2 new poems
...about schizophrenia. Author's note: Anabasis literally means "the going up" though in Xenophon's Anabasis it has always been translated as "The March Uphill" (Don't worry. After the title, the poem is quite readable, I think.) Transpiration is the name for what happens when water is pulled from the roots up through the leaves by evaporation. Sulci are the furrows of the brain's externally convoluted or wrinkled appearance. Also, I hope the word "mad" doesn't offend anyone, but I figure we get to use it if anyone does. And in poetry it has such resonance that almost no other word will do at times.
I WOKE THIS MORNING TO MUSIC
I woke this morning to music,
song seeping from the wall pores, transpiring
at the surface, water from leaf, a choral din
so harmonic, so noisy—and I knew
unheard by others, unhearable, hallucinatory—
I leapt from bedwarming.
Barefoot on the cold slick of linoleum
my ear to the kitchen radio: real rap
battered the air with its distractions
and just enough poetry to drown out
the music my mind created
in sulci of deepest silence.
ANABASIS*
They direction us downward,
descending, always descending
into hell, towards our primal
animal selves, those who do not know
we mad climb shaky ladders, up
rarefied trees, ride elevators
that terminate on suicidal rooftops—
anywhere away from all this noise
called life on earth, for what is going mad
but the self scared nearly to death
and seeking asylum
in the highest places?
Last week, I met myself on the street,
in June in a wool coat and a pair of sunglasses
over regular ones. She begged me
for a cigarette, but I had quit
recently and smugly, told her I don’t
smoke as if I never had and didn’t
understand. She faltered, fell back a step,
turned away, mumbling imprecations.
I swallowed: a bitter saliva: guilt,
the alum of regret, but it was too
late to remember to be
kinder to the kind of mad-
dening self I used to be, the fright-
full Ophelia looking for a way out
or just another open door, the ticket
to be anywhere but here.
(*changed June 7)
Posted by pamwagg at May 15, 2006 09:58 AM
Pam, I thought your poem was very well-written. Congrats on a job well-done! It's pretty complicated so I had to be prepared to sit down for a read. You are very literate and articulate. Take care.
Posted by: anonymous at May 22, 2006 05:57 PM
Beautiful poetry, Pam.
Love,
Carolyn
Posted by: Carolyn at May 20, 2006 11:53 AM
Dear Pam, I see myself in your poem. I don’t have schizophrenia, so does that mean I’m mad? So much pride and regret I see in this poem. You are an awesome writer. I’m so envious and at the same time respect your tremendous talent.
Regards,
Yaya (aka Moeder)
Last week, I met myself on the street,
in June in a wool coat and a pair of sunglasses
over regular ones. She begged me
for a cigarette, but I had quit
recently and smugly, told her I don’t
smoke as if I never had and didn’t
understand. She faltered, fell back a step,
turned away, mumbling imprecations.
I swallowed: a bitter saliva: guilt,
the alum of regret, but it was too
late to remember to be
kinder to the kind of mad-
dening self I used to be, the fright-
full Ophelia looking for a way out
or that door opening into a room
where the welcome was warm
and the coffee was hot
and all of it offered for free.
Posted by: Yaya at May 18, 2006 12:04 AM
Dearest Pam,
I'm so touched by the tenderness you show toward yourself in these poems, which are marvelous, as always.
Thinking of you. Just in the "trenches" with K., off meds again.
I forwarded these to L. He will love them, too.
Ava
Posted by: Ava Hayes at May 16, 2006 07:45 PM
Pammy, my darling,
Although it is very courageous of me to follow the brilliance you have given so freely with my nonsensical attempt at self expression, I felt the need to widen your view of those who are quite mad indeed. Thus...
My empty words fall upon deaf ears
I know only the salt of ceaseless tears
So blinding that I could not see
That I am not even really here
I was never meant to be.
I missed you while you were away, again giving of yourself to the world that needs to hear that sanity is an extremely indefinable state. Each human born must take care that they do not express false witness.
Much love and welcome home
Your poems are sublime, Your Paula
Posted by: Paula Kirkpatrick at May 16, 2006 12:45 PM
Wow. These poems are beautiful. Do you still submit to journals?
Posted by: Samantha at May 15, 2006 09:41 PM
Well done! I love "song seeping from the wall pores"! Also meeting yourself on the street.
Your reading and interests are so vast and varied and truly inform your work. Writing as you do helps dispel stigma.
Please, share and publish more!
-ky
Posted by: ky perraun at May 15, 2006 12:51 PM
Wow! Poetry has a way of capturing feelings like no other art form.
I especially liked the phrase: Last night I met myself on the street.
I ride the bus in St. Petersburg,FL. I always have a stopover at a park downtown where there are countless homeless people. There I meet myself on the streets. My feelings about this are ever changing and often ambivalent
Love your poetry. When you are feeling depressed-like you'll never feel well again-remind yourself about your writing gift and know that after the depression has lifted you will write again.
Posted by: Sarah Ream at May 15, 2006 12:11 PM
Early
Schizophrenia Screening Test
Pam, I thought your poem was very well-written. Congrats on a job well-done! It's pretty complicated so I had to be prepared to sit down for a read. You are very literate and articulate. Take care.
Posted by: anonymous at May 22, 2006 05:57 PM
Beautiful poetry, Pam.
Love,
Carolyn
Posted by: Carolyn at May 20, 2006 11:53 AM
Dear Pam, I see myself in your poem. I don’t have schizophrenia, so does that mean I’m mad? So much pride and regret I see in this poem. You are an awesome writer. I’m so envious and at the same time respect your tremendous talent.
Regards,
Yaya (aka Moeder)
Last week, I met myself on the street,
in June in a wool coat and a pair of sunglasses
over regular ones. She begged me
for a cigarette, but I had quit
recently and smugly, told her I don’t
smoke as if I never had and didn’t
understand. She faltered, fell back a step,
turned away, mumbling imprecations.
I swallowed: a bitter saliva: guilt,
the alum of regret, but it was too
late to remember to be
kinder to the kind of mad-
dening self I used to be, the fright-
full Ophelia looking for a way out
or that door opening into a room
where the welcome was warm
and the coffee was hot
and all of it offered for free.
Posted by: Yaya at May 18, 2006 12:04 AM
Dearest Pam,
I'm so touched by the tenderness you show toward yourself in these poems, which are marvelous, as always.
Thinking of you. Just in the "trenches" with K., off meds again.
I forwarded these to L. He will love them, too.
Ava
Posted by: Ava Hayes at May 16, 2006 07:45 PM
Pammy, my darling,
Although it is very courageous of me to follow the brilliance you have given so freely with my nonsensical attempt at self expression, I felt the need to widen your view of those who are quite mad indeed. Thus...
My empty words fall upon deaf ears
I know only the salt of ceaseless tears
So blinding that I could not see
That I am not even really here
I was never meant to be.
I missed you while you were away, again giving of yourself to the world that needs to hear that sanity is an extremely indefinable state. Each human born must take care that they do not express false witness.
Much love and welcome home
Your poems are sublime, Your Paula
Posted by: Paula Kirkpatrick at May 16, 2006 12:45 PM
Wow. These poems are beautiful. Do you still submit to journals?
Posted by: Samantha at May 15, 2006 09:41 PM
Well done! I love "song seeping from the wall pores"! Also meeting yourself on the street.
Your reading and interests are so vast and varied and truly inform your work. Writing as you do helps dispel stigma.
Please, share and publish more!
-ky
Posted by: ky perraun at May 15, 2006 12:51 PM
Wow! Poetry has a way of capturing feelings like no other art form.
I especially liked the phrase: Last night I met myself on the street.
I ride the bus in St. Petersburg,FL. I always have a stopover at a park downtown where there are countless homeless people. There I meet myself on the streets. My feelings about this are ever changing and often ambivalent
Love your poetry. When you are feeling depressed-like you'll never feel well again-remind yourself about your writing gift and know that after the depression has lifted you will write again.
Posted by: Sarah Ream at May 15, 2006 12:11 PM