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.
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