 I want to say good morning to everyone and welcome to our session on mental illness in poetry. Since April is Poetry Month, it seems appropriate to include poetry in this conference on identity and mental illness. In this session, I'm going to share some general information with you about the relationship between mental illness and poetry. Then our guest panelists will read poetry for you to think about. I'd like you to feel free to comment as you hear or read the poems. You can get the poems individually as text on a note card by clicking this red poster once. Don't click it again. If you click it twice, you won't get the note cards. So let's begin. Where can we turn to learn about the relationship between poetry and mental illness? There are two kinds of experts. One group of experts would be the poets themselves. What did they say? This is a quote. Men have called me mad, but the question is not yet settled whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence. Whether much that is glorious, whether all that is profound does not spring from disease of thought for moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. Thus Seath Edgar Allen Poe, who was one of the dreary dark poets of depression, also stated of his life that I became insane with long intervals of horrible sanity. Now there's a poet who embraced his mental illness. Another group of experts would be academic researchers. We like him, so I'm glad. One you may want to look into is James C. Kaufman, if you're interested in this topic. In 2011, Kaufman reported an historic historiometric research study that means he looked back in history of 1,629 writers. He found that female poets were statistically significantly more likely to suffer from mental illness than female fiction writers. Female poets were also more likely to be mentally ill than male writers of any type. Kaufman also closely studied 520 eminent women, including poets, fiction writers, nonfiction writers, visual artists, politicians and actresses. Thanks, Rayvon. Yet again, Kaufman found that female poets were statistically significantly more likely to experience mental illness than any other famous women. He called this the Sylvia Plath Effect. Who is this Sylvia Plath? We will hear from her in a few minutes. I'm going to now introduce our poetry readers, who are Suelen and James Hartzong. They are both virtual ability members. They were first a couple in second life and now they are married in real life. I invited them to read these poems today because they're both very stable, yet emotional people. I'm proud to have met them in the physical world. I am going to warn the audience now that these poems are emotionally tough. They may contain triggers for people who are susceptible to such things. There's no rough language in the poetry, but I have to say sometimes the imagery is going to be a little challenging for some of us. So please accept that warning. If you need to leave, you can do that and return in an hour for the next session. If you could, if you get disturbed, you can leave at any time and you don't need to excuse yourself. Just TP out. James, this is the place. Did you have something to say about yourself and these poems? Yes, thank you, gentlemen. I'm going to paste this and read it. My wife and I, we are both survivors, but I used to run a group for survivors. And one of the things I offered was we used to be victims. Over time, we became survivors. Now we can move on to a new category where we can be called thrivers. This was an important part of my personal recovery, dealing with PTSD and similar issues. So hopefully we won't trigger anyone. As general said, if you need to, please feel free to leave without notice and return for the next session. Thank you. And I want to thank you, James, for that very supportive thought. That's a wonderful thought. So now let's get onto the poetry. That's why you're here. Feel free audience to add information about your reactions to the poem and to talk about how it reveals the author's sense of identity as a person with mental health issues. And you can just type those into local chat. Our first author, Jessica Lau, is a young contemporary poet, and I really could find any further information about her. And so I think you're going to read the first poem for us. Yes, thank you, gentle. This is titled, I am not like you, life with mental illness. I am not like you. Why can't you see? I am not like you. Everything terrifies me. I can't be normal like you want me to be. I am not like you. I struggle to get up every day and face even the simple tasks a person should be able to do. I am not like you. I can't pretend anymore. The smallest things set me off in the worst way every day. I used to be able to pretend I was okay. I am not like you. I am not wired the same way. My mind races with million thoughts every single second minute an hour of every single day. I am not like you. Anxiety, depression, ADD, a learning disability. To name a few, control me. No matter what I try to do. I am not like you. When I try to say how I feel, you don't seem to understand what I am trying to say. Instead, you twist and turn my thoughts and words, taking them the wrong way. I am not like you. I honestly do not know when what I am saying could be taken the wrong way. I am not like you. Why can't you see past my failings? I am not like you. I am slowly drifting away, trying to keep myself together, not doing good in any sort of way. I am not like you. Thank you. Oh, good. I didn't have my speak, but not that was helpful. Charles Kukowski is our next poet. And he is he was a really rough guy. He was an unashamed alcoholic. He pretty much lived as a bum in the American West. He bummed around and lived with anybody he could take him in. He wrote vividly about his life, never felt ashamed of himself or his actions. And James, you're next. Okay, then. Today, I will be reading Alone with Everybody by Charles Kukowski. The flesh covers the bone, and they put a mind there and sometimes the soul. And the women break faces against the walls. And the men drink too much. And nobody finds the one. But keep looking, crawling in and out of beds. Flesh covers the bone. And the flesh searches for more than flesh. There's no chance at all. We're all trapped by a singular fate. Nobody ever finds the one. The city dumps fill, the junkyards fill, the madhouses fill, the hospitals fill, the graveyards fill. Nothing else fills. Thank you. Is that speaking to anybody else? That's a very powerful poem, I think. It here says you can't cut off the flesh, you're just trapped in. Lauren says there's a sense of isolation when you have clinical anxiety, that everyone else is going to be normal or calm. And you are not. Charles says the spirit is trapped in the body, all of us, but some of us would like to get out. And twisty says some people just don't get it. Okay, the next author, Carrie Klein. All I know about her is that she's a contemporary poet. And I couldn't find any more information about her. And I think Sue Ellen's going to read. Yes, thank you. Her poem is titled Hello, I am a person, a poem about anxiety. Hello, I am the girl in the door next to you. I really don't know how to say this. So I'm just going to just speak. Hello, I am the girl down the hall. I don't know what you've been told about me. So I am just going to speak. Hello, I am your roommate. I don't know what I did to offend you. So I am just going to speak. Hello, I am your classmate. I don't want to bother you. So I am just going to speak. Hello, I am your classmate. Correct. Hello, I am your employee. I don't want to let you down. So I am just going to speak. Hello, I am a person. Last semester, I almost died by suicide. I am a person. Last summer, I lost people I thought were my best friends. I am a person. Last year, I was bullied. I am a person. Last year, I made mistakes. I am a person. Last year, I hurt some people. I am a person. Last year, I hurt myself more. Hello, I am a person who is afraid. Hello, I am a person who is crying out. Hello, I am a person who is sorry. Hello, I am a person who needs a friend. Hello, I am a person who is terrified. Hello, I am a person who needs help. Hello, I am a person who wants to please you. Hello, I am a person. Hello, I am a person. I don't want your pity. I don't want your stares. I don't want your false friendliness. I don't want your acceptance. I don't want anything from you. Hello, I am a person. I don't want your pity. I want your friendship. I want to be invited. I want to laugh with you. I want to watch Netflix until one in the morning with you. I want to eat in the dining room with you. I want to talk to you. I want to study with you. I want to work with you. Hello, I am a person. I don't want your pity. I want your friendship. I need it. Thank you. There's a lot of comments here. I thought it was a touching poem. I think it's pretty obvious that she's a college student. If you are a person worthy of love, people should matter. It is so very simple. She loves it. Marianne says, I think that people with anxiety feel that they have to hide it to conform with what others without anxiety expect from our personalities or behavior. So many aspects of anxiety involve expended energy trying to pretend we don't have it. And then we're tired or irritable because of that effort, which people then interpret as discord or moodiness, and it's just exhaustion. Marcus says, not wanting to be seen as wearing a badge that says anxiety or other disability is something he can identify with. And Faust reminds us that friendship is one of the finest goods. Kityara says, we're forced to hide it. And twisty seconds that. And Ice Guy says, going through the motions despite that feeling of an invisible barrier around yourself. And Shira says, why should anyone have to say I am a person in our era? Good question. Orange says, the worst is when you don't know you have it. Marianne says, she doesn't hide it anymore in her close personal relationships. They know, and it helps our relationship for them to understand how I process things with different filters and reactions. It's a relief to have people like that in your world who get it. And I will comment that these poets certainly do not hide. So let's hear another one of all of the authors today. Kurt Cobain, maybe the one you're most familiar with. But he's the founder of the band Nirvana. He was an exceptionally gifted singer and songwriter from Seattle, Washington, until this untimely death by suicide. I think we're ready for the reading. This poem is entitled dumb, like Kurt Cobain. I'm not like them, but I can pretend the sun is gone. But I have a light. The day is done. I'm having fun. I think I'm dumb. Or maybe just happy. Think I'm just happy. My heart is broke. I have some glue. Help me inhale and mend it with you. We'll float around and hang out on clouds. Then we'll come down and have a hangover. Have a hangover. In the sun, fall asleep. Wish away. The soul is cheap. Lesson learned. Wish me luck. Soothe the burn. Wake me up. I'm not like them. But I can't pretend. The sun is gone. But I have a light. The day is done. But I have having fun. I think I'm dumb. Thank you. Yeah, so it is a lovely awesome poem. And the two lines, I'm not like them, but I can pretend. That's what the last poem was talking about wasn't it? Brian says there is a strong correlation between drug and alcohol addictions and GAD. Others stick to hit people with anxiety with another weakness when it is just a desperate coping methodology. And Shaila says second time substance use has entered the equation. Yes, sniffing glue and bukkowski. Yeah, there's a lot of substance abuse in trying to self medicate your mental illness. GAD is generalized anxiety disorder. Thank you, Lori Vaughan. And Abby says the drug addictions are a relief. They're self medication. So next on our list, John Clare. He was an English poet who lived in the mid 1800s. I'm going to go back and read those two comments. Is it abuse or an effort to treat which we can just call use rather than abuse? If we wanted to end fine solutions, don't put it on the person to be a saint and slaughtered and so forth. We are not Olympians, not all anyway. And yes, that makes sense. And Roy Ann says drugs are used to quiet the internal chatter and bring down emotions to a level where others can relate to us better after we have numbed and dumbed down. I need to have better wait time. I apologize for going ahead too fast. And ice guy reminds us of the song titled comfortably numb. So John Clare, our next poet was English. He lived in the mid 1800s. So he's the oldest poet today. He was actually institutionalized in the Northampton General lunatic asylum. They determined he was unfit for society due to years addicted to poetical prozings. He was too poetical. And he composed this poem while he was in the asylum. This poem is titled I am. I am yet what I am none cares or knows. My friends forsake me like a memory lost. I am the self consumer of my walls. They rise and vanish and oblivious host like shadows and loves frenzied stifled throws. And yet I am and live like vapors tossed into the nothingness of scorn and noise into the living sea of waking dreams, where there is neither sense of life or joys, but the vast shipwreck of my life's esteem. Even the dearest that I love the best are strange, may rather stranger than the rest. I long for scenes where man hath never trod, a place where women never smiled or whopped, there to abide with my creator God, and I sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept, untroubling and untroubled where I lie, the grass below above the vaulted sky. Thank you. And just a reminder to click the red post drop here to get the new cards of the poetry. Okay, Abby says how pathetic and callous society is. And I sky says to Shira, we know you, we won't ever consider you too poetical. And KTR says this poem reminds her of the silent screen that only we here we long for a whisper or even a cry, it is rather powerful. And Willow and Glory Joy thought this was a good poem. And Shira says he was thrown away from writing poetry to know for sure we must see those in pain, those who ache, those who have not, those who are thrown away. And KTR is giving everybody a hug. Here's the hugs from KTR. And says once you begin to research the prevalence of anxiety and creative bent, artist, poets, writers, musicians, you'll see you are part of a very distinguished club. And NEP says, all these poems are making me feel like I don't need to take my antipsychotics anymore. I think I'm being cured. And I would not advise that NEP. Community helps, it's a good support, but it does not cure. And Shira says I write much from a paranoid perspective or a fear perspective or an aching perspective. It's her release, her way of handling a society which doesn't see how messed up it is either just how messed up others are. So our next poem is from Langston Hughes. And he was the greatest American voice of black despair in the dark days of the Jim Crow laws and legal discrimination. Yeah, I'm thinking that's my cue. Minstrel Man by Langston Hughes. Oh, hello, somebody. Who's this? Hello, Willow. Not a problem, dear. Minstrel Man by Langston Hughes. Because my mouth is wide with laughter, and my throat is deep with song. You didn't think I suffered after I have held my pain so long. Because my mouth is wide with laughter, you do not hear my inner cry. Because my feet are gay with dancing. You do not know I die. Okay. And yes, Lord Vaughn, if you click this red poster, you'll get the poems delivered. Just click it once. Don't click it again. And so that people are liking that poem. If you don't know Langston Hughes, you might want to check out other poems of his. They really talk about that historic era in the US. Susan and others just reminded me. Swelling and others just reminded me that my mic was on. Sorry. Off now. All right, next we'll go to a poem by Jean Ann Verlie. She used to be a punk rocker. And she lives in New York City. She is a very well respected contemporary poet. And in fact, she was a 2017 NEA Poetry Fellow. And her title is called At the Junction. At the junction of manic and post traumatic stress, stand the clutch of woman I keep closest. After the assault, they usher me towards the intangible. Let go, they say. Can't be strong always. Fit, whale, riot. Go unapologetically mad. Instead, I pop another abilify, abuse are 10, no longer allowed xanax. So I settle for wine, and benadryl and melatonin and wine. What they cannot understand is the anatomy of a manic girl breaking. No clean edges, no roads back. Only blood spatter, leak, voltage, sonic boom, brush fire, jail time, every day a glorious and appalling new way to burn down my own house. Here, the white pill, here, the blue, here, the sherry, the roast, the chaser, the nicotine, the kiss, fill and keep filling, swallow and swallow, keep the body occupied, keep it from igniting. Thank you. Shaila Shaila and Gloria Joy are appreciating that poem. And Kit Yara did not like that one. Kit Yara, can you want to, you want to say why you didn't like that one? And Tater says you could really feel the struggle. Kit Yara says it was too raw. Anyone else find that poem pretty raw? Big Mets said it was necessary to be that raw. Shaila likes poetry that makes her feel whether it is good or bad. It makes her feel it rings of truth. And Orianne says there are many people who can't take medication for anxiety because maybe they have health conditions or conflicting prescriptions or whatever. She feels like if we were just a little more compassionate in our societal approach to the spectrum of anxiety, we wouldn't have so many people trying to find alternative methods that are harmful to managing such as substance abuse and over the counter medications and such. And Kit Yara says that one made her feel ill. I'm sorry about that, Kit Yara. And the book says it could come off as a bit strong and she agrees with both people. And James reminds us that it's good that you can voice that feeling, Kit Yara, good that you can voice that with us. And Electra says it reminds her a bit of Ungeretti's poems where he described how he experienced World War I and Slayton agrees. Orianne says if you're emotionally reactive, you are unbalanced. If you are tired and irritable, you are a jerk. Black or white for people with anxiety. But they live in the gray. Oh, Kit Yara says in her profession, she's forced to be strong. And a poem like that hit her pretty hard. I will note that sometimes our professional lives are different than our personal lives. And as soon as saying that she agrees with Kit Yara, that was how she needed to be in her profession. Do you want to say more about that so on? You can speak. Yes, I will. In my profession, I'm a retired 911 dispatch supervisor. And we had to distance ourselves from almost 95% of our calls. So if I was dealing with someone that was suicidal, I was trained to talk them down and do my best to not let the end result happen. But I had to be able to be as calm as possible and not let it affect me. It was difficult. It's difficult for me. I have a nephew who took his life by suicide at the age of 23. And I currently have a 16 year old niece who is in the hospital and has been since February 2. Undergoing more counseling because she tried to take her life on that night and almost succeeded. And this is her fourth attempt. So yeah, I can relate. You have to be different in your professional. I could go home after a shift and just cry. Certainly, Kit Yara, we could. Thank you for letting me share that. Lots of hugs to you, Simone. Maureen says in male dominated professions like hers, there is an extra level stress to suppress anxiety because women are already perceived as quote unquote too emotional. We see this in IT, STM and executive leadership stereotypes that women with anxiety face in the workplace. Slayton says sometimes our professional life is our personal one and it's hard to go out from that situation. Ouch. Shaila says in her work, she was told the worst thing a woman could do was cry, that she would never be promoted if she showed emotion, which was fine because at the time she was so sick, she was pretty numb to all feelings. She's not sure she could do that same work today. She truly believes an issue in our society is the rule that we should not show feeling in some situations that makes sense. But in all situations, not in all situations that makes sense. Lots of hugs for Suama and Kit Yara. And Kit Yara says, sometimes I think we just need someone to say, I hear you. And those are very good words. People are agreeing with you, Kit Yara. James says it is good that that we can feel though, for a long time he was not really able to feel PTSD does that to some of us. He had a friend accidentally kill herself in front of us and die in his arms. He was literally unable to feel his emotions and actually cry until days later when he got ripped roaring drunk. Tater, yes, you can speak if you would like to. And Laurie Vaughn, you can transcribe, please. Thank you. Thank you. Hi, everyone. Yeah, you know, before my disability, and I worked in a very fast paced hospital setting, worked long hours, odd hours. And just about everyone that I saw in the day had their own issues and their own demons to fight. And every single one of them, I would have to say would look at me and say, you wouldn't understand. And you know, I do. I wouldn't speak, I would just be quiet to avoid confrontation. In society, we are taught to be professional and to hold back our feelings and quote unquote, be this persona of the job description. It's so nice in poetry. You know, thank God, it's still around. Okay, thank you, Tater. Katia says her clients say the same to her. They think she's perfect. She tries to be very human, but it's hard in her role. Shala says, thank goodness, all of this is not censored here. Marianne says it's so nice to hear other women share this experience in the workplace and that feels good. I'm looking at the time and I do want to keep to our time. X reminds us the female gender is superior women are queens of the world. So we have a woman poet next, it's Alyssa Elliot. She is a young contemporary poet, who was a college student. And she is pursuing a degree in theological research, which is an area I've never heard of. So we'll proceed to our next poem. The thing about depression is by Alyssa Elliot. The thing about depression is that some days, you feel fine. You feel what is considered normal. It's easy to eat, sleep, wake. Then there are the days when you can't even get out of bed, let alone wake up. He'll eat you like a vulture devours corpse, no matter how hard you try. Sometimes you just can't get up. You're afraid to. And when you finally do, you can't stop. You're afraid if you stop, you won't be able to start again. So you run, run, run away from problems that need to be addressed, from wrongdoing stunts you, from mistakes you made. And even the wonderful things of life, love, laughter and sweet friendships. Eventually you hit a wall and crash. You can't keep going. And instead you find yourself back to where you began. Except this time, everything you ran from catches up to you. It's harder and harder to stand, walk, exist. And yet, those bright things in life, well, they break through. Like a candle in a subterranean cave, they eliminate the first step forward. It seems impossible, but there it is, and you crawl. You tread failure to drag yourself toward that light anyway. You use every bit of strength you can muster. You're fighting against your own mind that tells you it isn't worth it. That you aren't worth it. You are straight, hurt, burned, terrified, but you keep going. Because in that time that you were running, you saw the light out of this darkness. You glimpse life outside the pit your soul's captured in. You believe the light is out there, that life of freedom is worth it with all your being. So you run again, you fall again, you crawl again, because someday you will make it out, even just for a moment. That's what depression feels like. Thank you. I'm just going to ask if that poem is an accurate depiction of everyone's depression. Shaila says, a friend said people see her as running, but she's really crawling. That hit something inside twisty and orange and a lot of other people, apparently. Glory Joyce says, being a professional, this relates very well. Big guy says he doesn't believe that's a poem. And Lori says to Shaila, that's a good analogy. And everybody is saying it's not a depiction of everybody's depression. Orange remembers he was clinically depressed for 40 years. Lucy says it's not always so strong. And yes, our readers are reading with great emotion. That is, that is one of their strengths. Jack says this little light of mine, I'm going to let it shine. She started to sing that after the poem. Kit Yara says it doesn't fit her, but it's still very powerful. And not all depression is the same. And that's important for us to know. Net asks if poetry can replace Sarah Quell. Orlando says it's powerful and depressing in itself. Orlando, what do you mean? How is the poem depressing in itself? Oh, Sarah Quell is powerful and depressing, Net says. Orlando says the poem made me think of my own and my son's depression. And Taylor reminds us that this is the analogy. This is the analogy of the cave is, oh, is that Plato, I think? Luke says that was not and is not how depression feels to her. Net misses the voices. Dee says when I get depressed, he smokes bombs. Sarah Quell killed Net's friends. I think there are alternative experiences in depression, Abby reminds us. Loren says there's little understanding about high functioning anxiety or depression. People can hide it very well on the outside if they have to. That doesn't mean that they are okay. In fact, many people who self harm do so because they're fearful of being seen as immobilized by mental illness. And so they don't get therapy or help. They try to hide it. While internally, they are self damaging to cope. Kittiar says, let love lift you up. And Tater says that's an allegory. Willow reminds us there are other ways to cope. Drawing helps Willow. I'm not sure I understand that big guy. James wants to say this, what he got from this poem is that no matter how bad things get, we can still remember that we can keep on striving to free ourselves. Nip says was never alone until I started taking the pills. Now I am so alone. It's so quiet. I think you're going to enjoy some of the other poems we have. Nip, speak to that. Okay, we're going to go on to a poem by Jeremy Tremblay. And he is a young heavy equipment operator from Ontario, Canada. One of our male poets, Lauren says, creativity is a great vent to Willow getting it out without fear of being judged. Hence the link between creative expression and mental illness or anxiety syndromes. And Jeremy writes poetry to express his life experience with mental illness. And his poem is titled My life with anxiety, a poem. Every morning is waking up to another day of thinking, putting myself down. Nothing else but a smile covering a sad man. The headaches, nervous stomach, the tingling feeling in your body, the weakness in my legs, the feeling of going crazy, the chest pains, incapable of sleeping, all this because of my dear friend, anxiety, thinking of different subjects in my mind throughout the day, the feeling of losing someone you love so much, and she probably doesn't even care. Everything I do to make someone happy always seems to turn out to a mess. Trying your best to get better, but the closest person you have has no time doesn't encourage you. All I see is people walking away. I never thought I was good enough for anyone. I think about a lot about who really cares about me, and who will support me. I don't want people thinking this is a joke. All I want is to be good, and to be the best example for my amazing son. After all, one day of thinking is gone by and feeling very possible mood. Every possible mood goes to bed the same tired and sad man who cries himself to sleep. I will never give up my life with anxiety. Thank you. Was that only about anxiety? I think it was about a lot more his emotions, lost love, trying to be a good example for his son maybe. There's a lot in that poem. Peck says, sometimes people believe men don't have emotions. Kichira adds, it was living to fight through another day. And that poem, Tater says, leaves the door open for all to relate. Let's let's move on to a type of mental illness. This is Anna Claire Martin. She is a film student from Washington, DC. And her films, her poetry and her art focus on her life with mental illness. Explaining my post-traumatic stress disorder in poetry by Emma Claire Martin. My brain is a broken time machine. The story telling in the wind. The page is blown back and forth, chapter eight, giving way to chapter three. Familiar scenes refused to stay on the left side of the bookmark. My brain is an archaeologist, is fussed, learning to breathe, and ancient buried memories breaking through the crust of the earth. This is a rewind button and an escalator changing direction at whim. My brain is a museum creator, our curator. It is no behind fingers as much to class. And memories secured in elegant golden frames. Those nights sealed and paint on canvas, never to fade, never to fade. My brain is a rogue tour guide. It is monuments built over bruised skin. It is tears unholy ground. It is historic preservation and a gift shop. Cave paintings I keep going back to like spontaneous pilgrimage. Shrine towards I never said. And although the forest fire raged over me years ago, the burn of his touch long gone. I'm still sifting through the ashes. Still following the scent of burning wood. Thank you. And that of course is a very strong poem. Stephanie likes the poems. And Tater does too. Lauren says men have that societal filter to she's guilty of that stereotype that men should be tough and strong rather than emotional. It must be so hard for men with anxiety. So many expectations thrust at them. This reminds us as we learned from our first speaker that a lot depends on the culture. Looking at the clock. Can we do that later? I'm going to go on. We want to hear from Yoshi Brown. Yoshi Brown is a spoken word poet who advocates for those with mental illness like herself. Thank you, Kateria. A lot of comments on this one. Yoshi Brown is the niece of Michael Jackson. Oh, lovely. Thank you second life. We're going to start with the niece of Michael Jackson, Yoshi Brown. And this is titled I've had to pick myself up. I've had to pick myself up at my bootstraps one last time. Once the strap comes up, rock bottom will throw in the towel. Influently resigned to a bit of mine. So I flex every muscle grew the strap for all times. The grand finale alpha and Omega Supreme Madonna, Dalai Lama strap that all straps have led up to and tried to write me off into pathetic love songs. So what do I do? Let go. Thank you. We're going to go on I apologize. I put the wrong note card in there got a little lag. And we're going to go on to Sylvia Plath. Goodness gracious things are going strangely. Sylvia Plath was an American poet. I told you we get back to her later. She also wrote short stories and a novel. She was institutionalized many times during her short life for mental illness and attempted suicides. So we'll go on to her poem. Sorry, folks. Somebody was advising me in an I am that I said something inappropriate. I apologize if I did I have no idea but let's get on with the training. Lady Lazarus by Sylvia Plath. I have done it again. One year and every 10 I manage it. The sort of walking miracle my skin, bright as a Nazi landscape, my right foot, a paperweight, my face a featureless fine, Julian, peel off the napkin. Oh, my enemy, do I terrify? The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth. The sour breath will vanish in a day. Soon soon the flash, the gravecade eight will be at home on me. And I, a smiling woman, I'm only 30. And like the cat, I have nine times to die. This is number three. What a trash to annihilate each decade. What a million filaments, the peanut crunching crowd just in to see them unwrap me hand and foot, the big strip tease, gentlemen, ladies. These are my hands, my knees, and maybe skin and bone. Nevertheless, I am the same identical woman. The first time it happened I was 10. It was an accident. The second time I meant to last it out and not come back at all. I rocked it shut. As a seashell, they had to call in and call and pick the worms off of me like sticky pearls. Dying is in an art like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I've called. It's easy enough to do it in the cell. It's easy enough to do it and stay put. It's the theatrical. Come back in broad day to the same place, the same face, the same brute amused shout. A miracle that knocks me out. There is a charge. For the line of my scars, there's a charge for the hearing of my heart. It really goes. There's a charge, a very large charge for a word retouch or a bit of blood. What a piece of my hair or my clothes. So so had a doctor. So had an enemy. I am your opus and your valuable pure gold baby that melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I underestimate your great concern. Ash Ash you poke and stir. Flesh bone. There is nothing there. A cake of soap or wedding ring, a gold filling. You gotta go to Lucifer. Beware. Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair. And I even like hair. Thank you. And we have one last poem and then we're going to clear the stage for our next speaker. Thank you all for participating so well today. This poem's title is the first day's night had come. The first day's night had come. And grateful that a thing. So terrible had been endured. I told my soul to sing. She said her strings were snapped. Her bow to Adam's blown. And so meant her gave me work until another morn. And then a day is huge as yesterday's in pairs. Unroll the tour in my face until it blocked my eyes. My brain begun to laugh. I mumbled like a fool. And though two years ago that day, my brain keeps giggling still. And something's odd within that person that I was. And this one do not feel the same. Could it be madness this? Thank you. Thank you so Ellen and James. And thank you to our audience for sharing so much today. We really appreciated it. Thank you. Now we'll clear the stage for Mohammed.