5 Ways in Which Poets Are Mistaken for the Insane

“He’s right behind me, isn’t he?”


5.) Sound Seeking:
If anything  looks more insane than walking down the street talking to oneself out loud, it’s talking to oneself out loud in rhyme and alliteration in a disjoint fashion while counting off beats on one’s fingers.

 

4.) Emotion Evocation: If your writing comes across as a cry for help, you may be a deeply troubled individual. Or you may be a poet trying to induce a reader to feel.

 

3.) Clarity & Codes: Because there may be no literal meaning to your verse, the reader may suspect that you’re writing in code to your imaginary pink bunny rabbit. Faced with the humbling possibility that he or she may “just not get it,” most people prefer the alternative explanation that you’re a rambling lunatic.

 

2.) Playing the Odds: Let’s be honest, there have been a lot of poets who slipped into the abyss. Poe, Pushkin, Plath, Pound, and several poets whose last names didn’t begin with the letter “P,” were all afflicted by mental illness.

 

1.) Violent Reactions to being Interrupted:  A poem under development is a house of cards that needs only the subtlest gust of wind to be obliterated. Poems in the works are gauzy and fragile. So, as one is trying to wedge words together into a solid construct, one is occasionally interrupted. When this happens, one may instinctively pimp slap the interrupting individual like a Zen master trying to make the point that there is no point.

POEM: Lost at Sea

Source: Wikimedia

 

One soul said, “Don’t take to flight.”

A vision: landing lights fade from sight.

But those lights never appeared.

Just a figment of all he feared.

The plane never did arrive.

A hundred families mourn & cry.

How, oh how, did they get lost?

Not a moment tempest-tossed.

Madman or mechanical fluke?

An evil genius at once a kook?

Maybe a magician or a black hole?

A flipping of magnetic poles?

The riddle stupefies and confounds.

Why no plane upon the ground?

If never the day comes when we know,

perhaps we’ll have to learn to grow–

outthinking the narrow confines

of our simple 4-D minds.

POEM: World Line


I ride a dragonesque world line.

Worming through a block of time.

I’m dancing atoms in a roiling pot.

So energetic entropy forgot

to increase, and cobbled together

a self-aware “it” of clever blether.

POEM: Rag Bag

 In my youth,

in a cubby under the stairs,

there sat a big rag-bag.

Chaotically stuffed.

 

We’ve no rag-bag.

Our rags are store-bought:

laundered and folded.

 

Our cast off garments sit–

caked in dumpster chutney–

in a landfill.

 

Rag-pickers will scavenge them.

 

Some will be stuffed into craggy concrete holes.

There to keep the rats out.

The rats will make a nice meal of them.

And maybe a nest.

 

Some will rub rims clean–

if only for a monsoon moment.

 

Wiping, wiping–they’ll one day

dissolve into component threads.

POEM: 3 Haiku

Leaves scattered widely
Monsoon rains fall every night
You’d think it autumn



4 A.M. bird call
Ceaseless screeching through dreamland
Please, shut the fuck up



Banana leaf rains
Like an old tarp pulled tightly
But drips in my ear

POEM: The Taoist’s Dilemma

Life, at the moment, was a dumpster fire.
But all roads lead up when stuck in the mire.
So one smiles with the rock-bottom delight,
lifting one up to the highest of heights.
But up top, amid those beauteous views.
You’re on the cusp of receiving dread news.
In the best times sits the seed of the worst.
In moments of elation, you’ll find yourself cursed.

POEM: Literarily Insane

Hemingway off’d himself–
curled up under his
own looming shadow.

What loomed beyond
that shadow was the
great unfathomable.

Peering into it might
have been a comfort,
or might have killed
him in pre-greatness days.

***

Kesey’s Chief wondered
how the Irishman could live
in his own grandiosity of being.

McMurphy’s sanity was surely
built upon a foundation of delusion–
sanity and delusion forged iron-clad.

Meanwhile, those free of such
delusions huddled in the fog,
unable to step out into life.

***

Heller’s Yossarian summed
up the whole damned mess:
claims of insanity are a
recognition of one’s sanity.

Who else seeks to turn down
the volume on reality?

Other than one who can
hear it well enough to know
when it peals thunderous?

POEM: Abhaya

Stand atop the wall.
Feel the conch sound.
Watch the arrows sail.
Survey the killing ground.

Know you’ll someday die.
As will all, I suppose.
For those who die well,
it is no tale of woe.

POEM: Land’s End

Land ends in a wall of fog.

If you were told it was the

end of the universe, you

could not prove otherwise.

It glides up to the cliffside.

Stealing sight. Silent theft.

Ears ring. Seeking sounds.

Mind searches sensation.

Senses wet cotton dulled.

Solitude sweeps over one.

What would happen if one

stuck one’s arm inside the

fog? Would it expand into

infinity?  Or disintegrate

into a lawless zone free of

 mathematical certainty?

POEM: Under the Rug

a vessel cracked

an act of ransack

a pile of shards

one can’t discard

but swept aside

never to be eyed

under the rug

like Kafka’s bug