From Bath to Cork with Baby Grace

What’s the connection between poetry & mental health?  
That’s the question I woke with today.  As I came awake, my mind was flooded by the first thought of the day.  I’d no control over it. Out of sleep, out of perhaps a dream I can’t remember, this issue laid claim to my mind.  I’ve chosen to hold on to the question.  This is an act of will.  My experience is that I often wake with a question which disappears as I make the first cup of Barry’s Tea.

Thoughts come, thoughts go.
I have the power to help them on their way.  I can also cause them to linger.  In this case, poetry & mental health don’t come in a vacuum.  I went to sleep with a different but connected question: poetry & business?  How can I best present two of my huge interests in the form of podcasts?  I’ve recently started podcasting (broadcasting short pieces of audio via AudioBoo).  Yesterday I applied thought to how best to connect or separate my personal & business interests & activities?  I went to sleep on one question, and woke on another.

The connection between poetry & mental health can be treated as an abstract question.  
I bet there are books on it.  Both are topics, rich seams.  But the connection for me is personal, biographical.  I had my first bout of severe depression in 1992; I became a poet in 1995.  Ever since autumn 1992, my life has been characterised by awareness of my vulnerable mental health. I’ve never been more aware of anything.  I’ve done my best to share my experience of this vulnerability on this blog.  One of my ways of attending to my mental health is to write about it.  If you go back through this blog, you’ll find loads of autobiographical stuff & thoughts about depression.  Since summer 1995 I’ve been a poet.  I’ve written poetry, a huge amount of it: almost every day I’ve practised the skill of writing verse.  I’ve published hardly any of it.  However recently I decided I’d share more of my poetry on this blog. (The "Irish Epic Poem in 33 Cantos" is a big project.)

The link between mental health & poetry…
It’s clear to me: I do both with passion. Looking back at the amount of time I’ve invested in doing both, I wonder how I’ve done anything else for the last 15 years.

"Stop Paul!  You could go on and on about this topic.  You could bore the pants off readers." (inner voice speaks out).  But the question I woke with has opened up a valuable tributary of thought: the connection between my two interests is autobiographic. It is part of my DNA, my uniqueness - the snowflake I am.  It’s a lot more that a connection between two topics, two abstractions.  It’s concrete, flesh & blood connected. It’s me.  You are made up of similar but different stuff, isn’t that right?

"Who are you mate? " 
I’m a guy who lives in the space created by vulnerable mental health & the pursuit of poetry.  Oh, and, in case you think that’s all there is to me, there are other passions too.  My family, my business, my cooking… 

Maybe this morning greeting can help you explore who you are via the questions you find on your mind? 

CANTO XXVII (all here) 

Designer drugs: Day Nurse, Night Nurse,
you find all the Nurses in Boots.
Why do drugs not work on me?

Why not a little freedom?
A moment of relief?
Unbusted flush.

Hush now, there are dealers on the road,
Crystal Meth should stop the flow of complaints,
look what it did for Aghassi.

Give it to Cowen I say,
give it to the whole Cabinet,
Labour and Fine Gael.
Sinn Fein in pain,
the PDs rotten fleas.

Only the Greens are saying
"we told you so.
You listened to us too late,
the gates already open,
the flood already spoken.
I’m proud to be Green
when global warming has its way." 

There are twenty thousand sandbags in Ennis,
each from an outsourced source.
I know the fella with the contract to fill them…

And his brother with the stone,
the cousin a locksmith,
and the other one the electrician.

We believe in sustainable sand,
it’ll all be grand.

McWilliams twitters,
uses all the technology,
gets the message out:
I’ll be in Eason’s at 6.30,
come by if you’re thirsty for ideas.
Was it all a con-trick?
Really sick?
Perhaps I’m thick?
I thought followers of David
would be spared the lash
of a soaking
on the road from St Paul’s
to the statue of Father Matthew
outside Marks & Spencers.

Is anyone an individual anymore?
- or are we all personas,
constructed images of half-promises,
like the half-rhymes that hold your attention
without you recognising it? 

A syllable in a haystack,
homeopathic creatures
that secrete a smidgen of DNA
sufficient for the reconstruction of a personality.
‘Brand U’ called out Tom Peters,
the man in search of excellence.
Is that so much easier to discover 
than honesty?

I’m having to wade through the spin-doctors
looking for spinnakers,
the Radisson opens its showers
to those with towels on Little Island
- the masses invited in to wash
"the least we could do".

Maybe some of this is true.

The night is in,
cloud low, stars shut out.
They all snore in this part of the world,
the language they understand. 

I hate ECT (electro-convulsive therapy).  Even the sound of the phrase bothers me.  I’ve never had it. "One Flew Over The Cookoo’s Nest" put me off it for life.But some people report it saved them.  This morning I found this story via Twitter from @Schizophrenia88 - a blogpost from Back from Insantity (16 November 2009)

This was my comment:

"It’s wonderful to read this story, especially to hear that Mdm Ong has recovered from the bout of severe depression. Severe depression is so horrible. I know from my experience. I love to hear of people who have found a way to live on through and beyond the depression. Depression lifts, it moves on – but while it sat in me I could not believe it would ever go.
It helped that I could remember it had lifted last time. Like Mdm Ong, her first bout lifted too. The first bout is so cruel because you have no experience of depression lifting.

I wouldn’t dream of having ECT = electric stuff impacting on me. No thanks. For me, that’s a barbaric treatment that I’d like to see outlawed. However, I hear the story, I see that it worked in this case, and I celebrate that. Anything, well almost anything, that lifts depression is good enough.

It’s wonderful to get out of depression, exercise is fantastic I found. There is, of course, a much more detailed story to be told, maybe not in public. The story of the internal work Mdm Ong did on herself through talking with others, the process of addressing her self, deepdown… the process of sorting out whatever it is that has caused her to be vulnerable to severe depression.

I too am vulnerable to severe depression, always will be. Had about 8 bouts of severe depression.  I feel fortunate to be alive to share the experience of surviving & keeping well. Thank you very much for sharing the story, and giving me this chance to comment. The writing of the comment has helped me. KeepWell
(@omaniblog on Twitter from Cork Ireland)"

Isn’t it good to talk about mental health?

CANTO XXV1 (starts here)

The Parteen weir is under pressure,
Ardnacrusha sings.
You have a strike abroad today,
no picket holds me back.
Empty your houses,
I will hold sway.
There is no force to stay my course,
remember Landscape
before the electricity for the city,
before the water was consumer for power,
showers, tumble-dryers,
dishwashers, and the sink
became a deserted space.
Remember the man that stole the flow of the river,
siphoned it into channels,
made a canal at O’Brien’s Bridge
- water sports from Killaloe,
holding the rope as the speedboat ran,
falling back on skis.
Today the dam is overflowing,
it’s payback time,
we may have waited for 80 years,
shuffled through a thousand careers,
but when the water regains its course,
the language we speak will be less coarse. 

Heavy droplets slipped off hair,
down the neck of the charcoal coat,
the warrior clung to the shadows
of awnings.
He moved rapidly from shop front to shop front,
coughing phlegm. 
His mission was to check up
on the emergency services after BIFFO.
He knew eighteen thousand familites
weren’t able to flush toilets.
He wanted to know 
what would be done with the shit?
Would it hit the streets?

Were the rats executed in Cork?
"Follow the Money" all the way to Eason’s door.
The Navy sailed into the harbour
to show they had better to do
than exercise on the Atlantic.

"Bring us water from Earth",
the cry of Mercy Hospital inmates.
Sailing to Afganistan,
"Sinking Not Drowning" luv,
we’ll soon have you upstairs.
Noah’s on the way.
Did I promise you?
You’re one of the species.

The man who wished the damp gone from his spine
said he’d be fine
if people would stop
pretending to tell the truth.

Cowen passed through here:
he had nothing but praise
for how we were all pulling together, at last …

I could see he was pleased we called off the strike,
Lee Fields Water Station would soon
be back on line. 
We’re virtually there -
only another six days before we can count the cost.
No doubt the Taoiseach asked
"where did you put your pumps?
I’m sure we have plans
to provide you with ones that work.
We have extensive experience 
of drying-off after Galway,
you should see the rain in the West."

The warrior nodded to the ELEPHANT,
wished the trunk would suck it all up,
save the faces of the engineers.

He knew the great lump of wisdom
was not for moving.
I will never deflect,
not even to the entreaties of the Cumbrians.

If Hearney were to get on her knees in Lough Derg,
and fast for forty years,
the ELEPHANT will not be heard relent.
Stew in your own juice.

A lesson is repeated until it is learned:
the visitations on Job
and the trick:
you will not be rescued. 

When you said NAMA was the only show in town,
you omitted to look deeper
into the flood.

There is still time:
remember the Butterfly
flapped the wings,
it might do so again.

You have to ready to be reincarnated. 

(end of Canto 26) 

I was reading Twitter when I found a link to a blog ["Back From Insanity"] from Singapore.  All about mental health.  The title of the blogpost grabbed my attention: "Are mentally ill people dangerous?"  I woke up as I read the post.  You can read it too. See what you think of it.

The question provoked me.  So I wrote a comment and this is what I’ve just said to Singapore: 

Hello,
I’m reading your blogpost in Cork Ireland, early on a Saturday morning shortly after getting out of bed.  You shock me into wakefulness.  Such a dramatic topic. So starkly put.

I’ve never been to Singapore, and may never reach your place.  I’m loath to judge because I have so little to go on.  The statistics shock me. Maybe it’s unusual for people in Singapore to experience anxiety, stress, worry?  Maybe very few have lost their mind, ever.  Maybe Singapore is a very healthy society.  Do I imagine that few over there have any experience of Depression?

Over here, in Ireland, mental distress is not unusual.  If I thought people with mental health issues were dangerous, I’d never go out of the house: the community is full of people who have experienced depression themselves, or known it in their family. Mental health distress is widespread & normal here.  We get on with life in a community with all sorts of people.  Those with mental health issues add to the colour of life.

As for danger, there is more danger from those who know nothing about depression, those who treat others without sensitivity. Here there is danger; it is not completely safe to go out. You may be attacked and murdered today by someone who’s drunk, drugged, crazed - or you may also be struck down by the ancestors in your genes.  The world in Cork Ireland is a place full of danger.  But we get on with life as best we can. We have our own issues. Here, like Singapore, it is terribly hard for people with depression. I know because I’ve experienced several bouts of severe depression and am fortunate to still be living. Mental health is my most precious asset. But I’ll always be vulnerable to losing my mind. Should others  treat me as if I’m dangerous? Would it help them if they kept away from me and guarded themselves against me? They have to decide that for themselves.

Your blogpost is great.  It woke me up to an issue I’m never far from. Thank you very much. Paul"

I better go find out who’s behind the blog from Singapore.
What do you think?  Have I been fair to Cork Ireland?  Have I been true to the world we live in?  

Just as the volcano hijacked airspace over Europe, a toothache’s taken over my day today. I didn’t expect this.  It hit me suddenly and dominantly.  There’s been no way I could deny the presence of the tooth.

Out the window went my work plans.  Out the window went what felt like a huge chunk of my brain, all my concentration and sense of being in charge.

I’ve already made the point that chaotic thinking is probably better than any other form of thinking I know.  So I shouldn’t be surprised.  I should expect my plans to be made impossible by things outside my control & awareness.  I have a lot to learn. 

It has been said by a sage  "a lesson is always repeated until it’s learned". 

[ps: Be sure to look at this set of photographs of the volcano in Iceland (thanks to @PhilipDalyPhoto who brought them to my attention on Twitter this morning.]

CANTO XXV (here)

Follow the money,
ever so funny…
the way we were
you might infer
property’s cheap
modesty’s steep.
I’ve an Celtic tiger
with impetigo,
buy back my debt,
my buy-to-let.
Follow the money
no longer funny.

"Darling, you have done nothing but rhyme,
and that’s a crime for a poet
- you better know it shows.

"Regular meter is like laxitived verse,
out of the head, into the heart
rode the six hundred Irish women poets,
Crimea their middle name.
Florence Nightingale played chess
with Countess Markovitz.
Who do you imagine won the endgame?

I had a dream:
I saw a poster of sixteen Irish writers,
the greatest of all time,
not a cunt among them darling,
not a nipple worth a suckle.
Oh, the ladies are all polite,
but O’Brien she can excite
a man to ban.
Ban the bean,
any writer called O’Brien
can stick to prose I suppose.

Tell us where you’re going now,
tell us how you’ll find the sow.

Remember the englynion,
onion peelers the lot of them,
I don’t believe they exist
anymore. Too many verse forms
hit the floor when the typewriter was invented.

Misery, you streaming nose,
you bleed a stream of dilute snot
out from the caverns,
a succession of droplets.
Mucous bursts the dam,
floods over the upper lip
and uncut chin,
lodges on the skin 
between the folicles,
coats pullover with stain.
I am on drugs for the relief of hayfever
and insect bites.
Multivitamins too,
Omega 3, paracetamol.
I want an overdose
to blot the tributaries
from flowing into my mouth,
autodigeston of the virus.

Give me the needle, I’ll mainline,
the alternative has me crying.
No one gives a shit when you have a cold,
all you schadenfreuders,
don’t you be thinking this will stop me:
I will carry toilet paper
to wipe my nose dry.

As the dam refills,
I hear the Doonbeg news,
European Golf Resort of the Year.
You must be joking,
all the golfers of Europe are running for cover,
hedging their bets,
cutting the corporate hospitality
to the point that you have to pay your own.
Oh, the courses are indeed resting now.
"Renew your membership", they cry
- while the man’s wife insists
"we can’t afford your membership
in four clubs
anymore.
Which one do you think will make you captain?"
On the kitchen bar,
the renewal notices sit
demanding:
"Pick me, I’m Castletroy"
"No me, I’m Adare"
"Remember your Links" Lahinch Lahinch
"Hola, perché
your country membership only costs a few euros"
"You owe us money.
Your share of the cost of being a member
of a private club
abandonned by the Yanks 
- no flights from Tokyo into Shannon,
the exclusive coaches
sit in a car park in Ennis,
no fourballs to transport,
no lads on tour,
nor caddies to hire.
You’ll have to tap the locals:
Sunday lunch for the family,
something for the women,
a bit of relief for the kids.

"Let’s go to Doonbeg,
I hear they’re looking for us now,
they’ll take any old cash,
or swipe my grubby lazar.
Greedy bastards,
I have no sympathy for anyone,
corporate vision,
the mission to restrict entry
to the right kind of people
beyond the locality."

The golf clubs are all screaming now,
their bars are barely ringing,
the tees they are deserted
and bunkers hardly visited.
No clunk of dimple in the cup,
nor wedges from the rough,
the drivers are all put away.
It’s out of bounds,
it’s beyond the bounds. 

I was on my way to bed with thoughts swirling.  This volcano has made everything seem insecure. As if there are no longer any assumptions on which I can depend.  There may be no air transport anymore.  The era of flying may be over.  This volcano may be followed by another, and another, until no one can remember what RyanAir was like.

Maybe this volcano will be followed by a meteor that lands in the Atlantic, and splashes all the water over USA.  Maybe all the ice is about to melt, and meltfloods will take over. Crazy, but now it’s less likely such ideas will be dismissed out of hand.

There’s a massive debate about global warming:
At least two side battling… But while we humans chatter, the volcano speaks.  "I bring you chaos.  I gift you a new way of living: ferry-living. I want you all to realise you can’t simply assume you can predict: you can’t predict.  You can play at predicting, and it may be a useful intellectual activity, but don’t kid yourselves.  You can’t know the unknowable.

"Think chaos, think unthinkables, above all do not trust your own thinking.  You are in a capsule, a social form that tricks you, leads you to believe things will happen.  I promise you nothing. I promise you you will be surprised by the next century, decade, day, hour - second, if you look closely. 

"If a volcano could be human for a day, it would be curious.  That’s the way you could be: curious, open to the strange."

You know the phrase "expect the unexpected" - it’s a bit of a cliché eh?  

CANTO XXIV  (begins & ends here)

Day dawns on page 124,
the end is in sight.
Write sixteen pages a day,
and you will be alright.
Each page of thirty lines
gives you room to interview
thirty muses of a different hue.
Eight days more than enough,
wasn’t Genesis created in six.
In the beginning was the Word,
the ELEPHANT opened proceedings,
it’s all a bit absurd,
solely the way we see things.
Give me virtue in one hand,
and a sword to brandish high,
that’s a recipe well-used,
after a life that’s been abused.
In the desert with the nomads,
in a tent of lavish scenes,
where all can be denied
in the hope it will subside.
The Sheik has been to Mecca,
or the outskirts of Medina,
flanked by angels, he took virgins
in the dreams with martyrs’ margins,
‘cause the holy are united,
their faiths in one great brand.
Beyond the Unbelievers
stretches out the promised land.
The tablets from the mountain,
cherry-picked and overlooked.
Joe Duffy’s standing by,
sing out strong and tell me why
the poor are now all dressed
- hand-me-downs from Pope John’s children -
ever since the Vatican formed,
it’s been on the brink of being reformed.
So all might be fallen
in the gutter Samaritan.
Follow Proust into the mirror,
Madelines to make you quiver.
When the Day of Reckoning comes,
you’ll be wanting on the green,
your wig will be thrown down,
and the sceptre and the crown
for the names of the departed
will be mixed with all that farted
in the cauldron of the Just
unfermented in the must
burn the hearts of all that pray
for the ending of the day.
Bring on Judgement fatted calf,
please do lobby on my behalf.
In Glanmire, down near the river,
holds the bridge to the Irish bank,
the Cardinal is purple
Allied to lead a people.
Paradise Lost can be regained,
so the spinners have proclaimed.
Anam Chara carved on Ogham,
circles offer all a home,
where the gargoyles call the tune
for the rising of the room.
November remember,
the wall needs distemper,
the lime in the stone
cuts to the bone.
It was Clancy the Drover
turned shamrock to clover,
an emigrant’s verse
a tidy curse.
In Birmingham
I met a man
unfit to rule,
a fiddler’s fool,
he drew a pipe
from an inner pocket.
He packed it down
without a frown,
he whistled for God,
then blew for Salvation.
All he gained,
a polite ovation.
In the land of the blind leprechaun
lives a child learning to yawn,
storytellers’ days are crumbled,
all the promises are all rumbled.
Give me your palm
said William Blake,
Jerusalem
for goodness sake.
The blind can lead the blind
through the windows of this mind,
in the shadows lurk the stranger,
but the cesspools are no danger,
when the mighty crests are tarnished,
and the egos thoroughly varnished,
an economic cycle
specially for Michael.
You can put the Paddy into Mick,
but you can’t take the prick
for the life out of the Paddy,
nor the Mammy, nor the Daddy.
It’s time to close the cattle
in their field for overnight,
bolt the neighbours from the battle,
the washing from the line is out of sight.

(end of Canto 24) 

CANTO XXIII (starts & end here)

Friends, Romans, Kerrymen, lend me your shears;
I’ve come to bury John, not to raise him.
Noble men have told you John was ambitious;
if that were so, it was a mischievous fault,
and mischievously has John answered it.

The Mahabharatas of Listowel
feed off their hinterland,
so said the teacher from Tarbert.
It’s indeed a mighty struggle to regain land
taken in Famine times.
Sleeping dogs lie in hope of anonymity,
trusting they’ll wake with their Kingdom
intact.

Up the hairy mountain,
down the rushing pen,
we daren’t go a-punting
on tears from way back when.
Flee folk, cruel joke,
sinking all together,
green jacket, dead cap,
and white fowl’s feather.

Down beyond the crabby shore,
some take their host.
They thrive on thrifty handshakes,
and pray they love the most.
Some in the weeds
of the brown mountain dew,
with toads for their watchdogs,
all theirs to do.

By the shabby hillside,
through the bogs that snare,
we have planted corncrakes
for sculpture we declare.
Is any man so wearing
as counts them all delight?
He will hear their meadows call
in his bed at night.

Up the hairy mountain,
down the rushing pen,
we daren’t go a-punting
on tears from way back when.
Flee folk, cruel joke,
sinking all together,
green jacket, dead cap,
and white fowl’s feather.

Come night of day, whisk me away,
carry me over your shoulder.
There’s a land of nod,
where no one cares a sod,
a Yellow Submarine,
princess of the ice cream.
Close these eyes with dust,
bathe this mouth with lust.

(end of Canto 23) 

CANTO XXII (continues here)

"Fuck it Boss, he’s disappeared,
I fuckin followed him across the border,
and in the fog I lost the fucker.
But I’ll get him for you Boss,
Drumcondra rules Boss:
there’s no  getting away from someone
who’s stuffed a Dundon Boss.
What?  Fuckin blackspot Boss,
I’ll call you back…

Why don’t they put fuckin masts up?
Is it no wonder those fuckers from England
got washed up off Slea Head,
and all their fuckin bales in the fuckin sea?

Boss, Boss, can you hear me Boss?
The reception’s fuckin awful Boss.
What? Of course I’ll get him,
as soon as the fog lifts,
he’ll have an accident Boss,
like that tart Boss,
the whore with all the questions Boss.
There’s no way this cunt will get out of the Kingdom Boss.
Boss, are you there Boss?

Ah, fuck it. It’s all right for him,
all he had to do is pull strings." 

Shadow spreads across
face of the faithful at Mass
- Sacrifice the lamb 

Swallow left behind
the chill of evening sets in
- Spring a hope away

 (end of Canto 22) 

I so love this photograph that I put it up before deciding what words to put under it.  It came this morning via Twitter, from Blackrock Castle Observatory Cork - a wonderful place, with a fine cafe. 

You need special words to grace such exotic beauty.  I think something about mental health feels right…  Maybe now is the time to start the list of 10 Best Books on Mental Health?

CANTO XX11 (begins here)

"Oh, we got the message,
there is some imagination left,
a MOLESKINE needs a rest,
what became The Divine Comedy?
I know his mother died before he grew,
sounds like you’re turning her inside out.
Bring back Beatrice I say,
La Vita Nuova,
aren’t we entitled to  music,
troubadours, fiesta?
Why does the search for an honest man
have to entail such misery?
Twenty-one years that epic took
- the one you so admire.
Twenty-one days you’ve been writing
and we’re still in Hell.
Inferno fascination,
take us on to Purgatory,
MOLESKINES bask in Paradise.
Cafe Paradiso - now that was a better story."

It was late in the day when I came to that wood
the sun had gone down to win back the day
the moon in her light, the stars where they should

An order sublimely dictated, a thrown they say
nine circles torment the wicked unworthy life.
Where’s my Virgil, we face a monstrous way.

Bring me bright terraces of a promised land,
write your path to purification.
Peace and hope this MOLESKINE offers you.
Remember Magdalene,
Mary of my dreams,
I could give her to you,
if you’ll take her hand as guide.
Who knows who sits on the thrown these days,
it might well be the one you seek.
Some say the Angels call the shots,
but demand you become blind
in order to see the radiance
of the honest soul exposed.
Get a move on,
you’ve met the thieves,
hypocrites, soothsayers, flatterers
and seducers,
and you’re a blasphemer.
Stop taking the piss out of the abyss,
there are spendthrifts adrift
on the surface of the Green Lake.
Come off your high horse
and puncture a few for me." 

(to be continued here) 

Dear Grace,

Without Pat Heffernan, O’Mahony’s bookshop in Limerick wouldn’t have worked.  He held the place together.  I’m thinking back to the 1950s & ’60s when I was a child.  Pat was the man in the background whom the public never saw, who counted the money, tended to the administration. He did things I didn’t understand. He was always there from my earliest days.  I bet there was never a day I went into the bookshop when he wasn’t there.  Pat (Padraig) was my father’s right hand man.  I remember Pat Heffernan dearly, though it’s many years since I’ve seen him.  His style had a very good influence on my life.  
I wrote this poem in Adare, after going to see  him repose in Daffy’s funeral home in Croom.  I shook hands with many of his family.  I had to write something. The poor little poem carries so many memories for me… May he rest in peace.

The man behind the scenes in the bookshop

He did the books for the bookshop
from his office,
he never raised his voice.
A shock of white hair
before time,
an impecable ledger,
Pat Heffernan held the fort
behind the scenes
out of public sight.
Across the corridor from the boss,
he loved his tea,
after dotting the ‘i’s.
He suited the job.

I looked up to Pat,
tall, upright, quiet.
When he spoke, I strained to catch
the words.
He was from another world,
where the people were not from dust
but kindness itself
- in those days, it was also rare. 

__________________________ 

ps: I never knew anything of his interest in greyhounds