Post by Groks on Apr 16, 2008 16:10:18 GMT -6
I can't tell if this poem is the finished product, or just a rough draft. Either way, it felt good to write it. Also, in order for any of these poems to make sense, I went through the whole experience of "drying out" off of lithium with the very bare minimum of some (but not even all) of my other medications. Why I wasn't allowed to take my usual, larger dosages, I do not know.
Kindred
(Psych Ward)
Spring is not a good time
For manic/depressives
Nor is being without medication
I found myself dealing with both
In a long hallway of a psych ward
With only the clothes on my back
My heart was pounding
My brain racing
The nurse tells me to take a long, deep, breath
I breathe in ragged shreds
She gives me shampoo
And tells me to take a shower
And so later
I lie down in an unfamiliar bed
With wet hair dampening my pillow
And hopes of sleep pressing my mind
It was not to be
Without my meds
That used to “lull” me to sleep
I was manic
I felt myself soaring in my mind
In my veins, my skin
Racing, racing through space
Blurred stars rushing past me
I flew into Van Gogh's
Starry starry night
And spun in circles of mottled blue and white
And yellow gold spirals
Spinning, flying, round and round
I feel a kindred
Of those who've gone before me
Without the miracle
Of modern medication
Poe, Tennyson, Schumann, Handel
Melville, Woolfe, Hemingway,
Van Gogh, Byron, Berlioz,
Schubert, Keats, Mahler,
O' Neill, Hugo, Dickinson,
Mary Shelly
I wonder if this is what
Some of it felt like
How did they cope
I know I will get meds soon
But not them
Highs, lows, suicides, asylums
The words of poet Antonin Artaud
Float through my mind:
“No one has ever written, painted,
sculpted, modeled, built, or invented
except literally to get out of hell”.
A couple hours later
The nurse comes with seroquel
I breathe, in remembrance
And gratefully swallow
-k.s. April 16, 2008
Kindred
(Psych Ward)
Spring is not a good time
For manic/depressives
Nor is being without medication
I found myself dealing with both
In a long hallway of a psych ward
With only the clothes on my back
My heart was pounding
My brain racing
The nurse tells me to take a long, deep, breath
I breathe in ragged shreds
She gives me shampoo
And tells me to take a shower
And so later
I lie down in an unfamiliar bed
With wet hair dampening my pillow
And hopes of sleep pressing my mind
It was not to be
Without my meds
That used to “lull” me to sleep
I was manic
I felt myself soaring in my mind
In my veins, my skin
Racing, racing through space
Blurred stars rushing past me
I flew into Van Gogh's
Starry starry night
And spun in circles of mottled blue and white
And yellow gold spirals
Spinning, flying, round and round
I feel a kindred
Of those who've gone before me
Without the miracle
Of modern medication
Poe, Tennyson, Schumann, Handel
Melville, Woolfe, Hemingway,
Van Gogh, Byron, Berlioz,
Schubert, Keats, Mahler,
O' Neill, Hugo, Dickinson,
Mary Shelly
I wonder if this is what
Some of it felt like
How did they cope
I know I will get meds soon
But not them
Highs, lows, suicides, asylums
The words of poet Antonin Artaud
Float through my mind:
“No one has ever written, painted,
sculpted, modeled, built, or invented
except literally to get out of hell”.
A couple hours later
The nurse comes with seroquel
I breathe, in remembrance
And gratefully swallow
-k.s. April 16, 2008
