WHAT GOES AROUND POMES 

AROUND ANOTHER CENTURY   

I believe in an 'absolute rhythm', a rhythm 

that is in poetry, which corresponds precisely to

 the emotion or shade of emotion 

                                  to be expressed.

                                                                EZRA POUND

In two thousand five, I took a massive stroke that almost killed

me; in fact, for a moment, I died, and they gave me a brain, and I

 sat upright like the exorcist. My son leaned to kiss goodbye to kiss

 me and saw my face reflected in his eyes. I looked like a holocaust

 survivor. The stroke paralyzed my right, and I was unable to walk

 or talk; I saw the words coming through my mind, but no words.

 Came out of my mouth. This is 

stroke so-called recovery. It erased

 my left brain and forty-five years 

of memory. this is how our good

 Christian care un-care. Con-

insultants looking down at me,

 waiting for me to choke to choke

to death. I realized their snobbery.

The only one to fix me was me.

They put me down for tracheotomy to fix my vocal cords and peg--

feed me. My friend called to eat yoghurt; I asked if I could try it.

My swallow managed the texture. They didn't like you to have 

a mind of your own. The N.H.S. is riddled with upper-class

 assholes. They look good with the stethoscope around their necks.

 Can you walk and talk? I wanted to tell you. I'm fucking

 paralyzed. What to fuck of your own planet are you on. I asked my friends 

to take me to a fast food cut, a burger, and a milkshake my body

 took the energy nutrients, the peg feed was cancelled, and I

 refused the tracheostomy. These assholes are driving people to

 suicide. Ask, don't tell.

Nobody told me what to do. I knew my body. These assholes didn't

 even see that brain injury caused a no-minds eye, and it was

 diagnosed in 1508 Aphantrauma Aphantasia, this is our mental

 health, sad. they don't like you to have a mind of your I found 

out on YouTube watching a guy talking to a neurologist

after two suicide attempts, unable to see his dead mother in his

 mind; the man said you have a thing called aphantasia. Just a

 name 

In their studies, Marguerite Dumas and Alaina FField said that

 only by knowing can you see the light. When you find yourself in 

a hole at the bottom of a hole, you realize only writing can save

 you. I am compelled to find forms in a formless world, hope in

 hopeless ville.

How many thousands have committed suicide, and the mental

 psyche team asked, will you hurt yourself had no clue. They toss

 you out to live a suicidal tendency. What a sad state, as John

 Berryman called the blind brow. I live on that ledge. As Lou Read

 said, down is up,

                         linger on!

Soman-traverse is my way through poe-art music, I have no sense

of time living a twenty-year moment with no past future, now 

and now like Ted Hughes in A Fox Thought but this is 

A Fox thought. I recall remember only what I write like

                             

                            A VERBAL MEMORY

truth be told

1.

 

Dad was a conman gunman, a British soldier 

I.R.A. killer. He didn't know the meaning 

of the word oath, left England, my birthplace

and returned to Ireland, Belfast, in 67'to get 

away from a gang of thugs.

 

A bigot I loved to hate the bastard; he tore

my mother's heart; they say the Kray twins 

were after him. That's how big a bastard he

was; we lived in the east end of London. 

He was a deep, secretive man, so we will never 

know, he took it to the grave.

We can't even find his plot on the black hills over-

looking at the violently divided city. N.I. was

the best place to hide; he died before the peace 

process, and he was riddled with hate. My father and I

never spoke and avoided eye contact. 

I had my mother's humanity in me. He died 

as he lived unknown in Jim, John, Joseph, 

Sean Fox or Irvine. I don't even know

my real name.

 

He didn't like the sensitivity and wanted me to

Be a cold-blooded killer like him, but I detested 

war and  killing, the first years of my life were 

spent on the streets of Belfast, I was a wild child.

 

Dad got out of jail on bail, one of the longest 

detainees in Ireland, nine months in the Crum. 

He went on the run, and Mum said I was to go.

Expelled from school for trying to burn it 

to the ground, got caned by the bat, head-

master 24 times with a thin bamboo, so I broke

Twenty-four windows. Only for the troubles

I would have been sent to St. Patrick's boys' home.

 

My father went across the border to a cottage

Used by the I.R.A. to run guns, two rooms, no

Electric, toilet or running water, that cottage

Took all the hatred out of me just knowing

That the whole world was not at war.

 

He got a job in Dundalk and left me with

The dog Muttley who had one eye and three

Legs beaten by British army rifle butts left for

Dead. Left for eight hours a day with no food

Only dog food, what a bastard.

 

I have written these days so I'll try to say

What you don't know, my mother came

how could you let your own son eat a dog

food, he's walking alive, she deloused me

and rented a proper home and school.

 

Still a little wild left school aged fifteen

And ran away to London to get away

From regimental ogre home rule at last

I beat the bastard and ran to my mothers

Sister Aunt Peggy.

 

It was the best move I ever made was to de-

Ported back to Ireland to rob a factory.

I was young and had no sense went to see mum

And went to Dublin aged eighteen freeeee.

 

2.

 

I had umpteen jobs from binman, engineer,

Lorry driver, screen printer, and electronic engineer. 

Told my wife I didn't want to work ever again, hated 

being used and wanted to be a writer, family friends 

said I was mad, but I knew something was in me; one 

of my poems were published.

 

Sent three to the poet's house, was accepted

For a two-week poetry retreat, I felt magic in

Before I left the poet's house, James Simmons

Asked me to study for a scholarship in creative

Writing. I said Jimmy, I haven't even got O' level, 

he said don't worry.

 

Send me ten poems and an essay on poetry

I will send it to Lancaster University. I Levi-

dated all the way home, the poems were

Accepted by Lapwing Press for a chapbook.

Got M.A. to set up a creative writing class

 

At the local library, give others the chance

That Jimmy gave me. Didn't know how smart

I was. Applied for a job at the Arts Center. I began 

to write the day my father died. As I said, you

Can be a bastard but don't ever be a cunt!

 

That bastard held my confidence back for six-

teen years was accepted. I Have published ten 

books of poetry, prose, and anthologies of up-

and-coming writers who have published 

their own work and set up workshops.

 

What goes around poems around, wow

Jimmy, I'll never forget you. Peace and poetry

floored the Da; stick that in your peace 

pipe; I'm starting to remember to forget.