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Memory isn’t linear. It doesn’t flow smoothly from one moment to the next like words in a textbook. Instead, it comes in fragments—bright shards of recollection mixed with shadows of uncertainty, questions that may never find their answers. Poetry understands this. Where prose might struggle to capture memory’s strange movements, poetry sometimes reflects the way
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Mathematics and poetry might seem like unlikely partners, but they share a fundamental truth: both seek patterns in chaos. Sometimes, when emotions become too vast to hold, we reach for numbers—not just to count, but to contain. In my poem “Mathematical Soup,” this intersection of mathematics and meaning becomes a way to process family violence:
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You know those moments in conversation when someone pauses, and that pause says more than words ever could? Poetry knows about those moments. Poetry lives in those moments. Take my poem “Ghosts of children linger.” When I write: Forlorn in hollow silence alone in a dusty attic haunting barren halls gloomy desolate corridors See how
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Sometimes words fail us. Regular writing—you know, the kind with nice neat sentences all lined up in tidy rows—just can’t capture how trauma actually feels. How it fragments everything. How it makes time skip and stutter like a scratched record. (And don’t even get me started on trying to explain it to therapists.) But poetry?
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“How do you write?” Here is how I pull together verses: I wander in a fog, stumble over words, clutch them like lifelines—as if they might somehow save me; the fog congeals, swallows me whole and I tumble, engulfed in a seductive sea of delusion—lost, swimming desperately for shore until at last I break through
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cynthia loves poetry 