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Mad Creatures I never know when the mass will move. Boots along my nostrils, puffs of dust that smells of rust, blood. Gray creatures crowd my throat, spread seeds on my teeth. I crack, spit black saliva, gallows-words for plastered masks of beheaded people, beloved fiends. In tense silence millions of ants crawl in my body, each with a crumb of gray skin in its mouth till sewage avenues explode in dirty songs; rats bite squeak beats on all exposed tendrils, sinews that bleed, bleed on fists strangling half born caresses. When they retreat, they hide in the skull, in the graveyard under thoughts' corpses. © Paula Grenside |
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Commentary: Often my poems come from events that touch me deeply. When I am directly involved, the need to interpret and give voice to the experience becomes urge. I witnessed a schizophrenic crisis in a young man whom I knew was ill, but had always met on normal circumstances. My first reaction was fear and desire to run away. I suppose this is a human reaction when faced with something we don't understand and which is scary. I stayed, listened to his words, his suffering and torment, visible. I wanted to help, my fear forgotten. Did what his sister did: held his hand, when he let us do it, whispered soothing words. It didn't last long and when it passed he was the quiet person I knew; he didn't remember anything, but the sign of suffering was still in his eyes; in his shaking. I learned an important lesson that day: how we do need to accept what we don't understand and see what kind of help we can offer. I wrote this poem as a reminder. Paula Grenside Bonfire contributor |