Depression

Image by Zelko Nedic

You watch me
through those damn dewy eyes
that torment my soul
and steal
the very heart of me.

The warning growl
through snarling teeth;
the putrid breath
feeding despair
and souring hope.


You are my black dog,
forever vigilant.
there is no escape.

Damn your dewy eyes.

Anna :o]

Tess’s excellent prompt at The Mag brought to mind the above I had posted earlier last year and it really didn’t get much of an airing.

I was tentatively dipping my toes in the poetry world then only having entered Magpie Tales twice prior to posting Depression on its little lonesome, linked to nothing but my desire to write.

Depression appeared a natural response to the prompt and I have therefore posted again.

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Hello again!  I have added this bit today (30.07.12) in case some folk are unaware that ‘The Black Dog’ is a metaphor for depression.   I think most of us attribute the term to Winston Churchill although it is possible it was conceived prior to this.

I should make you aware that I do not suffer from depression, in fact I am rather happy-go-lucky in my approach to life – but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about anything for I surely do.

I work in mental health and I listen to the people I care for - and learn, for to (pretend) to care without understanding is not caring at all.

Here is a link to a Black Dog article at PsychCentral – just here!

The Old Asylum




Corridor. Hellingly Asylum, Sussex by James C Farmer

 



Figure Eight, 1952, by Franz Kline



Seed, parachuted,

drifts aimlessly on passing breeze,

upon a lull descends

amidst the grass and tangled weeds

that strew the paths,

choke the very heart

of the Old Asylum grounds.

Time stands still,

the clock unwound upon its tower

hides amongst the chestnut trees,

and some way below,

the door, chained,

keeps its secrets locked inside,

defiant, repels (for now)

Ivy’s attempt to stranglehold, invade,

as she tries to squeeze her tendrils

through decaying slats and shatter glass.             

Elsewhere

corridors echo eerily the slightest sound,

paint peeling curls upon the walls,

leaves its angry scars

as it flutters wearily to the ground

to join dust and dirt and debris

dropped from gaping ceiling.

Life stirs,

bristles in the old abandoned ward,

spiders spin fine thread from spinneret,

a window chink lets in solar rays,

lights up swirling silver dust heaven bound

and bedsteads rust upon the ground

as fly struggles in spiders sticky web

and in the roof space

wasps nest nestled in the eaves emits a buzzing sound

as pigeons coo and play

perched high upon the rotting rafters.

Seed, parachuted,

drifts aimlessly on passing breeze,

bees dip thirsty tongues in flower hearts

sing gratitude with pleasant hum,

wood pigeon cooo-coo-cu in chestnut trees

as nature breathes its love of life,

takes refuge in
the Old Asylum.

Anna :o]

Tess’s prompt at The Mag was that of the Figure Eight and spiders eight legs immediately popped into my mind.  Prior to the prompt I had been taking a trip down memory lane, viewing abandoned asylums on Flickr and had come across the hospital where I did my training and the resulting poem was a combination of the two.

The poem is also entered at Open Link Night, hosted by Joseph Hesch at dVerse~Poets Pub.  Thanks Joe!

ATTENTION!  ATTENTION!

Totally remote from the above please view this YouTube video “Som Sabadell flashmob.”  Wonderful!  (As no-one has mentioned this I have highlighted it!   Please, please, please view it - it moves me to tears every time I do.)

Image; courtesy of James C Farmer at flickr photostream.  (I did not do my training here!)

Letting Go



Bedruthan sunset by Ennor



Like a fish

out of water,

you lie there,

delicately gasping,

mouth shaping

to catch
elusive breaths,

and once caught,

as if some knowing

afterthought,

you let them go.

Sing me your death song.

Little lady                

you have left me now.

Mortal coil surrendered,

demons vanquished,

soul ascended,

serene and silent,

life complete.

Anna :o]

Although a ‘little lady’ is mentioned I wrote this several months ago when I thought of Joe.    Joe was a resident in a home where I worked in the nineties. 

Joe was in his eightieth year and had been transferred to the home when mental health services became ‘Care in the Community’ resulting in the closure of the psychiatric hospital where he had spent over fifty years of his life.

Joe had schizophrenia and his was an ‘expected’ death as he too suffered from a terminal physical illness.   Joe was aware he was dying; his voices (auditory hallucinations) knew too and continued to taunt him mercilessly during the last hours of his life. 

If there is a God out there he cruelly played with Joe to the bitter end…

I have never forgotten Joe.

Linked to the good folk at dVerse~Poets Pub (thanks tashtoo) and The Poetry Pantry (thanks Mary) at Poets United.

Image: Courtesy of Ennor at Flickr.  Thanks Ennor

Sleep of Death



Ophelia by Odilon Redon



Oh my lord was thy affection

nought but a cruel ruse,

a cruel play upon this maiden,

was my love but to amuse? 

Oh my heart is heavy laden,

yearning for the want of you.

Oh willow will cast off my wanting,

still the melodies of my breath,

lay me in the muddy water,

send me to the sleep of death,

there I shall dream forever,

forever dream my dreams of you.

Anna :o]

With thanks to Tess at The Mag for the inspiration.