{"id":3154,"date":"2015-07-12T10:09:45","date_gmt":"2015-07-12T14:09:45","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/healwritenow.com\/?p=3154"},"modified":"2015-07-12T10:09:45","modified_gmt":"2015-07-12T14:09:45","slug":"the-poetry-of-patty-cogen-is-breathtakingly-beautiful-brave","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/healwritenow.com\/the-poetry-of-patty-cogen-is-breathtakingly-beautiful-brave\/","title":{"rendered":"The Poetry of Patty Cogen is Breathtakingly Beautiful & Brave"},"content":{"rendered":"
These are the poems from Patty Cogen<\/a> and her book (seeking a publisher now) – The Flip Side of My Skin.<\/span> I want to gush endlessly about her talent but for now will give her writing the space it deserves to speak directly to you including her own brief introduction. I must say thank you to the fierce, honest, truth-telling advocate and friend, Beth O’Malley<\/a> (author of Adoption Lifebooks: Creating a Treasure for the Adopted Child<\/a>) who introduced me and Patty.<\/p>\n Why Patty Cogen Started Writing<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n In l985 I visited an infant specialist\/psychotherapist get help with my 6 month old son—he was crying. His crying was the key to locked room. ” I think something happened…to me.” I said in a sort of trance. “Maybe something did happen,” the therapist said. The key turned in the lock.<\/p>\n I left the office and walked into a room I had kept locked since early childhood, a room of memories, inhabited by six year old girl. That girl drew a series of ink drawings and began to tell her story. Her revelations explained so much, and turned my life inside out.<\/p>\n I began writing almost constantly to keep from going insane or killing myself. I had a two year old son by now, I had to live. I filled 28 journals and wrote over 100 poems to document the past and the journey my therapist and I made together. I joined a writing group and submitted a single poem for publication (“I Told My Mother”).<\/a><\/p>\n Then after 8 years of therapy, I put those notebooks and therapy aside and went on with my life. Thirty years later… (Two years ago) I opened the notebooks and began reading. The poems were too compelling to ignore. I read several of them at Poets’ On the Coast<\/a>, a women’s writing retreat. I contacted my therapist. I spent a year reworking old poems and writing new ones using feedback from a few selected friends and two editors.<\/p>\n Writing short compressed poems allows me to put the unbearable, the unmentionable, and the unfathomable into a manageable package. Too many details become overwhelming; overly graphic and extended description dilutes the impact making some readers turn away and others read for gore. I want to put in capsule form the conflicting emotions of angry-terror, fury-abandoned, honorable hatred.<\/p>\n “The Bag Lady of Brentwood”<\/em> (shared below)was the first poem I wrote in this series. I needed to have a image of what I was doing, not just from the inside, but from a larger perspective.<\/p>\n “How I Write”<\/em> and “Why I Write<\/em>” (both shared below) expand this perspective, but it is not what most of my poems are about.<\/p>\n My early experience is captured by “I Told My Mother”<\/a> <\/em>(linked) and “My Dale Evans Dream”<\/em> (shared below).<\/p>\n I am the Bag Lady of Brentwood Especially mine.<\/p>\n Someone has to do it. I empty the closets of my childhood, When it\u2019s full, I\u2019ll push the cart down San Vicente Boulevard Down to bluffs and the beach I\u2019ll go\u2014 Watch me push it off the edge\u2014 Watch it all hit the water <\/p>\n The secret about the secret The room with no door The houses that speak The wish that could never be granted <\/p>\n When I was five Daddy showed up He looked me over Don’t kill me, Daddy! He turned & rode away.<\/p>\n Photo credit: Margaret Bellifiore<\/p><\/div>\n I drew my gun He wasn’t Roy Rogers Long pink dress with buttons down the front across the room Or\u2014 across the room Or\u2014 Photo Credit: Margaret Bellafiore<\/p><\/div>\n across the room Patty Cogen is a retired psychotherapist specializing in children from birth to five and their families. Patty authored Parenting Your Internationally Adopted Child<\/span> <\/a>(2008) and numerous articles on adoption parenting as well as political commentary in local newspapers. Her memoir-essay, If you want to change your life, begin with your underwear<\/em><\/a>, appeared in the Winter 2013 Issue of Persimmon Tree<\/em>.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
The Bag Lady of Brentwood<\/span><\/h2>\n
\nwriting about the worms
\ncrawling in and out of everyone\u2019s closets.<\/p>\n
\nIt\u2019s a sanitation job
\nlike cleaning truck-stop toilets.<\/p>\n
\ndump the detritus in a shopping cart:
\n\u2014notes on napkins
\n\u2014journals kept in code
\n\u2014trigonometry papers with poems in the margins
\n\u2014the songs I sang myself to sleep<\/p>\n
\nwheeling my life alongside the Beautiful People jogging,
\nmy shopping cart careens between the sidewalk and the curb
\nbeside the Volvos and the BMWs\u2014<\/p>\n
\nrumble onto the wooden pier,
\ndodging tourists and teenagers,
\nI pass the carousel with its clanging calliope,
\ndragging my market-basket down to the end
\nwhere the poor people fish.<\/p>\n
\nwatch the carefully collected remains of my life
\nspin down
\nfly apart
\nreunite with other times.<\/p>\n
\nand get clean.<\/p>\nWhy I Write<\/span><\/h2>\n
\nThe room behind the wall<\/p>\n
\nThe witch under the bed<\/p>\n
\nThe breath that cannot exhale<\/p>\n
\nThe love that weaves itself.<\/p>\nMy Dale Evans Dream<\/strong><\/span><\/h2>\n
\nI wore my Dale Evans skirt
\nwith the imitation leather fringe
\nmatching vest
\n&
\ngun holster.<\/p>\n
\nriding Trigger
\nwearing leather chaps
\n&
\nspurs.<\/p>\n
\nwith his squinty Roy Rogers eyes
\naimed at me with his six-shooter\u2014
\nthe one with the silencer attached.<\/p>\n
\nI won’t tell.<\/p>\n
\n&
\nshot him dead.<\/p>\n
\n&
\nI didn’t want to ride his horsie.<\/p>\n<\/h2>\n
<\/h2>\n
<\/h2>\n
How I Write<\/span><\/h2>\n
\nbare feet
\nlegs crossed beneath the typewriter
\ncoffee brewed\/poured\u2014 then forgotten, cold<\/p>\n
\nthe sofa sags
\nflowers nearly rubbed from the fabric
\non the walls notes flutter
\ntitles of imagined poems
\npeople I’ll never call again<\/p>\n
\nin faded jeans, flannel shirt, worn running shoes
\nstanding in the welter of a kitchen
\ntea water on the boil
\nspatula grease
\nscrambled egg crusts
\nthe dog sitting, expectant<\/p>\n
\nsofa tumbled in apple juice boxes
\nSesame Street
\ncushions tie-dyed with stains
\nslices of cucumber
\na second dog asleep on the couch
\ntelephone
\ndoorbell
\nchild
\nall fighting with my pen<\/p>\n
\nsometimes after midnight
\nin a thigh length t-shirt
\non the stairs
\nwalls smudging into charcoal
\na single light at the bottom<\/p>\n
\nthe dogs snoring
\nstray sleep-words leak from the child upstairs
\nthe pen’s violent scratch slices at the language
\nLater\u2014
\nresting along side the closed green journal
\narms loose
\nreleased to sleep
\nmy search completed for
\nthe secret about a secret
\nhidden within my own skin.<\/p>\nBio of Patty Cogen<\/strong><\/span><\/h3>\n