I Meet My Shadow in the Deepening Shade:
Poetry in the Workplace

In The Heart Aroused: Poetry and the Preservation of the Soul in Corporate America, David Whyte writes, "If there is one common experience... it would be... feeling lost... in the difficulty of a situation or in our very arrogance or nervousness over a problem." Whyte was encouraged as a resource to business by Peter Block -- trainer, organization consultant, and author of Flawless Consulting and The Empowered Manager -- who believes the powerful images available in poetry can be liberating in the workplace. Having been a lover (and sometimes author) of poetry most of my life, I was delighted when a client gave me tickets to one of Whyte's workshops. One of the poems Whyte recited (and cites in his book) is a teaching tale in the Native American tradition by David Wagoner. It was thrilling to hear in Whyte's resounding and dramatic voice this response to the question, "What do I do when I am lost in the forest?" (shown in part below): Stand still, the trees ahead and bushes beside you are not lost... No two trees are the same to Raven, no two branches are the same to Wren. If what a tree or a branch does is lost on you, then you are surely lost. Stand still, the forest knows where you are. You must let it find you. Observing Whyte's impact on others in the group also gave me the courage to use poetry with my business clients. Coaching is somewhat like therapy in the quality and confidentiality of the relationship, but it's not therapy in that we focus on personal and interpersonal effectiveness. Some interesting shifts can take place by uncovering the symbolic aspects of people's (and organizations') growth potential. Making significant change isn't easy, and we all dig in our heels when the going gets tough. I happen to think of resistance to change as a normal and usually healthy response, and consider it my job as a coach to help clients move beyond their own so-called resistance.  In Enneagram terms this means helping people go beyond the behavioral manifestations of their habitual patterns in ways that shake the underpinnings. While my practices are fairly eclectic, I'm fundamentally Jungian in this respect: I believe it's impossible to access repressed and unconscious material through intellectual understanding alone. I'm sure each of you has experienced, as I have, the difficult journey from the first ah-ha to experiencing significant and long-lasting change in ourselves. Resources buried in each of us, however, show up symbolically -- if only we know how to look for them -- in metaphors such as poetry, or dreams, projections, and other artistic expressions. Thus, when I see untapped potential in my clients, I use anything I can that might take them to that symbolic level -- through stories, humor, poetry, or even symbolic gifts (for example, to a CEO criticized by her team for not giving enough praise, and also a life-long sailor, I gave a ship in a bottle). In this article, I'd like to show how powerful poetry can be to "arouse our hearts." I'll start with excerpts from poems I've used with all nine styles, then I'll go into more detail with a few cases. Remember that none of the drives of one style are alien to the remaining eight, so as you read through the following quotes, let that part of you respond as you receive the images. I won't interpret at this point because each of you might find something unique: For Ones, who struggle with the passion of anger, imagine what might be evoked by Stanley Kunitz's poem, "The Portrait": My mother never forgave my father for killing himself... When I came down from the attic with the pastel portrait in my hand... she ripped it into shreds without a single word and slapped me hard. Or (quirky but effective), from "Bullfrogs" by David Allan Evans: sipping a Schlitz we cut off the legs... quiet-bulging eyes nudging along the moss's edge, looking up at us, asking for their legs. *    *    *    *     *    * Working with Two issues -- which include ambivalent feelings about caring for others -- what does Pablo Neruda's Sumario (translation by Alastair Reid) arouse in you? I am pleased at having taken on so many obligations in my life most curious elements accumulated: gentle ghosts which undid me... my insistent need to be always watchful, my impulse to be only myself... (--my life was always singing its way between joy and obligation). Or from Walt Whitman's "A noiseless patient spider," which captures the Two's sometimes overwhelming relationship needs: Till the bridge you will need be form'd, till the ductile anchor hold, Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul. *    *    *    *     *    * A.E. Housman's "To an Athlete Dying Young" addresses the Three's passion of vanity very directly, beginning with: The time you won your town the race We chaired you through the market-place, And later: And round that early-laurelled head Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead. *    *    *    *     *    * The Four, of course, seem naturally drawn to poetry, and many poems reflect their mournful, romantic quality. I particularly like e.e. cummings' "Sonnets--Unrealities, III": it is at moments after i have dreamed of the rare entertainment of your eyes, when (being fool to fancy) i have deemed with your peculiar mouth my heart made wise... one pierced moment whiter than the rest --turning from the tremendous lie of sleep i watch the roses of the day grow deep A theme that may be less obvious for Fours is their sense of being on the outside, looking in. Look for this in Robert Frost's "Mending Wall:" Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun; And makes gaps even two can pass abreast... I let my neighbor know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again... He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors... Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: "Why do they make good neighbors?" *    *    *    *     *    * Naomi Replansky's Housing Shortage captures the Five's reductionism and desire for personal space as she moves from: I tried to live small. I took a narrow bed. I held my elbows to my sides. to: Given inches, I take yards, Taking yards, dream of miles, And a landscape, unbounded And vast in abandon. On a lighter note, I've found amused reactions from Fives to W.H. Auden's "I Have No Gun, But I Can Spit": Some thirty inches from my nose The frontier of my Person goes... Beware of rudely crossing it.   *    *    *    *     *    * As with all Enneagram styles, there are many directions one could take with a Six (and I'll go into more detail below about the poem I used with a particular client). I recommendTheodore Roethke's In a Dark Time, a powerful poem for all of us. For example: In a dark time, the eye begins to see, I meet my shadow in the deepening shade, But I especially appreciate such Six-ish images as: I know the purity of pure despair, My shadow pinned against a sweating wall... My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly, Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I? A fallen man, I climb out of my fear. William Stafford captures the transformation of a Six through courage in With Kit, Age Seven, At the Beach: Waves leapfrogged and came straight out of the storm. What should our gaze mean? Kit waited for me to decide... "How far could you swim, Daddy, in such a storm?" "As far as was needed," I said, and as I talked, I swam. *    *    *    *     *    * Most of us would recognize the Seven in Philip Davey's lovely poem, "Prisms (Althea)": It was a rainbow impossibly beautiful, straddling the town with one foot poised lightly on the sea. You might be surprised, however, to see what happens when a Seven hears the beginning of Stevie Smith's poem, "Not Waving But Drowning": Nobody heard him, the dead man, But still he lay moaning: I was much further out than you thought And not waving but drowning. *    *    *    *     *    * Sharon Thomson's "Pigeons" is a more subtle poem for Eights than might first appear: when I was a girl a sultry sunday about 3pm in mid-august was the best time to hunt pigeons... I aimed straight for the eyeball. I'm somewhat partial to Eights, and perhaps they sense that. We're told their transformation is found in the quality of innocence, reflected so well in Theodore Roethke's "The Meadow Mouse:" In a shoe box stuffed in an old nylon stocking Sleeps the baby mouse I found in the meadow Where he trembled and shook beneath a stick Till I caught him up by the tail and brought him in Cradled in my hand. ...Do I imagine he no longer trembles when I come close to him? ...I think of the nestling fallen into the deep grass The turtle gasping in the dusty rubble of the highway The paralytic stunned in the tub and the water rising All things innocent, hapless, forsaken. *    *    *    *     *    * As a Nine I am perhaps a bit tough on this style, but I like Roger Woddis' "Down With Fanatics!" because it depicts our passive-aggressive quality: I'd like to tie them to a board And let them taste the cat, While giving praise, oh thank the Lord, That I am not like that. Wordsworth is a wonderful poet for evoking Nine issues, as in "A slumber did my spirit seal" (the title says it all) or from "Composed upon Westminster Bridge": Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still! However, one poem that speaks so eloquently of what's possible for Nines is Denise Levertov's Variation on a Theme by Rilke: A certain day became a presence to me; there it was, confronting me--a sky, air, light: a being... ...The day's blow rang out, metallic--or it was I, a bell awakened, and what I heard was my whole self saying and singing what it new: I can. *    *    *    *     *    * Poetic images are powerful in and of themselves. Imagine, then, the effect within a particular personality style. Such was the case with Richard P., a Six who was particularly interested in the Enneagram because he desperately wanted to understand the intensity of his emotional response to perceived slights. He suffered from what I call the "Patrick Henry" syndrome (and often see in Sixes): a strong desire to "speak up for what is right" even if it meant shooting himself in the foot. But he'd agonize for days on end before acting. For example, Richard felt he should have been included in a planning conference one of his co-workers had conducted without informing him. This person, according to Richard, was "running his own show, as usual, without any concern for the importance of others' participation!" He did eventually talk to his colleague, who was actually quite responsive; but prior to the meeting Richard said he spent the entire weekend "eating myself up inside." Richard and I worked on many issues. Here I'll note only what was unique to the use of poetry. He always insisted he'd had no need to rebel against his wonderful parents (he almost idolized them for being so caring and supportive), yet he felt there must be some basis in his background for his self-doubt and emotional stresses. At one of our sessions I read to him Nina Bogin's Initiation, II, which includes the lines: I...entered the house as calm and ephemeral as my own certainty: this is my house, my key, my hand with its new lines. I am as old as I will ever be. As I finished the last lines, Richard sat stunned as his eyes welled up with tears. When he was able to speak he said, "My parents have always treated me like a child--they still do. I never realized before how much I want to prove to them I'm a man." Emily D. was the Executive Director of a highly efficient, results-oriented mental health service agency who placed the highest priority on client advocacy. Described by her team as highly interpersonally oriented and very genuine with her feelings "vs. a cool, rational approach," she hired people who shared her values and coached them well. This Style Two executive called me when she was relatively new in her role because she had a lot of creative ideas but found it difficult to influence her peers. Our coaching work centered on clarifying the boundaries between her own self-image and the opinions of others. "My biggest insight," she said, "was in realizing I'd been judging myself by others' standards." Part of Emily's emotional health arose from having recognized how she'd grown up being expected to take care of others and the toll this eventually took on her. She was so enamored of Mary Oliver's poem, "The Journey," she kept a framed copy in her office (an excerpt appears below): One day you finally knew what you had to do, and began, though the voices around you kept shouting their bad advice... "Mend my life!" I especially want to include an Eight example because in my experience they're usually given a bad rap. Of course it's not easy in the early stages of awareness for Eights to let down their guard, and they can be difficult to work with, but they really are soft-hearted. Vern F., for example, was a very concrete, logical individual (an ISTJ for MBTI-thirsty readers), out of touch with his feelings and his fear of vulnerability. He was also a very strong and responsible leader who was grappling with depression when we first started coaching. He called me because someone who worked for him had complained there was no excuse for his profanity. His response? "If you can't say 'F___' in your own office, where can you say it?" I coached Vern on some techniques for developing his staff, delegating more, and being less controlling so that he wouldn't have to work such long hours, and I encouraged him to seek therapy for his depression. (As an aside, we developed a very interesting desensitization procedure for profanity, which did not involve electric prods.) In addition, we did some planning and problem solving about his personal situation, because the most obvious situational component to his depression was the lack of intimacy in his life. He had two life-long buddies he could rely on to go camping or drinking. However, he saw little likelihood he could show enough trust in anyone to sustain a successful marriage, and he'd reached a stage in his career when he was tired of burying himself in work. I knew Vern had written poetry when he was in college, so I asked him to express his feelings poetically. He came to our next session with a somber poem about Fall that ended with the phrase: Soon today the tree is bare, naked and alone in the long dark of winter. In discussing the images his own poem evoked, Vern said "I've always looked at the dark as a friend because it hides you, protects you. I pride myself on the fact that I can navigate around my house in total darkness, and I love to be alone at night in the woods. But lately, when I walk out of work the sun is setting and I think, 'F___! I have to drive home in the dark!'" This conversation led him to a deep awareness of his fear of intimacy and dedication to being alone. I lost track of Vern for a couple of years after we completed our work, but I heard later he'd married and changed jobs. I like to think these are signs of transformation.