PTSD, Trauma and Poetry

Between 2004 and 2009 I covered the Iraq War for the BBC. I was one of a small group of senior journalists who took it in turns to be the Baghdad Bureau Chief. Our tours of duty lasted a calendar month, and I did 13 tours of them. During one I made a note of the exlosions I had heard which had caused loss of life - there were 147 in that single month. As my American friends say - do the math.
I saw several bomb scenes, and had several narrow escapes. I also had some traumatic experiences elsewhere in the Middle East.

After a rocket came through the bureau roof in 2008 I started displaying symptoms of PTSD. I got the professional help I needed, and one of the ways in which I aided my own recovery was by writing poetry. The following sequence of poems shows my progress through the condition. Many years later I have recovered... but the final poem in the sequence - A Lion Lives With Me - tells that story.

I have heard from lots of people - including complete strangers who've felt the need and taken the trouble of contacting me - that my poems have helped their recoveries too. That's why I think they deserve their own section on this website; to read more, you could buy my book, Shadow Cast by Mountains.

The Gusts - Baghdad

I knew it was coming.
The Green Zone sirens
Blared their warning
Calling out across the ancient Tigris
Spreading gentle ripples of terror
Through the womb of history.

I felt it speeding.
Through the dusty orange air
I heard it roaring
Making its cartoon clichéd wail
As it rushed to meet its noisy rendezvous
With a haphazard crash site.

Then I felt it screaming.
But still it hadn’t reached me
I felt it, shivering,
Holding my breath in anticipation
Of the hot blast
That I couldn’t escape.

In my face the fiery passing.
A slap-like blow
In an instant leaving
Clouds of debris and smoke
As my choking breath escaped
And everything went black.

The Gusts - Loch Lubnaig

I saw it coming.
First the wave it made along the surface
I saw it running
Along the water of the Loch
Scattering shining shards of light
Across the length of the water.

Then I heard it whispering.
In the waving branches
I heard it murmuring
In the pine trees that stood
Close by the side of the path
Casting their dark blue shadows.

Then I felt it coming.
But still it hadn’t reached me
I felt it, shivering,
Holding my breath in anticipation
Of the cold blast
That I couldn’t escape.

In my face the icy passing.
A slap-like blow
In an instant leaving,
Leaping on down the valley
As my breath escaped
And the sun shone.

Callender, Scotland, May 2008

NBH*

Playful stones thrown
By small children
Bounce harmlessly
Off our backs.

Now bullets skip
In the ruins
Of the freshly
Flattened homes;

And a tree stands
Alone among the
Concrete Rubble,
Growing green.
* * * *
I'm running by the river
That watered Eden;
Its reeds whisper
Of Babylon.

A body is dragged up the
Stone embankment;
It leaves a wet
Brown stain behind;

It stares to heaven, looking
In vain for mercy,
A round hole drilled
In its forehead.
* * * *
Hour after hour I find
New ways to say
The soldier’s head
Was hacked off.

*New Broadcasting House
- The BBC's London HQ

Red Never Seems to Dry Completely

(What the Artist Told Me)

She paints like an otter swims:
 Instinct, bold and lithe, guides her 
Capture of elusive glinting expression.

Now in the heart of her canvas 
An expansive splash of violence
 Reveals to me an eternal truth:

Even in baking Levantine sun,
 Even on hot absorbent stone, 
Red never seems to dry completely.