I’m not Paranoid, I just don’t Trust anyone


By Louise M. Hart

Don’t look at me

Don’t-look-at-me

Does my face threaten your subjectivity

Or put you off your cup of tea?

I took my tablets today

So now I’m symptom free

What do you see…

When you meet my glare?

I pull out my hair

And worry that you can see my scaly skin

Through the tear

In my jeans or smell my underwear

I pretend not to care

But I am crucified inside

Like Jesus Christ mounted on a cross of mind

After forty days and forty nights in the wilderness

Of my turbulent mental flight

Like squabbling lovers my thoughts scream and shout

I try to quieten them

In case you can hear

But you laugh in fear

Don’t look at me

Don’t-look-at-me

I look at you

And suddenly remember that you are only three

There is a Light that will never come on


By

Louise M. Hart

 

The lights are on

But there’s no one home

He stares into deep mid air

And nobody would guess

That his mind contains

More colour and depth

Than the pint of beer

His tight lips slowly sip

In honour of the woman

He did not know

 

He cannot even remember

When he was diagnosed

Or how many times

He has been hospitalised

His eyes conceal the vibrancy

Of his near death urgency

And are blank with certainty

That life on earth

Is bloody hell

 

Emotional emptiness

Is his real disease

Not paranoid schizophrenia

He is the shadow

Of the former selves

He wishes that he had never been

 

If you should see him

Buried in the darkness

Of a Glasgow bar

Please say, “Hello”

He needs a friend

For he let this one go

 

To all the Girls I have never Loved before


I dedicate this poem

To the loves

I have not known

The nights I have spent

Alone

Chastising myself

With my belt of desires

On a bed

Of moist memory foam

And sheets

That drip with sweat

And dread of exposure

 

I dedicate this poem

To the hearts

I have not broken

With my roaming eye

And my tongue tingling

Love tokens of longing

For the tasty pink delight

Of womanly wonders

 

Beneath the swooning

Fist of night

My heart thrives

On its passionate cries

But my body celebrates

Celibacy

With cross-legged frigidity

 

Though my mind is insecure

In the grasp

Of its moral duplicity

I secretly acknowledge

The tenuous tightrope

I tread

Of illusory hetero

Homogeneity

 

I am as anonymous

As I was not made to be

And spread my legs

Only for the wondrous words

I create

Never under cover

Of the beds

Adorned by those

To whom I dedicate

This poem

In my head

 

Except Yourself


Except Yourself

I travelled north to learn how to be free

But the shrieking gulls delivered my spirit

To Nemo’s tomb

Buried beneath 20,000 leagues of despair

Under a doom sated sea

A fisher of souls, swept to her watery demise

By waves that tempted my mind

And stung my weary eyes

Lapping the frail shore of my bored

Consciousness

I roared from the depths

Of my soul’s new found distress

And swallowed the sea water’s acrid foam

Like a fleet of melting acid ice cream cones

My thoughts nourished by the taste of its cool duplicity

Being caught between the to and fro

Of my unique soul’s existence and human homogeneity

I had become invisible, both on land and sea

Like a single splash of water on a pier-less shore

Depositing no residue of my life or piteous form

One day, I stepped into troubled waters

Where I witnessed rising from his/her liquid bed

Like Poseidon’s changeling son/daughter

The angel of the north

Who spoke to me, “It’s not so bad, up here, with the haggis

And the local beer

Better rain upon a sunny head

Than sun shining beyond a mind

That is dull as lead”

“Like mine,” I screamed

“It is not your home location,” S/he equivocated

“Inducing your mental rot

Your soul is sick

For existence has failed to offer you a role

In this season’s production

Of the dominant model

Of the anti-social whole

This is not how life should be…

This is not how life should be”

Angel of truth

Lancelot, inhabiting a nautical incarnation

Of Avalon, for the kilted generation

Riding against the tide, with limbs of lace and leather

Your presence warmed my heart

Like rays of sun in wintry weather

Words slid from your tongue

Like a gentle elixir

I drank them slowly

And let them fix me

In 2008 I moved from the West Midlands to Scotland. In 2014 I returned home, where the air is more polluted but I learned to breathe, again.

*Except Yourself was originally posted on ArtiPeeps.com.Thank you, Nicky Mortlock for permitting me to republish it, here.

Silence Speak Please


Every time I open my mouth

You rip out my womb a little further

I become as barren

As a November Sunday afternoon

My words severed

By your blade of silence

Your gaze reduces woman

To form of a symbol

Like a child bride

Groomed to perform

Acts against her nature

Or a virgin suicide

Wrought

By the penetrating power

Of men’s inequitable ideology

Tied to our conjugal bed

Your fist of masculinity

P

L

U

N

G

E

S

Into the clenched behind

Of my heart unbound

But, no one hears my cries

For my mouth is gagged

And my tears are invisible

To all other empirical, “I’s”

Thus, I bleed for womankind

For Magdalene, Christ’s castigated lover

For Malala

Awarded a prize

For surviving

Her own attempted homicide

-A trophy voice

Which, of course

She possessed, anyway

I bleed and plead

But no one sees or hears me

For like a maiden aunt

I have been castrated by mankind

Left to rot on the shelf

With the other unconsumed

Unconsummated perishables

Past my sell by date

Putrefying with middle-age

And disconnected femininity

I am…not that into me, either


I am Van Gogh’s emasculated ear

Severed to diminish feeling I died before I became real

Comprised of stories no one wants to hear

And rendered out of print, like an old fashioned picture book

Disproportionate in words and imagery

When I speak, the herd turns its heedless back

I blame them not, for my voice sounds sweeter when gagged

By those who hear only sounds

Transcribed by waves that are fluid, loud and clear

Shedding emotions, like translucent onion peel

I try to moo aloud

But no one answers back

Thus, as I sit alone in a crowd of crushing pain and fear

I raise my hands to my head

But find that it has disappeared

This poem was inspired by circumstances I experienced only yesterday. I joined a writers group because I wanted to improve my writing. But, when I sat passively listening to the group’s critique of one of my poems, I realised that I perceived my writing as not a projection of my consciousness, but as myself in a textual form. Thus, whilst I fully accepted, even welcomed, feedback about my use of language and how engaging they found the poem, I felt crushed when the critique disintegrated into an attack on the ideology and thought processes behind the poem. In a sudden revelatory flash, I realised that it matters not whether my writing is, “good” or, “bad.” I write for myself and if other people like it, I am blessed. To what extent the critique constituted a personal attack on me, I do not know. But, it saddens me to think a group formed to encourage people to write, should conduct itself in such a manner. If this situation had happened to some one else, I would have felt the same. I shall not go back to the group, but I shall always write.

Write what you know


No writer of fiction escapes from herself. Although many feign detachment from the mortal “I,” our hearts and souls are encoded in the characters we create. This is both a blessing and a curse.

It is widely accepted that most first novels are essentially autobiographical in nature. My own first novel, The General Paralysis of Sanity is a perfect example of the phenonenom. However, despite my subsequent writing ventures, my “self” remains a frequent visitor to the texts I produce. This is both a blessing and a curse.

My favourite twentieth century poet and, I believe, probably the greatest exponent of the form, is T.S. Eliot. Eliot proposed that great poetry should be detached from the limitations of the poet’s ego. The consequence of this principle haunts the literary establishment today. Thus, confessional poetry is often stereotyped as a secondary form and connoted with feminisation. A Life Reborn, my second book is a collection of confessional poetry.

I am a writer. This is both a blessing and a curse.