These are not poems: no, not by any reasonable measure, even though I've written them in verse. They are merely jottings whereby I'm "thinking through" some issues.

Diary Entries: 8 June 2019



I do not look at the world

with wise and kindly eyes.


I cannot embrace others

with loving, tender arms.


There is wrath and condemnation,

raging of a toxic heart.


Mind seethes with resentments:

I would hurt others

more than I have been hurt.


I would escape my obligations,

those nettlesome small duties.


I would numb myself to pain,

take anodyne against annoyances.


Theodore Roethke, Wystan Auden,

can't you charm my fretful soul?


Can't you transmute this wicked heart,

warped by innumerable hostilities,

soured by numberless poisons?




It is 8.30 of a Thursday evening

in early summer.


I am sitting with dear friend L---

in the meditation chapel

of Spaulding Hospital, Cambridge.


We tell our stories

of recent untriumphant doings.

We are safe in each other's trust.


We are healing each other,

binding each other's wounds.


We are making sacred space

in which each of us may breathe.


We listen for the pulse of hope

beneath each other's words.


And sometimes

we are still.

Essay by Thomas DeFreitas The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 117 times
Written on 2019-06-09 at 11:32

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They read like well-written poetic exercises. Like novelists, I guess poets should also write diary entries in verse.

one trick pony The PoetBay support member heart!
poems or not, they cut to the chase—doubt and faith