That home-made chutney has run out:
you’re scraping jars.
When ash in grate remains unswept,
invent self-cleaning shoes –
and flee.
Inspect the winter damage,
look out for clues – each year
the moon’s two inches further flung.
Your mind’s eyeball
is ready-reckoner
of corners you can cut.
Sharpen your knife on past mistakes.
Track a straight line backwards,
logic unhinges the gates
you once thought closed.
And if you hear a fugue descend,
leave behind the suitcase –
any cathedral pew
or Day-Glo tractor cab
will do.
For neither lens nor mirror work
as darkness meets the dark.
In turned up clothes
you will appear,
here – at my door – once more.
(v & xi. 2015) iv. 2020
MAKING SENSE OF IT
By March our Christmas chutney,
home-made, has all run out
and we’re left scraping empty jars.
When ash in grate remains unswept,
night walker I become,
put on self-cleaning shoes and flee
outside. Inspect the winter damage,
look for clues – each year the moon’s
two inches further flung.
For head is ready-reckoner,
as cutting corners, mind’s eyeball
accommodates with age.
Backtrack then, through gates thought closed,
to sharpen knifes on past mistakes.
Follow a straight line always
pursue the shortest route;
no destination other
than where illogic’s path unfolds.
With suitcase at cathedral
I heard the fugue descend;
my escape plan for rank-and-file
left in a baggage trail.
One by one those Day-Glo pages,
dimming, to shadow symbols turn
and all’s reduced to cipher.
Since neither lens nor mirror work,
every eye is inquisition
when darkness meets the dark.
In turned up clothes it’s then I stand:
here, at your porch, once more.
v & xi. 2015
As can be seen, this is a long postponed re-write of my final reflections on psychosis. It may be helpful to read these earlier, companion pieces: PLAIN SPEAKING, BREAKDOWN, and TIME OUT OF MIND alongside. It is an attempt to capture the driven, surreal experience of a deep (but mercifully brief) relapse. One that was characterised by overnight wanderings and a trail of left baggage. All a long, long while ago – it was taxing both to recollect and try to convey.
ReplyDeleteI took the first version to my Friday Poets, who were understandably perplexed but offered – as always – useful feedback. They variously advised me to strip away the narrative, making it even more strange with shorter staccato sentences. This I’ve tried to do, although in changing the voice from first person to second I am distanced from the outcome. Perhaps this a good thing (and not only for the poem); the reader must judge which version they prefer. But I feel personally closer to the original – there are echoes, lost in the re-write, which still have resonance, if only for myself.
Rest assured, I shall not be coming this way again.