“So on a scale of 1 to 10
how bad is the pain?”
I wonder if the doctor thinks
I lack ambition;
10 seems so peculiarly small
to describe the sensation
of having the back of my skull smashed open
with a claw hammer.
Be generous doctor –
some days pain cannot be confined
to your disjointed understandings.
I can still see the once-me,
at least from time to time;
the songs she used used to sing,
where voice and music rhymed –
the patterns of her movement,
the little rituals of time;
I want to keep that once-me
and the things that she could do;
and though she was afraid
her faith at least was always true –
she gave me that to keep,
and to share, with you.
The now-me, and the once-me
must go our separate ways;
I cannot have her back,
though my heart would have her stay –
(I confess the now-me trembles more,
than once-me would ever say)
perhaps that is a gift enough,
in its peculiar way.
tis not poetry
that I need
when the pain
bites,
once
twice
thrice;
but words like
fuck this
bugger it
bollocks
tits.
When pain bites
every
single
day
I WANT TO MAKE IT FUCKING GO AWAY.
Above the raucous, above the clashing
crashing, ever raging din
there is a softer
quieter song
that yet does soar
– i hear it sing
it will be well, it will be well
it will be well, let faith come in
And though the claws that rip me,
do not concede, do not desist,
that song so sweetly
calls me up
i could climb up
– I could insist
it will be well, it will be well
let hope like smoke, inhaled, be well
Song, sung high and sweet
above the woes
and cares beneath
that lifts me up
i will climb up
– high above, and clear, complete
it will be well, it will be well
and I will tell of all love speaks.
