When working in Mental Health I did notice that some colleagues pointed out to me that in some of my writings I was 'disclosing' things about my life, and that this somehow maybe wasn't such a good idea...and I never really fully understood why.
I know that following disclosure comes a massive 'wave' of blackness as the mind tries to 'take it all back and hide it deep'...and that wave is very frightening indeed and very isolating, somewhat torturous, but at the same time, I think that if you just keep saying the truth about your life, eventually, decades later, you do realise what it is...you actually do 'arrive on the shore' and see the power of that 'Great Sea' of turmoil and isolation and cold fear, but from a distance, there on the warm sand where other people are and have always been.
You can sometimes even lie down on the sunny airy sand, relax just a little, look around and see some really nice looking people there, hear some music, have an ice cream, walk along with someone you love, unafraid, and even enjoy the sound of the Great Rhythms of all the Seas, not just the Dark One.
Friday, 7 June 2013
PTSD The Black Park Poem/probably the most authentic PTSD study poem where the split in consciousness into boy and man in communication, as a survival method, comes closest to Schizophrenia whilst masquerading as Bipolarity from time to time.
The Black Park
not certain
how much should be said
how much detained
for further questioning
not certain
how many terrorists
still operate
under the guise of common language
and common love.
I have listened to you
from where the idea bursts
in the Great Sea
in the Great Sea
to where the green horses
wash up on a simple tide.
I have listened to you
which is, you said, all you wanted.
I have visited the Black Park
where the fear begins
and I found no one there but me.
One more poem stemming from PTSD from 1982, as with This Raven and A White Oar, this one was first in a selection called East Media, and will be in the new Sledgehammer Collective book
Yellow Window
do your work
you call it work
breathe life into stone
carve it all the way to art
see it perched there
brave and unfinishing
in the clean mathematic air
breathe onto canvas
matrix spectrum chess
one ordinary light year
feeds into
one ordinary day
a green rose blooms
at the yellow window
blooms
an arcane pulse
Two Poems of Mine from 1982: This Raven and The White Oar/ concerned with the impact on consciousness of post traumatic stress disorder/will be in the upcoming Sledgehammer Collective book
This Raven
this natural world
this need delivering need
this time in its keeping
this graphite sky
this certain projection.
this raven pitched in black scape
this only colour
is its sound.
..........................................
A White Oar
drop your warmed heart here
in the svelte tide
a full kiss
upon the tired lips
of your treasure map.
your veins are courting harbours
highways, dells
where loaded cows
topple from
steep serious slopes of a rickety imagination.
linguism of poetry
hieroglyphic and phantic
as printing
and all the
endless, endless, ending love.
all power to you.
I caress the rabbits
in your magic hat of a head
and swim
to your mythic boat
as you leave the sonar harbour.
the rollicks ache with rhyme
and a white oar rolls in anthracite space.
this natural world
this need delivering need
this time in its keeping
this graphite sky
this certain projection.
this raven pitched in black scape
this only colour
is its sound.
..........................................
A White Oar
drop your warmed heart here
in the svelte tide
a full kiss
upon the tired lips
of your treasure map.
your veins are courting harbours
highways, dells
where loaded cows
topple from
steep serious slopes of a rickety imagination.
linguism of poetry
hieroglyphic and phantic
as printing
and all the
endless, endless, ending love.
all power to you.
I caress the rabbits
in your magic hat of a head
and swim
to your mythic boat
as you leave the sonar harbour.
the rollicks ache with rhyme
and a white oar rolls in anthracite space.
A Quote from R D Laing from the book: The Politics of Experience and the Bird of Paradise
if anyone...begins to realise he is a shadow of a puppet, he will be wise to exercise the greatest precautions as to whom he imparts this information...
Poem : Songs, for Sally Martin, 1975, from the upcoming Sledgehammer Collective poems of John Fitzpatrick
Songs
songs hid themselves
like small bright birds
a ripple of lyric
in the green kinesis of the trees
we wandered the mountain path
fearing
to jump
more than to fall
A Poem of Mine, unpublished, from 1994 Enlightenment & the Orange Gate/was from a selection called Blonde Sand, and will be in the upcoming tome: Sledgehammer Poems by John Fitzpatrick
Enlightenment & the Orange Gate
Love has come to an end
so many times
its end implies genesis
is signed by lights in cold skies
that point not to locus nor power
but to points themselves
on a line recurring
recurring
as if to say:
learn more to forget more.
A caucus of lights
a clattering of sentience
a softened pearl necklace
around the throat of oblivion.
Days break open
like ampoules of spring rain
in the fold of green winter hills
in the yellow scent
of a temporal promise
and for a moment
the ordinary is glowing.
Love has come to an end
so many times
its end implies genesis
is signed by lights in cold skies
that point not to locus nor power
but to points themselves
on a line recurring
recurring
as if to say:
learn more to forget more.
A caucus of lights
a clattering of sentience
a softened pearl necklace
around the throat of oblivion.
Days break open
like ampoules of spring rain
in the fold of green winter hills
in the yellow scent
of a temporal promise
and for a moment
the ordinary is glowing.
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