This edition of Ward Stories features poetry from a couple of sources. We feature Claudia Krizay, who sent us a number of poems and images of her art via email. We include her potent poem on the experience of the ECT (electro-convulsive therapy) patient with an image of her art titled “Scared.” We also include an untitled piece by Stefanie Tomasello, an adventure in visual art that will make you want to take up the craft yourself. You can read Stefanie’s personal story in this edition.
By Claudia Krizay
In this moment I feel as if I am falling,
Into a prison from nowhere,
I see my shadow arabesque as
I watch my reflection appear
In a river of never abating madness
Hiding from all that is real,
Moments have passed since I lay upon
A cold metal table,
Drifting off to sleep, and
I remember nothing, except for
The sensation of falling
From nowhere into nothingness
As I watch the sun rising,
Outside of a picture window,
I find myself alive in some different place in time.
I feel my heart pounding
As if it were trying to escape
From a prison of iron bars inside of my chest, as
My brain spins about
As if it were riding a horse on a merry-go-round,
It’s motor somehow
As that horse bobs up and down
Exacerbating my fear
I hear myself screaming
In the midst of deadly silence
The sun has now risen high over the mountains outside.
Within my utmost fantasies,
I am climbing my own mountain,
Hoping to reach the sky although
I cannot escape that merry-go-round of terror
Except that I know now
I cannot hide from all that is real,
I shall never touch the sky and as
I find myself falling off of this make believe mountain
I can see my shadow more clearly and
As I fall into a river of my fantasies,
I swim to the bank of this river from nowhere,
Leaving the madness behind
By Stefanie Tomasello
She layered her soul, ultimately not knowing who she was
She clings to strength, ultimately surprised by her words and cause.
She looked with her eyes,
Kindly imaginative and vital for her confidence,
She’s always questioning her riveting life dance.
She charcoaled her way back to her soul, in a place as sour as a persevered, odd trance.
She continued to electrically get everything off her chest and stood for something more than what she knew. Colored her way through life with a colored pencil or two;
Sharpened shavings piled up, She digs deep to have the charcoaled black scent imbedded on her hands. Hoping the left-over color will seep through the pages of her mind on pads. She thickens the movement of her pencil through the gliding of her positioned fingertips; reserved only for the tearful, colorful misfits sips, always teaching herself never to ignore the extraordinary use of playful sharpened tips, almost like a whip of courage from the inner strength of her plentiful spirits kept down below in her soul slowly embracing life as a departure for a new world as a new cherished and vagrant whole.