What flood discharged you here
at this meandering point,
where banks of crumbling psyche
burst, and morning bells peal
dolorous over pasture?
From room to room you drift.
Your shards of silence set
a crystal curtain tinkling;
brief the insight shimmers
in sunlight glanced off trees.
The cut-up montage monster
roars unlived choices, relapses
into dumb acceptance,
inevitable as single socks
escaping laundry baskets.
Coats are hung upon their hooks,
shoes put in their rack. When words
dry up grim duty calls;
letters sullen sit on stairs,
seek to catch you unawares.
The hood of cloud rips open:
over your shoulder daylight
moon peers down, traps - like fly
in amber - that template
of who you thought you were.
When perception's hinge came loose
what gate were you passing through,
which slammed behind? Unlatch
the snib, return, with heart
quilt solace from the remnants.
vi.2011
This poem may be fruitfully viewed in tandem with BREAKDOWN.
ReplyDeleteMental illness manifests itself uniquely according to the personality of the sufferer. It is painful to see someone you love experiencing profound psychological disturbance, but can be hard to grasp. This is the perspective of an observer who has “strayed over the edge of reason” but managed to return.
The gate of perception referred to is never permanently closed, nor should it be. There are no absolute boundaries defining the sound mind; your normality may be my madness, and vice versa. Many / most / all artists derive insight and inspiration through exploration of the borders to their psyche. But – sadly perhaps, depending on the nature of your vision – long term we cannot live in the surreal, only in concrete reality.