“Morning”
By: Joseph Brindley
Retraux Form
static compartmentalized, hollow face
remembering the past through rain
get out of bed today
find the right words to say
taut and torn
claustrophobic in a wide open space
another day to smile in vain
Poetry comes in all forms, from sonnets to free form, and something I’ve wanted to do to better express myself is create some new forms of poetry for others to use.
The Retraux
The Retraux is a 7-line stanzaic poetic form developed specifically for trauma literature and recovery-based poetry. Its shape enacts the recursive logic of survival: echo, rupture, and return. The form is closed and self-reflective, yet deliberately avoids neat symmetry – evoking the psychological tension between progress and relapse.
Stanza Length:
7 lines per stanza (may be used as a standalone or repeated modularly)
• A lines: Rhyme with each other
• B lines: Rhyme with each other
• C lines: Rhyme with each other and must begin with the same phrase
• X line: A short rupture line – emotionally or grammatically incomplete (1–3 syllables) – functions as a volta or psychological break
Recommended Syllable Counts:
• A: 10 syllables
• B: 8 syllables
• C: 6 syllables
• X: 1 – 3 syllables
• C-line repetition: Both C lines must begin with the same phrase or clause, creating an echo that highlights trauma imprinting
• X-line rupture: Functions like an emotional blink, dissociative pause, or sharp turn. Often enjambed or fragmented
• Backward return: The final A and B lines mirror earlier phrasing, emphasizing regression, self-surveillance, or cognitive looping
Ideal For:
• Trauma writing
• Abuse survivorship
• Recursive memory or grief
• Psychological dissociation or identity fracture
• Therapy-based narrative work
Tone Guidance:
• Avoid ornamental language
• Let tension arise from formal echo and compression
• Emphasize internal spirals over narrative arcs
“The Alchemy of Sunflowers”
By: Joseph Brindley
they called him broken –
as if a fractured mind
couldn’t still conjure sky.
they forget how he walked the fields
not to escape the noise
but to give it form.
his steps wrote hymns
into the soil,
even when no one stayed to read them.
he was never spared the pain.
it clawed into brushstroke,
not hidden,
but translated with redemption.
he did not paint to feel better.
he painted to speak louder.
this was not healing.
this was transcription –
a way to let sorrow be seen
without making it small.
they mistook the yellow for cheer.
they missed how his stars
bled out from the dark,
how he spilled ochre
until the hush flinched,
taught silence what it meant
to be seen.
he did not silence the storm –
he gathered it.
let the thunder strain into pigment.
let sorrow stretch his seeing
until the blaze became a threshold.
he did not chase light.
he became it.
and still they left.
friends. family.
his name curled from their mouths
like something better buried.
but the canvas stayed.
so he offered it
the only thing he had left: devotion that burned
through absence.
his hands outlived their forgetting.
his grief became exaltation.
his solitude, a cathedral.
his silence,
a sermon in color.
no gallery could frame
what he gave us.
he gifted us
the echo of awe,
the ache of a sky
that once pulsed through one man’s eyes.
you do not need to feel loved
to offer something lasting.
no one must choose you
for your light
to outlive them.
what he made
wasn’t escape –
it was a resurrection
of every moment
he refused to let the dark win.
he proved
that even if you are unchosen,
even if you are unseen,
even if the world
cannot hold you,
you can still
teach the stars
how to listen.
© 2025