Outsider Scribe
…for Lisa Anderson
Here, in this Catholic hospital, with its crucifix
décor and daily contemplation, sparks kiss your temples
and your tongue is tied to the tunes of Mass. Your words
save you from oblivion, the chaplain agrees; you cease
striking out and hurling screens at pavement. Your scarred
arms hidden by long sleeves and regret, you present well.
Perhaps a little harried, but by no means destructive.
What do I know? They keep you here, behind locked doors,
until 4 pm, when grounds privileges come into effect,
and the offices are shut tight. I wish I could cure you
of your waking nightmares, calm the urge to smash and shove
your way into the mainstream. Like me, you are an outsider
scribe, marginalized poet, cursed by madness. If only
you would swallow the bitter medicine of your existence,
accept that voices lie, thoughts deceive, and emotions
can be fraudulent. Then, perhaps, you could walk with me
through streets constructed for the well, and step lightly
between the cracks.
Psychosis and its Aftermath
I fell to my knees in the glare of the interrogation
light of high noon in hell. I was rocked by terrible visions
and the putrid dialogue of generated voices, with their running
commentary on my debauched soul. Nauseous, I climbed
to the high wire of rebellion, refusing to choose
the dictated, for which I suffered torment. The demons
on the rice paper scroll manifest. The haunting of the wicked
enduring. Such was my predicament, that I could not grasp
the proffered hand, not until every last ounce of will was burned
from me.
Then, trembling, compliance.
Docile, I was led to medication lineups and rehabilitative programs.
Vacant, I let myself be filled with tested paradigms.
My own mind my nemesis, I adopted the stance of the lucid authors
of recovery texts. Eventually, I reclaimed the intact parts of myself,
and came into myown, mended; the scars of gold glinting
on the jagged cracks of my once-shattered psyche.
Creator (after Yamouda Koun)
…for Tina
Do I find in my forays into meditation, sitting atop the soft
cushion, sitz bones sinking into canvas-wrapped kapok, legs
akimbo, spine straight, palms open and ready to receive grace,
the true meaning of the tradition I was born into, the one
with the crucified guys on the hill – two criminals, and one
saviour? At family dinners, a stubborn aunt or two will sputter
a prayer, thanking God, not the hosts, for the food, while I,
concealing a mudra beneath the table, thank the calm nature
of the cook for the ease of digestion. But, really, what’s the difference?
God is nothing if not calm, for He is everything and everyone,
and, anyway, to thank all responsible for the feast – the farmers,
the butchers, the clerks, the clouds, the rain, the pay cheque,
would take too long, and the food would grow cold, while the rumble
of our bellies drowned out the prayer.
About the Author – ky perraun
ky perraun (she/her/they) lives on Treaty 6 territory. They are the author of Miraculous Sickness (At Bay Press), and the forthcoming Salt from the same press. They facilitate a writing group for CMHA Edmonton Region, and have a lived experience of severe mental illness.
Keep Reading…
- Poems by ky perraun
Here, in this Catholic hospital, with its crucifix décor and daily contemplation, sparks kiss your temples and your tongue is tied to the tunes of Mass. - Of Imagination All Compact
Thatcher was, by all accounts and sufferings of everyone who knew him, a genius. On the day he was to write the greatest novel in all eternity… - An Ode to My Shadow
Do you remember that late afternoon when I saw you across the room? I do, you called to me from the Toronto motorcycle trade show floor with your lights and dashing flames.
Meanwhile, at Dreamers…
Fireside Writing Retreat
It’s simple; a set of prompts, a loose structure, and time set aside to move through it at your own pace. You can follow it closely or not at all. There’s no expectation to produce anything finished.
Dreamers Writing Farm
Dreamers Writing Farm is the physical home of the Dreamers community, a quiet, creative space on the Bruce Peninsula in Ontario. Writers, artists, and travellers stay here throughout the year in simple, literary-themed cabins, tents, and studio suites.