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Poetry by Cassy Nunan

March 25, 2018

 

Mutation

 

1.

Blank canvas no light can dance on.

Dank void that no language warms

I am mute, my brush blunt.

I cannot…

I try to recreate the image of this whole.

My view trained on shades.

Straining for resolution.

A history of years swarms.

Events, a nest of wiry ends, snag me.

Once you pressed my on-button

And syllables flew. 

There is no shut-down now,

Only hope for mutation.

I churn and turn in semi-circles

In search of creation

In words unuttered, contours un-trained.

 

2.

You lurk in the hallway with ideas

That, as your outer edge

Spun from your globe

I can predict, and will confound.

- We are plural and bound.

 

3.

My hand in constant reflex

Grabs the eraser to staunch a new flow

Of shapes that ooze love and perplex

This never-ending loop, as it loops.

Your foot on hardwood strides and

Just like that you are

Planted as a tree branches

On blue sky.

Beginning, end, both frayed

And raying, outreaching

Within sight.

A trick of light,

This mess dissolves as clear daze.

 

 

 

Winter Sigh

 

Folded inside a warm winter coat

Embraced like a knuckle in a fist

 

Hope dies, living persists.

 

Perennial eternal fool

school of life dunce.

 

A thousand times done when

Learning ought be once.

 

Throughout the cold grey day

This coat’s collar, belt, satin lining

 

Keep this chilled heart sighing.

 

 

Amazing

 

I am rounded up, pulled to, and lead the way by a

blind man who is programmed to only talk the walk

I am disoriented, but micro-chipped and the old software says 

follow, until we are lost again and both furious, the anger fuelling me enough to

loosen myself and run.

This man who has no vision but a plot arrests me again in the maze,

recounting the old-school map he knows off by heart

continues to insist that he can see, knows a different route, is going somewhere in particular.

Again I am pulled into his slip stream and we giddy around until

my energy depletes

to the extent that I wheel away then free fall, my soul backing up against the maze wall.

Nose neatly wedged in a tight corner

inhaling the stench of elevator music and extinct wallpaper.

Remotely above me is blue sky; quite a way beyond

an electrified perimeter.

 

 

 

Write something, right something

 

Invent a new word and scrawl it on the footpath.

Create a peace banner and hang it on my chest.

Write ‘left’ on one foot, and ‘go’ on the other.

Stand by, waiting patiently for the aftermath.

Spend my only life as an artisan scratching

scrimshaw into bones of frames for scaffolds

for masterpieces. Pray for patent protection, or an afterlife

and, wait for the plan’s inevitable hatching.

Sledge stone, incise, align.  With ten thousand other

slaves I join this chorus with the sky. Climb past breath

until with babble spit collapse I am revolting

with the very stench of hope

 that someone will take care of me.

 

Poetry submissions on lived experience with mental illness are welcomed on an ongoing basis, so if you have always wanted to share your talent, now is the time to do so.

 

Send your poems through to info@thisismyreality.com.au either in the body of the email or in a MS Word document.

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