne Ahnen,
Und nun sich den zerknitterten Stoff meines Anzugs,
Nach Motorenraum riechend, so anschauten,
Wie eine zufällige, ungebetene Flaschenpost
Von vergessenen, fernen Verwandten.

Abends am Reling der Fähre zum Festland
Schloss ich die Augen, stellte mir
Die Erleichterung in den Köpfen vor,
Als wären wir in der Lage gewesen
Den triftenden Wein in deren Schläuche zu vergoren
Oder sogar ihnen den Zeitpunkt
Der nachkommenden Eiszeit zu offenbaren.

With the lotophages

Morning at the harbour, a dog greeted us suspiciously,
Followed us watchfully to the beach, remained thinking,
As the uncle his eyes wet with well water
In front of the glowing wall of the church
Uncertainly looking into the vastness of the sea,
Before he kneeled barefoot and with his forehead
Touched the stony ground of the pagans.

I saw the despair, the suspicion, the hate
Written in the faces of the first sunbathers,
All searching for rest on this island without ancestors,
And now looking the crumpled cloth of my suit,
Smelling after the engine room,
Like a random, uninvited bottle post
Of forgotten, distant relatives.

In the evening at the ferry’s rail to the mainland
I closed my eyes, imagined
The relief in the minds,
As if we had been able to ferment
Their effervescent wine in its tubes
Or even reveal the date
Of the coming ice age.

Blues in Vaduz

Vaduz liegt nicht am Meer!
Und doch gleicht die Stadt
Unterkant des gelassenen Nestes
Einer Insel ohne Charme,
abgetaucht im Rheindunst,
still, reibungslos, riechend
nach der Seife meiner Kindheit.

Blues in Vaduz

Vaduz is not by the sea!
And yet the city beneath
the left nest resembles
An island without charm,
submerged in the Rhine mist,
quiet, smooth, smelling
after the soap of my childhood.

A Poem by Mabelle Peñalver

Considering Madness

Do you think I’m mad, she said
the isolation, the exposure….
the hollowness of birth
passing on pain ….
All that bleeding forever
and a day
the internal folding
and twisting,
all that inner stuff….

Not wanting to own
my body
Somebody knew it
but it wasn’t me.
I kept myself busy
in the loathing
at you and me
I was busy cutting
up, off and in

Do you think I’m mad ?
Should I love myself ?
In the split lies the shadow
and in the shadow
all hope
In the dark side of everything,
in all that is felt, not known
I remain my mystery
fully known.

I have left the web
and can bleed no more
As for blending
and communicating ….
I’ll vomit and spew all
my inner workings
on a table, just for you
Do you think I’m mad
She said.

Please email any poems you would like considered for publication to
Marcus Price
lbwplumb@gmail.com