Tag Archives: depression

Things Left Unlearned

How to walk into the light
with no effort.  How to 
stay lit as you fade. They say
glory waits for you 
somewhere. You say you
want a touch of glory now.
You wanted one yesterday.
You longed for one 
the day before yesterday.

How to walk into the light
silently. How to stay lit
as you slip into such a
good warm glow.
They say the strong are always
ready to speak up. You say
you spoke and spoke
your whole life and yet
you were weakened with every word.
You used one word yesterday and
sank to your knees. You used
one word the day before and
it staggered you. 

If only there had been a way
for you to walk screaming
through all your darkness
and come through it into a light
that was warm and not final. 
A light of growth and healing.
A light you could have borne 
on your stooped shoulders. 
A light that kept you steady
and quieted you down to live
in peace. 

How you walk on now
with the light on you burning
so much it hurts.  How you
disappear into it. How you
curse it in counterbalance
to aphorisms and proverbs.
How you go down talking
with people either listening
or not.  How you can
vanish without a care.


Warm Salt Water

Spent this life sipping
warm salt water
in drops, only

warm salt water
and only in drips and
drops,

yet am expected
to taste sweetness
easily and reject

the only taste 
I’ve ever known
at once, with no thought

as to how all those
dribs and drabs of salt
may have burned

my ability to taste
anything else.  You do 
not understand how

oceanic it is in here,
how such trickling
pleasantry and joy

disappear into
that sea with no 
trace; meanwhile

warm salt comes
relentlessly, in bits and
blips, filling, spilling.

Spend a life sipping
those and see
what happens when

another flavor offers itself
to your tongue. See how
it feels to understand that

what you are meant to love
cannot touch you now.
See how you cry then:

it won’t even
feel like a loss as you
sip the drops,

as you shrug off
the suggestion
that there could be 

anything else for you
but the sip and the 
slipping away.


The Lake

After a lifetime
lived under the water
of a deep cold lake called

the art of 
finding new ways
to say old things
and sometimes even
of finding new things
to say

sometimes by
using old ways and
sometimes by
creating new ways

I have risen to
the surface
in daylight
looked
and searched
and shouted

and realized that

up here where
the people
who allegedly 
wanted me to say
things
were alleged to be
dying for my news
of old and new

the shores are empty
as they are all
living perfectly well
elsewhere

I tread water
in panic
certain to return
to my breathless depths
but whether I shall go
by diving 

or sinking

I do not yet know


A note from the poet

I’ve said this before, but I will say it again.

Over the years, I’ve been very open about having bipolar disorder (bipolar II, for you detail-oriented folks). I’ve been treated, had therapy for years, been on meds, spent a little time in-patient, etc.  I’ve had suicidal ideation since I was a kid, and have made a few attempts. I’m open about it, and I do on occasion deal with the subject in my poetry.  It’s a chronic condition that has played a large part in defining the parameters of my life and my world view.

However, taking any poem I write as a sign that I am at that moment in some kind of distress is really, really not conducive to understanding how I work, and is in fact pretty reductive of my work as an artist.  Something you can be sure of is that if I’m writing, I’m NOT suicidal, and I’m likely not at that moment in any self-destructive mood at all.  

I can’t write when I’m ill.  I may write about illness, but it’s ALWAYS in retrospect, or to illuminate something I may have thought about when I was in the middle of an episode.  I try to be upfront about how scary that sometimes is, and I hope that now and then someone in a similar state looks at my work and sees someone who “gets it,” but I do not write as therapy for myself.  I don’t write when I’m that disordered.

If you typically read poems thinking of them as autobiography, as impassioned outbursts of a tortured or ecstatic soul, I’m asking you to suspend that mindset when you read mine.  I’m a professional creative writer who’s been at this for close to 50 years now. I don’t write when inspiration hits or when I need to “let it out.”  

Last point:  I am not a Christian.  I don’t share the source of my personal spiritual belief system with the public; maybe you can discern something of it here and there in the poems, but I don’t make my personal practices and beliefs explicit. 

While I appreciate and accept with genuine humility your blessings and prayers when they are offered — gifts are gifts and always welcome — I am uncomfortable with the occasional bit of specifically Christian proselytizing and Bible-based advice that I sometimes receive, especially when people perceive me to be in some distress.  (I’d be similarly uncomfortable with anything from the big monotheistic religions, to be honest, but I only ever see this done by Christians, for some reason).  Just needed to let you know.

Thanks for listening.

Tony


I’m Your Best Shot At Love, Baby

Originally posted 9/3/2010.

I was tiny at first,
a germ of an idea
wrung from
one malignant synapse
firing wildly.
“There’s the bridge,
there’s the abutment, 
you’ve got the car,
consider the possibilities –”  

Right away you tamped me down
like a piece of garbage barely too large to fit
into the bag the rest of your garbage was in,
but like a paper cup that won’t stay crushed,
I forgave you, reshaped myself, and stuck around.
It’s been fun and games since then.
I wouldn’t have missed it for the end of the world.

You tell yourself I’m just a product of chemical tilt.
I tell you how you could right that in a second.
We tango, we party, we bullshit,
we know each other very well. 
I push your eyes to the knife in the nightstand.
You slip me a drink or a pill.
I settle down for a little while
until the storm or the money or the latest fight with family
gives me an opening to suggest

that a gun
isn’t that hard to get,
you know the right people for that, and if all else fails

there’s always the roof,
there’s always the car and a bridge — I’ve got a list
of them, how you could make the skid look accidental,
which rails look the most rusted and ready to break,
how the long fall to the river below would guarantee
a minimum of lingering pain. 

Nonetheless, you stubbornly stick around and treat me like dirt.
I can’t blame you. I’m a terrible flirt
and I know I drive you crazy — but still,
there’s something in the way
you always come back…c’mon, take me into your ruined confidence
for real tonight.  Let me whisper 
the good things I can do for you —

how I’ll buck you up 
and cuddle you
as we finally do what I want
for a change.

I was born to love you
all those years ago
in the moment I told you it was OK to listen to me,
and you did.  If only for a second,
listen to me again
and then show me how you love me. 

I’ve only ever had
your best interests at heart.  
When I say “it’ll be over
in moments and whoever’s left to clean it up
will get over it eventually,”
I’m not being selfish.
I’m just telling the truth. 

They’ll forget you after a while
in a way I never have,
never could,
never will,

at least not until
you forget me for good
the minute you let me
all the way in.

 


Ghost Center (revised)

Your ghost center
looks like a pineapple:
gray leaves for a crown,
deep scaly skin.

It breathes irregularly,
lives by remote sensing.
Seeks your fear,
sings when it’s closing in.

Its spines pressed against
the inside of your chest
remind you of waiting for
your father’s wrath after school.

Someday you’ll find it, you swear,
and core it.
Eat its purple flesh.
Digest it, get rid of it.

But until then
it shall grow without stopping.
Your ghost center claims to be
your friend, pretends it’s your heart

though it only beats
when you see yourself
in a mirror and realize
you don’t know that man.

You can feel it then,
riffing stop-time
as it seethes
and strangles from within.

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It Seems Like The Meds Are Starting To Work

Deep in the new misery
of learning how the old misery 
worked — as if I’d emerged
from a near drowning
only to find the surface world
on fire.

I say,
“This too shall pass,
as did the old pain.”
My lungs are hot
from past strain
and present blaze — 

no wonder I breathe fire. 
No wonder at my daze, at my
lost and unfound.  I say,

“there must be a future here
somewhere,” but can’t see it
for the smoke.  Ah well —

if it gets too thick
I can once again choose
to drown.


A Great Day

Ever-circling demands of sickness and hanging ruin
keep him sitting in the window looking out
at birds and squirrels and the kids across the street.

When a pigeon falls dead to the sidewalk
from the wire, he blames himself yet again
for every natural disaster, forgetting that for nature,

there is no such thing as a disaster
as it contains every death, mutation,
storm, volcano, and flood; puts the emphasis always

on natural, not disaster; shakes everything 
off as just another great day.  Nature’s
infinitely happy with itself and does not grieve. 

Meanwhile, back in the window, our intrepid hero
of despair is telling the ledge that he’s going
to do it this time, he really is, no stopping him…

standing in the window 
measuring his potential descent
against the light of morning…it’s true:

nothing’s going to stop him. A heavy soul
always sinks unopposed at its appointed time.
Nature will not stop smiling even as he turns away

and goes to his bathroom.  
Whatever happens next,
it’s going to be a great day.


Cosmos Dog

The cosmos is barking
like an untrustworthy dog
this morning.  In the sound I can hear teeth
and sour breath, distant and pervasive
wherever I choose to stand
in the cramped house.  It sounds
like it’s outside both doors
and every window, possibly
even upstairs and in the cellar.

I wish I had some raw meat
to toss ahead of me today
as I go about my business,
but I’m out of food, out of options
in general. I have no children
to carry on for me, either,
if I’m taken today.  That may be
more blessing than regret, of course;
who would wish their aftermath
on their children is no idol of mine,
so I’ll take small comfort in being
all alone as I hear the snarling
approaching.  Whatever happens,

it will be the two of us, the cosmos dog
and I, who will see it together.
Whatever war we end up waging
will be ours alone to wage.

Good morning, life, routine,
cups of coffee, toast, shower,
dress, commute.  You’ll be my weapons
and I’ll pretend the dog can’t kill me
as I arm myself in chores and duties,
hoping the cosmos passes me by
to savage and piss elsewhere today. 


Kid Days

your kid days
of magical thought
don’t go away
easily:

you
cross your fingers
against the bills
close your eyes
when there’s screaming
upstairs
finger your lucky quarter
as the boss sputters

and sometimes
you just lie on the couch all day
pretending you’re sick
hoping a cool damp cloth
will be pressed to your forehead

by some invisible 
but loving hand

that never materializes

turn on your tv, kid
or your stereo, son
maybe the hand you seek
is an old song

or a book you dig out of storage

it probably won’t change a thing
there’s so little magic out there
if you think any will be spared for you
you’re likely to be disappointed

but for the moments
you’re hearing or seeing
those old images of carefree
and happy
you

can pretend
that it all
might yet
work out

 


The Promise Of Risotto

On a sick whim, I lean in
to suck the hissing gas
instead of firing the burner,
just to see what that’s like. 
However, I stop quickly.
I’ve got good food to cook,
good enough for a last meal
in fact.  And if I get past that,
there’s decent dessert too.  So
I will stop.
I will not place my face so close
to death just yet.

It’s the little things that always,
always do the trick.  The cat
hovering nearby with sacred fur,
the promise of risotto, 
the desire not to leave a mess
for loved ones.  I take what I can get
from the bag of small miracles,
treat them as talismans.  Anticipation of dark chocolate,
pear cider, cool night air on open skin;

I try always to fill my hand with whatever makes it hard
to grip a razor.

 


What Needs To Be Said

You were right
to run
from

the mama and the papa
who learned far too slowly
how to right things born wrong

Old nuns
hunched in classrooms
spouting hydra teeth

Thick handed
bosses who offered
honor for slavery

She who was right
for a minute
and stayed for twenty years

The angels who
beat your moods
up and down

That was all long
ago
So many coats and bruises ago

You could stop but
you forget how to stop
They are all still behind you

How are you to blame
for there being no home
that could protect you

And you agree for a moment but then
you say
You could have built such a place

and should have
You knew how
Read enough and knew how

The sick is not excuse enough
The fear not prod enough, apparently
No pride enough to drive you to the effort

So now you are going to pay for this
Glad to pay off the shame of this
Only way to gladness after all of this

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The Lonelymaker

In front of him
there’s
a screen, always.
Sometimes,
a keyboard too.

He stares all day at Illusions of arrivals
and departures,
of everyone out there being somewhere close.

Calls the images friends.
Calls them by their false names.
Calls them Nazis when they’re disagreeable
and beloved when they’re not.

But above all,
from dark rooms,
from cafes, from stolen
work time, from deep
anonymity,
he calls them
through the screen
as if they could hear him.
The blank fields
on screen
encourage it.  
The soothing,
empty responses
encourage it.

He screams, sometimes;
cries on the couch sometimes;
wonders why he feels so tired
and so afraid to get out
into the cold world
where touching someone else
in the flesh
requires more than the simple use
of your fingers.

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Sanity

It rolls off my fingers.
I do not get a chance to get a grip
upon it.

When it falls,
it falls soft,
does not break,
rolls just out of reach.

I cannot bend to retrieve it,
have no strength to pick it up.

I can see it
right there, just out of reach.
Intact, clearly mine,
ready.

But it rolled off my fingers
like drops of water,
like a ball dropped
into clumsy hands
that I never learned to use.

I have no faith
that I’ll ever do this right.

I try and try again
with these broke,
broken hands
that will not grip
or hold on. 

Tired
as Job, tired as
Sisyphus, scabbed up
and pus-bloody —
it’s laughable, really,
from any other viewpoint
but this one:

watch the clown
stumble through the fumbled catch
and fall down like
a cautionary figure
from the oldest tales.
Watch me thrill
to my own failure

then watch me get up
and bow
and do it again.

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Working Man Blues

When I’m working

feather in hand
remarkable paintings in head
and squall in cheek

then I am
most myself

When I fail
and am idle

stuck to carpet
face dirty as an old bone
dog-torn under a sparse hedge

I become the bad doll
in the chest of forbidden toys
Unsafe sharp arms
and a missing topknot

No one wants to play with me

The hard part of all this
is that when I’m down
I can’t pull the together out of me

alone

but who wants to see me
like this

When I’m working
I’m magnet happy
I’m covered with faces smooching
and all the happy lips make me wet
and then I want to dry off

But dry and slow
stopped in my track
I’m not sweet

Smelly old man
stay home alone

and who wants me for a co-worker
when I’m so lazy it seems
I can do nothing

someone stick a feather in my hand
and open up my mouth
move the jaws around

or at least come over
and talk to me
while I’m down on the floor

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