The exposure of the psyche

Poetry began for me as a great place to hide, a secret haven of solitude, a place where I could fret away my angst and troubled mind, turn pain into some positive creative activity.

Eventually though poetry became a place where it was impossible for me to hide; the words now quite simply pour out, I am unable to hold on to secrets, only my idiosyncratic language protects me from complete transparent exposure.

I dabbled in psychology, in the workplace and through the Open University. I was an easy catch for the followers of Jung, the idea of a collective consciousness being far too enticing for me to resist.

In some of the poetry the collective love of beauty rises to the surface, these are moments of great happiness and fulfilment, either as a writer or a reader.

To somehow capture these transcendental moments is I suppose the holy grail, it is what allows one easily, without effort, to rise at daybreak, patiently observe, and write of darkness becoming light.

These cusps of time are the heavenly present spaces where our minds can meditate, where we can listen to our own self; perhaps even to find out that we have no need, or reason, to hide any longer.

© Christopher Sanderson 2019