{"id":133444,"date":"2019-02-07T13:32:19","date_gmt":"2019-02-07T18:32:19","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=133444"},"modified":"2019-02-07T13:32:19","modified_gmt":"2019-02-07T18:32:19","slug":"poetry-rx-i-woke-to-myself","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/02\/07\/poetry-rx-i-woke-to-myself\/","title":{"rendered":"Poetry Rx: I Woke to Myself"},"content":{"rendered":"

In our column Poetry Rx, readers\u00a0write in<\/a>\u00a0with a specific emotion, and our resident poets\u2014Sarah Kay, Kaveh Akbar, and Claire Schwartz\u2014take turns prescribing the perfect poems to match. This week,\u00a0Claire Schwartz is on the line.<\/i><\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

\u00a9Ellis Rosen<\/p><\/div>\n

Dear Poets,<\/em><\/p>\n

I\u2019ve been betrayed by my best friend, my mentor, and my first (and only) lover.
\n<\/em><\/p>\n

He was a narcissist, a cheater, and a liar\u2014but I didn\u2019t recognize\u00a0it quickly enough.\u00a0I left him and am doing all I can to heal, but my half-closed wounds rip open at the slightest irritations. I crumble when a mention of him is floated between mutual friends, or when I discover another of his countless mistresses populating my \u201cSuggested Friends\u201d list on Facebook. He\u2019s a successful man, and for him, life has gone on. I, on the other hand, feel ashamed and insignificant. Worse than the pain is my anger: I keep rewriting our breakup script, inserting scenes where I finally get to make him feel my pain.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Do you have a poem to help me surrender my rage?\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Kindest,
\n<\/em>Eaten By Grief \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Dear Eaten by Grief,<\/p>\n

I\u2019m sorry that you\u2019ve experienced this betrayal, and I\u2019m glad you\u2019re taking on the work of healing.<\/p>\n

For you, Camonghne Felix\u2019s \u201cYes, It is Possible<\/a>\u201d:<\/p>\n

For most of my life I remained unaware of this
\nthe way a wingless arm is unaware of the conceit<\/p>\n

of flight, but now I know that, yes, it is possible
\nto be allergic to a person, it is possible for<\/p>\n

the body to be wholly autonomous in how
\nit chooses to preserve itself \u2026<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

At first, the comparison is jarring. How could the glorious possibilities of flight be akin to revulsion felt for another person? Felix\u2019s poem reminds me that what seems, at first, like a disjointed metaphor can be joined in the living of it. It takes the whole poem for the speaker to find the joy of flight. The poem ends:<\/p>\n

\u2026 I couldn\u2019t stomach
\na morsel, my receptors stunted<\/p>\n

with the shock on an imminent shift
\nI wept and cocooned myself into<\/p>\n

a sweat until, at once, it stopped\u2014
\nand I woke to myself at the kitchen table<\/p>\n

perfectly unbothered<\/p>\n

fingering cubes of fresh wet aloe into my mouth
\nas if life itself were some benign victory I\u2019d won.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Let me be clear: I do not believe poetry requires suffering. I do not believe that pain is the greatest teacher. I do believe that where you are\u2014wherever that is\u2014holds lessons for how you might grow and that, sometimes, you have to be still to hear that lesson. You name this person as your \u201cfirst and only lover,\u201d which is to say these ways of knowing are new to you. \u201cno matter what \/\/ you think you want, it\u2019s the body that decides,\u201d Felix reminds us. Let it. You are angry. Let anger be your cocoon. When it has done its necessary and transformative work, you will leave it behind. You will find other loves, and you will find them using a newly honed understanding of the kindness that good love requires.<\/p>\n

\u2014CS<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Dear Poets,<\/em><\/p>\n

Just over two months ago, I unexpectedly met someone. We became close quickly and soon started dating. I had gotten lost in manipulative and unhealthy dating experiences in the past, and so having someone who genuinely encouraged me to be myself and to pursue my own passions and goals was refreshing and sweet. I greatly admired his passion and willingness to work hard for the things he wants to do. I loved that we could still be our own individual brilliant selves and walk down our individual paths together\u2014or so I thought. Recently he decided that he wants to prioritize his own pursuits and has no interest in investing time and effort into a relationship. Though he tells me it\u2019s not me, my brain still won\u2019t stop trying to figure out what I did wrong. I don\u2019t know how to even be mad because his ambition is one of the things I love about him. And though now I have more time to focus on myself as well, I wish we had more time together. Why are there not more hours in the day or energy in our bodies? Was it really love if it felt like work? I am very thankful for what was, but I am mourning for what could have been. I am disappointed that it was over so fast and sometimes the hurt makes me wonder it would\u2019ve been better if we never met. Do you have a poem for this kind of grief?<\/em><\/p>\n

Sincerely,<\/em>
\nWishing We Had More Time<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Dear Wishing We Had More Time,<\/p>\n

When I read your letter, I thought immediately of a poem that takes its title from a Tarot card: Diane Wakoski\u2019s \u201c3 of Swords<\/a>\u201d:<\/p>\n

Oh how can I tell you, she loves you,
\nbut wants to be alone,
\nwants to be in your wrist,
\na pulse,
\nbut not in your house. See,
\nshe is outside the window now.
\nYou look at her.
\nIt does not mean you should try
\nto bring her inside.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

I understand that particular kind of spinning heartbreak\u2014\u201cIt\u2019s not you. It\u2019s me.\u201d Because the truth is, in the context of a relationship, those boundaries become murky. In the wake of hearing that line, I\u2019ve asked myself over and over again, \u201cBut what is it about me that doesn\u2019t fit the life you envision?\u201d And here\u2019s another truth: sometimes trying to imagine what might have been is necessary self-reflection that will position you to love better in the future. And sometimes, instead, it is a way to wrap yourself so tightly around the past that it prevents you from moving into the wideness of what might be. In \u201cIn Blackwater Woods<\/a>,\u201d Mary Oliver writes:<\/p>\n

To live in this world<\/p>\n

you must be able
\nto do three things:
\nto love what is mortal;
\nto hold it<\/p>\n

Against your bones knowing
\nyour own life depends on it;
\nand, when the time comes to let it
\ngo,
\nto let it go.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Oliver\u2019s poem speaks most directly to death, but I think it also addresses heartbreak. What you have now is an opportunity to do that work, to move through the letting go.<\/p>\n

In his beautiful essay<\/a> about (among other things) Tarot, Alexander Chee writes: \u201cI wanted one of those mirrors, the ones positioned so you can see around a corner, but for my whole life. That\u2019s what I believed the Tarot could be.\u201d After turning over his own desires, Chee crafts not an answer, but a question: \u201cWhat can you trust of what you can\u2019t see?\u201d Pitch your life into the not-knowing. So much possibility resides there.<\/p>\n

\u2014CS<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Dear Poets,<\/em><\/p>\n

I am a young woman who has been facing chronic pain since my early teens. Sometimes, looking at the countless years ahead with this invisible disability feels crushing. I still do my best to live a full and vibrant life, but sometimes it is inevitably marred by the pain. Is there a poem that talks about looking down a long road where you will have to balance what sometimes feels like a double life, which few others can understand?<\/em><\/p>\n

Painfully Aware<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Dear Painfully Aware,<\/p>\n

Before Meghan O\u2019Rourke was diagnosed with late-stage Lyme disease but after she began to feel disconcerting change in her body, she found herself suspended between what she knew to be true and the world\u2019s denial of that truth. O\u2019Rourke recalls<\/a>: \u201cDoctors were telling me they couldn\u2019t find anything wrong, so I was thrust back upon this question \u2026 Are my perceptions real? What does \u2018real\u2019 mean?\u201d For O\u2019Rourke, a poet, language posed both problems and possibilities. In her poem, \u201cA Note on Process<\/a>,\u201d O\u2019Rourke writes:<\/p>\n

There is no way to demarcate suffering. What one \u2018feels\u2019 when
\n\u2018suffering\u2019 is not like a date in history but like a day that cannot
\nbe logged.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

So much popular language around illness coerces a narrative. I hope you feel better.<\/em> Get well soon. <\/em>How do you tell a story without a beginning, middle, and end? What your body knows is that the fictions so many of us try to sustain\u2014that life might, at some point, be pain-free\u2014really do not hold. O\u2019Rourke\u2019s poem is comprised of sixty-one prosaic fragments. She remembers: \u201cI couldn\u2019t make sense of what those pieces were about, so I pushed them into this more essayistic form, where you\u2019re pressed to make sense of things.\u201d The form opens the connections between the poem\u2019s subjects: illness, gymnastics, adolescence, longing for a child, aging.<\/p>\n

O\u2019Rourke affirms the loneliness produced by what, as you say, \u201cfew others can understand.\u201d<\/p>\n

A year earlier, something had gone awry in the minute biological
\nparticulars of my body. No one understood what it was. Trapped
\nin a body that wasn\u2019t working right, I couldn\u2019t work, couldn\u2019t
\nthink. Time got sticky and meaningless. The fatigue so profound
\nit swallowed me.<\/p>\n

Everyone\u2019s tired, a friend said, from across the chasm, one day when I
\nmanaged to get out of the house.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Illness is also a kind of expertise. You know what your body knows. When your body\u2019s knowing pushes against what the world tells you, what else might you have to teach the world?<\/p>\n

There is nothing sustaining about sickness<\/p>\n

and because there is no end, there can be no \u2018goal\u2019
\nand because there is no goal there is<\/p>\n

no process<\/p>\n

: so what is there?<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

\u2014CS<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Want more? Read earlier\u00a0installments of\u00a0Poetry Rx<\/a>.\u00a0Need your own poem?\u00a0Write to us<\/a>!<\/i><\/p>\n

Claire Schwartz is the author of\u00a0<\/em>bound\u00a0(Button Poetry, 2018)<\/em>. Her poetry has appeared in\u00a0<\/em>Apogee,<\/em>\u00a0Bennington Review,<\/em>\u00a0The\u00a0Massachusetts Review, and\u00a0<\/em>Prairie Schooner, and her essays, reviews, and interviews have appeared in\u00a0<\/em>The\u00a0Iowa Review,<\/em>\u00a0Los Angeles Review of Books,<\/em>\u00a0Virginia Quarterly Review,<\/em>\u00a0and elsewhere.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

This week, Claire Schwartz brings you poems for letting go of anger, for healing after a breakup, and for facing chronic illness. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1418,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[33114],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-133444","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry-rx"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nPoetry Rx: I Woke to Myself by Claire Schwartz<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"This week, Claire Schwartz brings you poems for letting go of anger, for healing after a breakup, and for facing chronic illness.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/02\/07\/poetry-rx-i-woke-to-myself\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Poetry Rx: I Woke to Myself by Claire Schwartz\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"February 7, 2019 \u2013 This week, Claire Schwartz brings you poems for letting go of anger, for healing after a breakup, and for facing chronic illness.\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/02\/07\/poetry-rx-i-woke-to-myself\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"The Paris Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:publisher\" content=\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2019-02-07T18:32:19+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/02\/poetry_rx-1024x493-2-2-2-3-2-1.jpg\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:width\" content=\"1024\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:height\" content=\"493\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:type\" content=\"image\/jpeg\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"Claire Schwartz\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:creator\" content=\"@parisreview\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:site\" content=\"@parisreview\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"Claire Schwartz\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Est. reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"8 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\/\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Article\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/02\/07\/poetry-rx-i-woke-to-myself\/#article\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/02\/07\/poetry-rx-i-woke-to-myself\/\"},\"author\":{\"name\":\"Claire Schwartz\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/b2cd0b1ff3273c9c675c7b255df05808\"},\"headline\":\"Poetry Rx: I Woke to Myself\",\"datePublished\":\"2019-02-07T18:32:19+00:00\",\"mainEntityOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/02\/07\/poetry-rx-i-woke-to-myself\/\"},\"wordCount\":1688,\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/02\/07\/poetry-rx-i-woke-to-myself\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/02\/poetry_rx-1024x493-2-2-2-3-2-1-1024x493.jpg\",\"articleSection\":[\"Poetry Rx\"],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/02\/07\/poetry-rx-i-woke-to-myself\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/02\/07\/poetry-rx-i-woke-to-myself\/\",\"name\":\"Poetry Rx: I Woke to Myself by Claire Schwartz\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website\"},\"primaryImageOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/02\/07\/poetry-rx-i-woke-to-myself\/#primaryimage\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/02\/07\/poetry-rx-i-woke-to-myself\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/02\/poetry_rx-1024x493-2-2-2-3-2-1-1024x493.jpg\",\"datePublished\":\"2019-02-07T18:32:19+00:00\",\"description\":\"This week, Claire Schwartz brings you poems for letting go of anger, for healing after a breakup, and for facing chronic illness.\",\"breadcrumb\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/02\/07\/poetry-rx-i-woke-to-myself\/#breadcrumb\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/02\/07\/poetry-rx-i-woke-to-myself\/\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/02\/07\/poetry-rx-i-woke-to-myself\/#primaryimage\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/02\/poetry_rx-1024x493-2-2-2-3-2-1.jpg\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/02\/poetry_rx-1024x493-2-2-2-3-2-1.jpg\",\"width\":1024,\"height\":493,\"caption\":\"\u00a9Ellis Rosen\"},{\"@type\":\"BreadcrumbList\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/02\/07\/poetry-rx-i-woke-to-myself\/#breadcrumb\",\"itemListElement\":[{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":1,\"name\":\"Home\",\"item\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/\"},{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":2,\"name\":\"Poetry Rx: I Woke to Myself\"}]},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/\",\"name\":\"The Paris Review\",\"description\":\"The best prose, interviews, poetry, and art. Since 1953.\",\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization\"},\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":{\"@type\":\"EntryPoint\",\"urlTemplate\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?s={search_term_string}\"},\"query-input\":{\"@type\":\"PropertyValueSpecification\",\"valueRequired\":true,\"valueName\":\"search_term_string\"}}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"Organization\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization\",\"name\":\"The Paris Review\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/\",\"logo\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png\",\"width\":696,\"height\":696,\"caption\":\"The Paris Review\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/\"},\"sameAs\":[\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/\",\"https:\/\/x.com\/parisreview\",\"https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/parisreview\"]},{\"@type\":\"Person\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/b2cd0b1ff3273c9c675c7b255df05808\",\"name\":\"Claire Schwartz\",\"image\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/image\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/dbdc898e0724bb6a92a2fe5046deaaa9a260d0f65a25600a5003f565ffa4968b?s=96&d=mm&r=g\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/dbdc898e0724bb6a92a2fe5046deaaa9a260d0f65a25600a5003f565ffa4968b?s=96&d=mm&r=g\",\"caption\":\"Claire Schwartz\"},\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/author\/cschwartz\/\"}]}<\/script>\n<!-- \/ Yoast SEO Premium plugin. -->","yoast_head_json":{"title":"Poetry Rx: I Woke to Myself by Claire Schwartz","description":"This week, Claire Schwartz brings you poems for letting go of anger, for healing after a breakup, and for facing chronic illness.","robots":{"index":"index","follow":"follow","max-snippet":"max-snippet:-1","max-image-preview":"max-image-preview:large","max-video-preview":"max-video-preview:-1"},"canonical":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/02\/07\/poetry-rx-i-woke-to-myself\/","og_locale":"en_US","og_type":"article","og_title":"Poetry Rx: I Woke to Myself by Claire Schwartz","og_description":"February 7, 2019 \u2013 This week, Claire Schwartz brings you poems for letting go of anger, for healing after a breakup, and for facing chronic illness.","og_url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/02\/07\/poetry-rx-i-woke-to-myself\/","og_site_name":"The Paris Review","article_publisher":"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/","article_published_time":"2019-02-07T18:32:19+00:00","og_image":[{"width":1024,"height":493,"url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/02\/poetry_rx-1024x493-2-2-2-3-2-1.jpg","type":"image\/jpeg"}],"author":"Claire Schwartz","twitter_card":"summary_large_image","twitter_creator":"@parisreview","twitter_site":"@parisreview","twitter_misc":{"Written by":"Claire Schwartz","Est. reading time":"8 minutes"},"schema":{"@context":"https:\/\/schema.org","@graph":[{"@type":"Article","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/02\/07\/poetry-rx-i-woke-to-myself\/#article","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/02\/07\/poetry-rx-i-woke-to-myself\/"},"author":{"name":"Claire Schwartz","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/b2cd0b1ff3273c9c675c7b255df05808"},"headline":"Poetry Rx: I Woke to Myself","datePublished":"2019-02-07T18:32:19+00:00","mainEntityOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/02\/07\/poetry-rx-i-woke-to-myself\/"},"wordCount":1688,"publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/02\/07\/poetry-rx-i-woke-to-myself\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/02\/poetry_rx-1024x493-2-2-2-3-2-1-1024x493.jpg","articleSection":["Poetry Rx"],"inLanguage":"en-US"},{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/02\/07\/poetry-rx-i-woke-to-myself\/","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/02\/07\/poetry-rx-i-woke-to-myself\/","name":"Poetry Rx: I Woke to Myself by Claire Schwartz","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website"},"primaryImageOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/02\/07\/poetry-rx-i-woke-to-myself\/#primaryimage"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/02\/07\/poetry-rx-i-woke-to-myself\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/02\/poetry_rx-1024x493-2-2-2-3-2-1-1024x493.jpg","datePublished":"2019-02-07T18:32:19+00:00","description":"This week, Claire Schwartz brings you poems for letting go of anger, for healing after a breakup, and for facing chronic illness.","breadcrumb":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/02\/07\/poetry-rx-i-woke-to-myself\/#breadcrumb"},"inLanguage":"en-US","potentialAction":[{"@type":"ReadAction","target":["https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/02\/07\/poetry-rx-i-woke-to-myself\/"]}]},{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/02\/07\/poetry-rx-i-woke-to-myself\/#primaryimage","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/02\/poetry_rx-1024x493-2-2-2-3-2-1.jpg","contentUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/02\/poetry_rx-1024x493-2-2-2-3-2-1.jpg","width":1024,"height":493,"caption":"\u00a9Ellis Rosen"},{"@type":"BreadcrumbList","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/02\/07\/poetry-rx-i-woke-to-myself\/#breadcrumb","itemListElement":[{"@type":"ListItem","position":1,"name":"Home","item":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/"},{"@type":"ListItem","position":2,"name":"Poetry Rx: I Woke to Myself"}]},{"@type":"WebSite","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/","name":"The Paris Review","description":"The best prose, interviews, poetry, and art. Since 1953.","publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization"},"potentialAction":[{"@type":"SearchAction","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?s={search_term_string}"},"query-input":{"@type":"PropertyValueSpecification","valueRequired":true,"valueName":"search_term_string"}}],"inLanguage":"en-US"},{"@type":"Organization","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization","name":"The Paris Review","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/","logo":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png","contentUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png","width":696,"height":696,"caption":"The Paris Review"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/"},"sameAs":["https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/","https:\/\/x.com\/parisreview","https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/parisreview"]},{"@type":"Person","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/b2cd0b1ff3273c9c675c7b255df05808","name":"Claire Schwartz","image":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/dbdc898e0724bb6a92a2fe5046deaaa9a260d0f65a25600a5003f565ffa4968b?s=96&d=mm&r=g","contentUrl":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/dbdc898e0724bb6a92a2fe5046deaaa9a260d0f65a25600a5003f565ffa4968b?s=96&d=mm&r=g","caption":"Claire Schwartz"},"url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/author\/cschwartz\/"}]}},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/133444","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1418"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=133444"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/133444\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":133458,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/133444\/revisions\/133458"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=133444"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=133444"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=133444"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}