Admission Suite
~blood
whimsy is testimony too~
The poems that follow were written in
the days just before, and just after, I was admitted to St. Joseph’s Hospital,
Hamilton, in November 1977, diagnosed with acute schizophrenia. (When I re-entered psychiatric treatment in
1990, after more than a decade avoiding it, I was told that the initial
diagnosis had been incorrect, that instead I had bipolar disorder.) After the
last untitled poem, the Red Book—a thick hardbound book with unlined pages and
a pebbly red cover, which I had been rapidly filling with writing and
drawings—went blank white. It stayed that way. I was, I’m told, completely
catatonic for a time and then intermittently so (I have relatively few, and
very fragmented, memories of the eighteen months that followed). I didn’t resume writing until 1979, some
weeks after my discharge. I used a new notebook. The poem “fruit bat,”
appropriately in the middle of the sequence, was written while I rode the bus
from Toronto to Hamilton to be admitted, after doctors at North York General
had stitched up the deep lacerations I had made in my abdomen—my “self-Caesarean”—and
elsewhere on my body. It is a wonder to me that I wrote the seven poems after
it, given the regimen of heavy tranquilizers I was started on immediately. But
ingrained habits die hard, and for a short time, drug uptake did battle with an
artistic outpouring. It was after I’d showed these poems to staff, I’m also
told, that hebephrenia—betokening
radical incoherence, a childish beyond-reachness—became a stable entry on my
chart. But these poems seem cogent to me, even now: in the sense (what other
sense is there?) of giving expression to what I was experiencing at the time:
of commenting meaningfully on my situation. If they did not push up against the
bounds of what is communicative at least as often as they do, given their
origins, I would have to disavow them. Rather than sheer nonsense, they seem
like the best last flares of a mind going under. The last, the envoy-like
“(untitled),” even reads like a memo from that departing self, hinting at a
return—though a return not possible to believe in at the time, and delayed far
beyond hoping.
(i)
What If a Man
what if a man
should wake one morning
with white and
trembling hands
his hair
composed
(literally) of
vanishing filaments
and his bones
rattling—rhythm
of seeds in a
gourd
and what if this
same man
feeling as angry
but also as
carefree and sequent
as an acorn
dropped from a
branch
should see his
wife
standing in the
doorway
and think only
of poppy seeds,
scattering
would not this
man soon give signs
he had developed
unholy loves and
fears
(ii)
Self-Hate
cast your
prejudicial eye
into the sea. as
it falls
mumble something
bitterly
about an
eyepiece that floats.
(iii)
Rescue Attempt
i had an aunt
with a heart condition
who lived in
Saint John’s.
so i took the
bus to see her
but the driver
talked so much about his daughter
living in sin
that we both
decided to go there
and bring her
back instead.
i had no clear
idea how to get there
and he only knew
it was a harrowing place
full of
inversions.
so we asked a
boy with a chestnut on a string
who was playing
but he cracked
me on the head with the chestnut
and said
nothing.
i asked the
driver if this was rude
and he agreed to
help me whip him.
afterwards he
asked me if i was hungry
and i said yes.
so we flayed a
cucumber in the striped sun
and ate it.
(iv)
New Friends
vase, milk,
salt,
the coat in the
hall;
perfunc
tory rows
of wine bottles:
glass skins
emptied
by the
slender meshing
of friends.
now: cotton
shirts, books,
pictures and
windows: ancillary friends.
after twenty
years, a
tide has gone
out. i am alone:
a delicate saw
of bone under a bone sky.
(v)
Fishcleaning
i gut the slim
forms you pass
me in silence:
bass
perch
bullhead (black
and pin-eyed)
puckish sunfish
bleeding a red
dawn
pike. pike last.
slashes
around the
gills, and the river boa
shivers. he
vomits up a minnow
and the little
corn-coloured whelp
lies curled,
inside the
scythe teeth.
as the guts are
wrenched free and flung away
the pike’s jaw
sags.
the wind
scoots up a windstorm of scales.
the minnow
falls into the
grass.
(vi)
Fruit Bat
you called me
mad: when i hung upsidedown in a fruit
tree whistling for fruit
you called me
mad: when winter came and i still
hung black and folded
you called me
mad: when the wind shrieked and my
wings
wings
beat against my body for warmth
you called me
mad: when springsummerfall
the black pendent hung
you called me
mad: when i starved but couldn’t leave
and sharp teeth gnawed my own belly
(vii)
Nightmare
itches
the body sends
its prickling missive
warning of the
skin-web and the filth of the spider
sitting
hairy-legged where the hair was
holding the head
rigid preparing to suck
the mouth an
incredible jelly-bag of filth
SHAKE IT SHAKE
IT SHAKE IT smear it into the pillow
churn its
boneless malevolence into pulp
and fall back gasping
into sleep
WAKE what seems
seconds later to a new battle
a struggling of
planes of sheet skin and darkness
a horrible dance
of angles
the greatest
most noiseless intersections clanging
like snow
hairball life
drops suddenly and runs scuttling
across the room
holding his ears
in fear in anger
he begins to eat
he eats the
furniture the wall he eats bill
sleeping next to
me he eats all
he eats the meat
hunched down over darkness
right down to
the bone of light
a handsome
gleaming bone of rapidly accumulating
flesh
so exhausted i
lay my head next
to this the
day’s expanding muzzle
and am soon
swallowed whole into sleep
(viii)
A Paltry Wakefulness
i wake on a
psychiatric ward
amazed to notice
my bottom becoming
soft, less definitely
globed
sloping as
stately as a woman’s
—hospital “food”!
visitors,
visitations—
violet
cauliflowered exhalations of pipe smoke
there is a film
in front of my eyes
coming from my
eyes
as if a
grasshopper had attached to those skeins
and hopped away
erratically
randomly
unravelling them
(these are deep
soft wounds)
i feel like thin
metal
twisted under
Giacometti’s fingers
to a stalk of
fibrous leaning in space
but the
bitterest irony is the self
imitating itself
at every level
until even
emptiness fails to inhabit
fails to be more
real
than shard of
slivered light
thrown from the
throat
to be caught by
the eyes and cloned into space
(ix)
Failed Inventory
the chair
chaired the meeting
the pen penned
the minutes
the ball balled
the minutes into time
the pattern
patterned itself
the colour
coloured the pattern
the light
lighted the colour
the colour
coloured the light
the house housed
secrets
the earth
unearthed them
the space spaced
the house from the earth
the fish fished
in the river
the sand sanded
down the rock
the rock rocked
underneath
the I————
what does it do?
i cried to the
chair pen ball
pattern colour light
colour house
earth space fish sand rock
but none of them
could stop what they were doing to
answer
and the I the I
the I the I
eyed everything
nervously
(x)
The 1st Order of Genius
the 1st
order of genius can extract huge sums with a
flourish
the 2nd
order wanders through a labyrinth in his
nightshirt carrying a candle
the 3rd
order is a more servile courtier. he reads
at home to his
kids while golden hooves flash in
his head
the 4th
order has a tiered trachea, able to swallow
anything. he is
called cudbag, but he eats
adjectives
the 5th
order appears at the corner of your vision
and walks across
it, a nimble and professional
motion
the 6th
order says cuntshitprick how i hate to get up
in the morning and falls dead
there are many
more orders of genius. while still
a gambolling
freeloader in my mother’s womb, i counted
millions of
them. others have documented them more
thoroughly than i.
(xi)
Listen Paper
don’t call me
honest. just flash the blade
that fetches an
exact smear.
don’t set me up
either as wise: my head is only my
neck looking in
one direction.
paperglass
scissorsstone, i love all sided things:
if i thought
truth was round shit
i would sew up
my asshole
and take to
painting like a cubist.
i admit: what is
clear
i encase in
clear amber, hardening the illusion.
scissors stone,
love is good. perhaps
because the cunt
is warm and the cock is long
enough. goodday.
(xii)
Fish Live in the Toilet
Fish live in the
toilet,
They come up to
see me.
Fish live in the
toilet,
How they flash
merrily!
(xiii)
(untitled)
a madman cut and
blessed the air
and read each
day from a book of prayer
when he reached
the last page out he fled
“you must write another book” it said
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