THE POETRY OF PAIN

Poetry deals in the language of emotion and I have written a lot of poems when in the grips of a depression.  The following poems that I have written talk about emotional pain and feelings of suicide. This is not to suggest that I am recommending suicide, I am only expressing the way I feel sometimes, so that others can feel that they are not alone. If you feel suicidal please go to your mental health provider or your priest.

When Feelings Howl

By Katherine Tapley-Milton

On this useless night

of continual soul aching,

I wonder why life turns brutal.

My feelings in daylight hours

stay locked in safety deposit boxes,

But when when the sparkling sun

dips down on the blood-red horizon

my emotions howl like a furious blizzard.

Fear, anger, love, guilt, rage

all whip my psyche to battered bits.

Scenes of the past

flash like a kaleidoscope

of Stephen King movies;

until I fall exhausted into a psychotropic sleep.

The Grim Reaper’s Charms

 By Katherine Tapley-Milton

Death, the seducer

Whispers softly

To my lust

For animation.

Offering

Mental peace, cessation of pain

The end of worry

And toil.

Her bony hand embraces mine

And offers me the ride

Down the dark tunnel

Towards the light,

And the sliding down

Before eternity.

Death the sorcerer,

Smooth and eloquent,

Tempting, tempting, me

Towards another dimension.

Wanting to hurtle me

Into immortality

Only half formed,

Prematurely born

Wrested from God’s operating table

And from this mortal coil.

Death takes advantage of my

Struggle with the dual demons

Of depression and despair

She whispers.

  

 Faking Normal

 By Katherine Tapley-Milton

Hide the madness,

Don’t let it splatter

All over the sidewalk

Where descent townsfolk might

Read it.

Hide the madness,

Tuck it in tight

Like your winter scarf.

Neurons misfiring,

Thought  processes tangled,

But don’t ever let on.

Your speech  should be flawless and fluent:

Make small talk and open doors for people

Fake it and hide the cerebral confusion

And the cacophony of  voices

That scream suicide and self injury

Make yourself into another Jane Doe

Whom nothing extraordinary happens to.

COMPANION

By Katherine Tapley-Milton

An understanding

between man and beast,

We cuddle together

on interminable wet Sundays

or frigid winter nights.

While I read, he purrs

in contented feline bliss.

Head on my sneaker

 and body curled close.

Some inexplicable bonds

keeping the different two species

in a quiet, gentle intimacy.

                                    

William Cowper was a popular hymn writer and poet .  He lived from 1731-1800.  Cowper had numerous attacks of mental illness and tried to commit suicide, using various methods.  His poem, "The Castaway" speaks of a shipwrecked individual who drowned in the cold, stormy ocean while his friends tried to rescue him in vain.  Cowper says, "But I beneath a rougher sea, and whelmed in deeper gulfs than he." This refers to his struggle with mental illness and an obsessive fear of eternal damnation.

The Castaway

BY WILLIAM COWPER

Obscurest night involv'd the sky,

         Th' Atlantic billows roar'd,

When such a destin'd wretch as I,

         Wash'd headlong from on board,

Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,

His floating home for ever left.

No braver chief could Albion boast

         Than he with whom he went,

Nor ever ship left Albion's coast,

         With warmer wishes sent.

He lov'd them both, but both in vain,

Nor him beheld, nor her again.

Not long beneath the whelming brine,

         Expert to swim, he lay;

Nor soon he felt his strength decline,

         Or courage die away;

But wag'd with death a lasting strife,

Supported by despair of life.

He shouted: nor his friends had fail'd

         To check the vessel's course,

But so the furious blast prevail'd,

         That, pitiless perforce,

They left their outcast mate behind,

And scudded still before the wind.

Some succour yet they could afford;

         And, such as storms allow,

The cask, the coop, the floated cord,

         Delay'd not to bestow.

But he (they knew) nor ship, nor shore,

Whate'er they gave, should visit more.

Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he

         Their haste himself condemn,

Aware that flight, in such a sea,

         Alone could rescue them;

Yet bitter felt it still to die

Deserted, and his friends so nigh.

He long survives, who lives an hour

         In ocean, self-upheld;

And so long he, with unspent pow'r,

         His destiny repell'd;

And ever, as the minutes flew,

Entreated help, or cried—Adieu!

At length, his transient respite past,

         His comrades, who before

Had heard his voice in ev'ry blast,

         Could catch the sound no more.

For then, by toil subdued, he drank

The stifling wave, and then he sank.

No poet wept him: but the page

         Of narrative sincere;

That tells his name, his worth, his age,

         Is wet with Anson's tear.

And tears by bards or heroes shed

Alike immortalize the dead.

I therefore purpose not, or dream,

         Descanting on his fate,

To give the melancholy theme

         A more enduring date:

But misery still delights to trace

   Its semblance in another's case.

No voice divine the storm allay'd,

         No light propitious shone;

When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,

         We perish'd, each alone:

But I beneath a rougher sea,

And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.

The following poem by  Ella Wheeler Wilcox (November 5, 1850 – October 30, 1919 is sad but true.  For those who suffer clinical depression, the world is hard on them, while those who have a sunny disposition fare better.  All, however, suffer pain.

Solitude

Laugh, and the world laughs with you:
Weep, and you weep alone;
For the sad old earth
Must borrow its mirth,
It has trouble enough of its own.

Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air;
The echoes bound
To a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go;
They want full measure
Of all your pleasure,
But they do not want your woe.

Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all;
There are none to decline
Your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life's gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by;
Succeed and give,
And it helps you live,
But it cannot help you die.

There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train;
But one by one
We must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.

That Old Familiar Madness

by Katherine Tapley-Milton

I can feel that old familiar madness

That creeps up most stealthily upon me

And fills my soul with interminable sadness

It’s like crawling over acres of broken glass

And is too terrible for you to see --

What this monster does to this lass

I’m torn and bleeding and scarred within

And the hours are long as time does pass.

I’d like to make an exit, but that would be a sin.

Yet, I remain confused why I have to live in agony

I pray to have this burden off of my back

Because I’m starting to get panicky

As I am being tortured on a medieval rack

With the Grand Executioner turning the screws

God, please deliver me from the Inquisition

I certainly need to hear some good news

It is my sanity that is in question

Please help me Lord, my soul is one big bruise.