Archive for the Mental Health Category

Mid-line Crisis

Posted in Mental Health, Poetry, therapy, writing with tags on August 11, 2015 by Graeme Cooper

I have no idea who I am.

This room attempts to suggest

My presence in metaphor;

Mere narrative echoes

Of a story which is only partly mine,

Although told in the first person.

I have no idea who I am.

These more or less comfortable clothes

Try to define me in outline until

Illusion is exposed by removal,

And all that lies

Is a costume on the floor.

Too much skin around haunted eyes,

Too heavy with the responsibility

Of unanswered questions

Flung back by insistent mirrors,

Of glass and flesh,

Suggests I am older than is logical.

I have not made a decision

In an hour, or forty years, or millennia.

I have simply followed or ignored words

Of unspoken voices which I took for mine.

This body has brought me here, which is fine,

But I still have no idea who I am.

Conception

Posted in health, kids, love, Mental Health, Poetry with tags , , , on October 28, 2014 by Graeme Cooper

Jagged fears stab

The nerves like tiny,

Slivers of glass, shards

Of the shattered crystal peace,

Which came as a wedding gift,

That December.

Its glacial presence,

Its pure, singing, note,

Now fractured and falling,

Wildly refracting spectral colours,

Fleetingly beautiful before it

Hits the ocean below.

Going under, it spins, simultaneously

Melting and drowning,

Disappearing and assimilating,

Its diluting purity poisoning,

The saline sanity of the sea.

Until, gasping for air,

We awake together,

Reverie broken.

Your soft breath soothes me

But the inaudible whisper of another heartbeat

Says something has changed.

Why You Sing The Blues

Posted in death, love, Mental Health, music, philosophy, Poetry, therapy, War, work in progress, writing with tags on March 14, 2014 by Graeme Cooper

Conscious of too much,

You are not primitive enough;

Sufficiently enlightened to see your folly,

Though unable to escape it.

As ego drowns instinctive sense

Of scale and wonder,

You cannot comprehend life

Except through the death you pursue wildly.

Whilst trying to deny self-destruction,

The only path which makes any sense,

You gorge your maniac lust on annihilation,

Invoking broken-mirror deities to justify

Chemical, consumerist mass-destruction insanity.

Why do you live if death

Is the only great adventure left?

Because somewhere behind this twisted madness,

Lies the irrational hope of love.

Beat

Posted in death, health, Mental Health, music, Poetry, writing with tags , , on March 12, 2014 by Graeme Cooper

Strange
Food brings
Mood swings. He
Could sing
Brooding lullabies but
Her bright eyes
Catch the light like
The glitterball gleaming in
The ceiling of his
Sleep; compressing the chest
Of the restless bass player pacing
The empty stage of
His empty dreams, promising
Oblivion,
That thoughtless dominion
Of the obvious
rhyme.
While unseen drummer summons
The legions of the beat,
Unseen lesions secrete murderous
Chemicals sweet and he
Sleeps with the disco lights on,
Afraid of dancing with the dark.

Hide and Seek

Posted in birthdays, Mental Health, Poetry, therapy, winter, writing with tags , , on January 16, 2014 by Graeme Cooper

Change crouches

Beyond  peripheral vision,

Unseen but sensed, unsettling.

Its scented breath is felt;

Searching stretches senses, strains

Muscles around  eyes, making

Bridge of nose ache,

Dragging concentration into

Wordless void.

Is it hope or fear

Which so distracts?

From this moment so empty,

Which waits for the future to

Explode into view?

And what then?

Tartan

Posted in love, Mental Health, Poetry, winter, writing with tags , , , on December 7, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

Some days beautiful

Things need

To be

Written

 

Words fly across

The page

Like the shuttle of some old loom

Interlacing the weft  of solid experience

With dreams and imagining

To create wondrous tartan

Hard-wearing, warm and comfortable

To keep us snug together

On a night such as this.

Manflu

Posted in Art, health, Mental Health, Poetry, work in progress with tags , on November 19, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

As the disembodied words

Of long-dead poets hang in the air

Like the memory of my Grandad’s Christmas cigar,

Febrile imaginings’ shadows are forced

Into twisted dance as unseen draught mangles

The flames of thought’s candles,

Wringing grotesque, demonic caricatures

From the sometime holy light.

 

Tangential echoes converge like ripples

From acidic raindrops

Distorting the reflection of heaven

To a Picassoesque parody  of

An unspeakable scream stuck in the throat

Of murdered innocence like a sixpence

Until only moths emaerge

Confused by too many moons

Consumed in a single moment, rendered unreal.

Josephine Corcoran

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