Science Proves Poetry is Good for Body and Soul
by Christina Hazelwood
Psychologists have discovered that poetry can synchronize the breath to the heartbeat, according to an article in Scientific American magazine. This synchronization improves gas exchange in the lungs as well as blood pressure response and hence, heart functioning. Respiration and the cardiovascular system are not normally in sync. Blood pressure typically fluctuates in 10-second cycles, known as Mayer waves. While breathing normally occurs at the rate of 15 breaths per minute.

Dirk Cysarz of the Herdecke Community Hospital and Institute of Mathematics, located at the University of Witten/Herdecke in Germany, explored the body’s oscillating cycles, which are known to occasionally coincide. Cysarz and his colleges studied poetry’s ability to synchronize the body’s two functions.

Speech therapist Petric Von Bonin, one of Cysarz’s collaborators, believed that specific types of poetry, those with rhythmic units, would yield the best results. Cysarz studied the effects of Homer’s Odyssey, translated into German, that maintained its original hexametric pace, consisting of six meters per line, as well as the Illiad, which is in dactylic hexameter or three syllables per meter.

Historically, Greek choruses recited lines in hexameter without pause. Cysarz theorizes that this rhythm produced feel-good effects in audiences that kept them coming back for more, which may explain the appeal of rap music. This synchronizing effect can also occur during chanting, as many religious traditions make liberal use of, and meditation.

So in the interest of health, some of my poetry follows. Feel free to read it aloud and to all your friends. It’s good for you.
Dedictated to those who do research as above.

GEWACHEN

Freue, freue, Liebe Gott!
Ich bin letzt gewacht.

Liebe, liebe, liebe Gott,
So lange Zeit hat ich geshlaft.


Translation:
AWAKENED

Rejoice, rejoice, Dearest God!
I have at last awakened.

Dearest, dearest, darling God,
I have been asleep for so long.


 HUNGER OF THE SOUL

I have a hunger;
burning deep in my soul.
Beyond mere desire,
beyond my control.

It burns within me;
taking tremendous toll.
Not mere appetite,
but a cavernous hole.

It seeks to quench,
an ocean thirst.
Pursing its prey;
hellishly cursed.

Locking its gaze,
unable to rest.
Squirming victim;
undeniable quest.

The moment suspended,
teasing and taunting.
The tortured creature;
sees peril daunting.

The attack unfurls;
with speed and force.
The victim succumbs.
Nature takes its course.

The taste of blood;
a pound of flesh.
The victim and foe;
begin to mesh.

The hunger is eased;
the thirst is quenched.
A passing phase;
the soul still wrenched.

A grand illusion;
the obsession remains.
To kill: a distraction.
The self calmly disdains.

The hunger yearns on,
consuming the soul.
Roaming restlessly,
to make itself whole.


 FALL

I walk silently, as first dusk floats down in tender waves;
Moving faster, faster; the impending shroud urges on.

Breaking into a run, leaves whirl about.
They thrust me forward, propelling;
Joining me in a thrilling array of scent.

Deep musk fills the air;
Still dryness all around.
A rush of air caresses;
Caresses with the tenderness of a lost love.

I thrill at the touch.
It soothes and tempts me;

Wooing me with the allure of a lover heading northward;
Hinting at the last delicious moment of divine union.
Before the cold comes and darkness descends;
Falling in sheets of silence, strengthening solitude.
THE PEARL

Down came the rain;
against a wooden pane.
Behind which was a girl;
a pale, innocent pearl.

She had a sweet dream;
of love it would seem.
That ended in sorrow,
because the love was on borrow.

Her dream was shattered.
Her heart was battered.
Tears streamed down her face.
It was a great disgrace.

Then and there she took a vow:
never again to allow;
Her love to bloom,
only to bring gloom.

It hardened her heart;
and tore her apart.
Now she’s a lonely old maid;
who sits alone in the shade.
ONE FINE MORN

I woke up one morn;
as the alarm blew its horn.

I was surprised to see my room was dark;
then heard from my dog a bark, bark, bark.

I got up to let him in;
and stepped on a very large pin.

Ouch! I said;
and went back to bed.
CREATION

First there was light, spinning in infinity:
Unhampered by the physical, pure energy in motion.

Suddenly, the thought came upon me,
while speeding across the milkyway.

The spectrum altered, instantaneous.
I float through layers of delicious dimension.

Crossing hydrogen with oxygen,
gathering nutrons at an unbelievable rate,
Spinning silently at God’s gate.

Now floating in fluid, a mass of DNA:
held by a host who beckons my day.

Strengthened with nutrients,
I race toward destiny’s door,
to find myself in another united.

We delight in the ceremony.
Life’s orchestra plays on.

I enter the temple,
wrapped in a womb of gentle grace.

A mass of pulsing energy,
patiently growing, gathering my strength.

I wait in the wings, sharing the light with others.
as the fluid becomes clay, we await the special day.

Dams burst in a torrent of pain.
Now is my entrance,
never will I be the same.

The clay is then molded, formed and prodded
tickled and goaded, bent and rodded.

Formed and reformed, the creation takes shape
a soft pliable metal from heaven’s gate.

Gold or silver, the metallurgy takes place,
one never knows until the end of the race.

The metal is burned, boiled and struck.
How it comes out is a matter of luck.

After several blows the piece may shatter,
or be forged into steel, it’s an uncertain matter.

The path continues, however long;
winding and rolling, it courses on.

Until the day of reckoning will arrive;
waiting electrons return to thrive.

Back through the dimensions and heaven’s gate
wondering and floating, again we wait.
PMS

The curse,
My “little friend”
My “ladies’ days.”

Once a month
and then
it starts all over again.

Oh woa is me, a woman wanton
to end this grief
when blood will cease.

Hormones raging
gut exploding
doubled-over blind
when, oh when will life be mine?

Sadly disheartened,
it happened again,
my little, ugly friend.

It grips my torso
and wrenches it through
with stains of courage
and promises untrue.

It’s power unyielding,
to my lover’s call.

Though monthly dues
are paid in full,
For rights of womanhood
won soft and won true.

For duty served in fear of others,
for grief and pain
and sorrows paid in full.

For truth unfolding
to those who have yet to learn,
of feminine destiny
and powers unearned.

Its need unmet,
sealed in a bloody curse.
To reason and scold,
behind the widow’s hearse.

In service of others,
to lead from behind.
Sealed in a bottle
of memory and mind.

The prize remains elusive,
to one who holds it dear.
Refusing to give up the grudge,
life held back in fear.

Batons furl overhead,
claiming the unnamed dead.
Of high treason and truth
of allegiances with proof.

Rationing out in proportion
the lies and cheats
and little deceits
along with all the distortion.

Of masculinity done wrong.
of simple illusion,
and numbers held strong.

For womanhood
and its aftermath
holding fast
in truth and light.

The challenge of what’s not been said,
about the rightness of might,
and its true cost
to the feminine lost.
BITS and PIECES

Threads unravel, a flap comes loose;
It flutters in the breeze.
Cold winds howl, ripping and tugging;
Seams weaken.

Pieces give way as they’re thrashed about;
Pulled from the whole.
Crows circle, eyes watchful, waiting;
For the right moment.

Standing soldier, helplessly exposed;
Limp and lifeless, needing protection.

Crows dive, momentum attack;
Sharp beaks plunge and twist.
Pulling and yanking, ripping and shredding;
Eyes pecked out, arms dismantled.

Silent scarecrow screams.

Stuffing fills the air, does no one care?
Feathers and fluff drift to the ground.
Empty and silent, barren wasteland;
The garden grows cold.
ADVICE

One day as I was walking;
I heard a frog talking.

At first I was balking
Then found myself gawking;
At the frog who was mocking;
my pok-a-dot stocking.

He was sitting on a log,
in the middle of a bog.
“My dear sir, he said.
“Trouble rising from bed?

One pok-a-dot stocking
is really quite shocking.
You need my advice
don’t even think twice.”

“Why would I want an ugly frog;
When I don’t even have a dog?”
“It can be quite nice,
to have lots of advice,”

said the frog with a grin,
as he wiggled his chin.
My words can make you rich.
There is really no hitch.”

I grew to like
that little tike.
I gave up the fight;
He was always right.

His advice I needed.
His words I heeded.
I gathered some cash
and had quite a stash.

Then I placed my bet
he was quite a pet!
I fed him worms and flies
and he filled me with lies.

His advice was bad.
It made me quite mad.
I flew into a rage;
and locked him in a cage.

He jumped and shouted.
He screamed and pouted.
“Let me out I say.
It’s just the wrong day.

My advice will surely pay!”
He said again the same way.
“Back to the bog,
you mean old frog!

Your advice is wrong.
You sold me a song!
Back to your log
you cruel, cruel frog!”

“Hah,” he said.
“So easily led.
You’re no better than I
the one who eats a fly.

Wishing for riches,
you’ve lost your britches!”
A NEW VIEW

Presented with a new point of view;
You quiver and shake and threaten to sue.
I offer up solution;
You spout the constitution.

I propose a change of decision.
You pale, throwing derision.
You call me a heretic;
claiming I’m a derelict.

I extend a friendship hand.
You slap and spit, throwing sand.
Your spittle fills the air;
yet still I do care.

Your anger and hatred spouts;
a fountain filled with doubts.
Your spray covers me whole;
drenching me with all its woe.

Lost and forlorn;
you have only scorn.
While I dance and shout;
all the while doing without.

You dig in your heels;
grounding out evil eels.
Helplessly I observe;
Amazed by your nerve.

And so you’ve made your choice;
No longer to rejoice.
But to linger instead;
in the throes of dread.

Driven by interrogation;
Hell bent on isolation.
Defending your space;
making it a great case.

You worry and fret.
Your mind is set.
Using your might,
to prove you’re “right.”

Looking on, I scratch my head.
I shrug my shoulders as it’s all be said.
DEEP BLUE

After a time, it becomes familiar:
Emptiness, loneliness.
An island floating in a deep, blue sea;
Drifting, silently.

Afloat with no anchor or port of call;
No connection, no direction.
Another day slips by, with aimless sails afloat;
Gliding, sliding.

You’ve been here before, in foreign waters;
Searching, hoping.
Ahoy a distant shore, terra firma awaits!
Floating, gloating.

Just another island, passing the day.