For a Man


Women make better friends, they said

Nails bite like incisors into soft, warm flesh

Women are fluid

 

Then I took

A man with big hands and enormous feet

Whose hair tickles parts of me

About which my Mother didn’t tell

Fingers that sing tricky tunes of love

The bee’s sting of desire

 

I know women

But I love a man

 

I am not a traitor to my sisters’ cause

Punching my fist in the face of ideological rejection

I am the projection of

Purity

Love

Truth

Merely human

 

Louise M. Hart

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I am not a Sister’s Poet


She sways through town

5 feet 9 inches tall

And wide

Inside

She is still a child

 

Her boyfriend nods

On her mountainous back

Of a push bike

Trip to hell

His wheels deflated

By the airy tight force

Of her cutting mouth

 

She is driven to swell

Him

Beneath

But, he carries no desires

To service a chauffeur

And offers her

No passenger led rides

 

He is merely on loan to her

Until his use-by date expires

 

Whilst her skin is as ice is thin

Thoughts dripping

Beneath the frozen veil

Of words that threaten

To betray her

Her actions

Speak louder

Than her

Designer heels of delusion

 

And she short circuits reality

By reaching for the sky

 

Clip, clip, clop

She conscientiously navigates

Society’s exclusive upper underbelly

For if she stops, she fears that

Like her punctured bicycle

She will never be remounted

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

 

Happy valentine?


HIM?

I had an affinity with your smile

But the residue of your fleshy strokes
Has revoked
The feelings you once inspired.
A moment of hidden truth
Concealed all proof
Of your lie.

In my sleepless hours
You scorched
Your pitiful words
Like flames of fire
Into the frown on my face.

I suspect that you knew that you were bad
Your masquerade of madness pulling you through.
I took you on for a while
Mistaking dependence for something good.

Now, the plans I make
Are understood
By consciousness singular
Being flesh and blood.
And not heart of iron
Soul of wood.

New Poems!


DETRImental

The pulse of your touch upon my wrist
Spelled two years of delusion
In which an image resided
Like a flame in darkness
And became you

I hesitated to ask you
How you felt about your life
Or if you desired a wife
For you were an ideal
And I, an impression of a beholder
Who beheld only you

My thoughts were cloudy with your Omni-presence
Yours willing the arrival of 5.30
You never saw through
I fell
But you did not catch me
You were looking at your watch
It was 5.30

HOPE

I would go out-
If I had somewhere to go.
I would be a good friend-
If I had any.
Until then
I shall smile knowingly
And pretend.

Knots: The Poetry of R. D. Laing


In the pre-psychotic realm of my youth, I discovered the works of Scottish (anti) psychiatrist R. D. Laing. His seminal offering, The Divided Self (1960), became for a time, my Bible, offering me reassurance that my deeply held fear of madness was proof of my sanity. A few years later, I remember, during my chaotic career as an undergraduate, sitting at a table of my university refectory, smoking and drinking an innumerable coffee. Poised on a wave of my own sense of urgency, I knew not whether to retreat from or entreat with words the grizzled middle-aged, presence who reclined in the seat opposite me. Soon, my dilemma was resolved; the presence spoke. Complete with perfectly crumbled Scottish vowels and the scrag-end of a roll-up, he introduced himself and told me that he lectured in psychology. Immediately interested, I began to converse and confessed to him my fascination with all things Laingian. To my great delight, he claimed that he had worked with Laing and eyes twinkling, rasped, “The trouble with Ronny was…like many of us, he couldn’t resist a pretty girl.” I never spoke to the man again, confining him to the annals of lecherous old devilment. However, whenever I ruminate about my first and only hero of psychiatry, I smile at the memory of meeting someone who had known him, smug in the knowledge that we all are only one handshake away from greatness.
Whilst, R. D. Laing’s (1927-1989) most widely read writings are books detailing psychological analyses of psychosis. He, also, intruded upon the sacred soil of poetry. His 1970 volume, Knots, operates most successfully as an encoding of his ideas in the loosely defined form of poetry. The text is divided into five sections which can be read as individual dialogues or mini play-lets. Ultimately, a deconstruction of relationships, the “knots” of the title connote impasses; the conflicting passage of the Western interpersonal being. For in our relationships with others, subjectivity is both defined and denied.
Stylistically dense to the point of being terse, on first reading Knots may appear irritatingly abrupt and lacking in the artifice of rhythmic mellifluousness and beauteous language. However, the circuitous dialogue merely reinforces Laing’s notion that relationships are constricted by the production of thoughts, which lead to neurotic beliefs, which, eventually become interpreted in our behaviour and ensuing relationships. Although, the book is not entirely successful as a work of poetry, it offers many insights into the psychology of relationships. As someone who has been profoundly affected by Laing’s theories about the, “family nexus,” whereby family life was deemed accountable for the presence and sustenance of psychosis,
I particularly enjoyed the first part of the book. For, here, his views about the injunctions of the family are most fully transcribed.