OBSOLETE CLICHÉ

By Vatsala Radhakeesoon

When at 5, your mum dropped you at

primary school and on the first day you still cried,

a bossy teacher grabbed your hand

and pointed at the round-faced girl

whose pigtails looked neat

and cheeks all-dry,

you felt her big teeth- grin was placid, dull

but to the eyes of adults was framed brave;

You felt something within your behaviour

sank-shrank

At 12, when you battled Vitiligo whims,

during recess-time, a few friends bullied you

with their sharp knifed- lines,

“grey streaked -hair and old wrinkled cow-skin,

no boyfriend to catch the eyes”,

you hid yourself in the classroom,

stopped playing 

and preferred dreaming in pop music magazines;

You felt something in your body

sank-shrank

As an adult, amidst a management training session,

you rushed to the wash-room,

glanced at yourself in the mirror

and let the tears well down your faded dimples,

“That job is not for me, All Money, No Humanity”,

you let the voice in you yell;

You felt something in your mind

sank -shrank

You became a writer,

and when you joined a group of authors

for book signing sessions,

you thought that was where you belonged,

but their intellectual show off or egos 

coupled with 21st century social media’s

self-hero worshipping 

and their thirst for fame, name, money

and no shame,

labelled you as “too sensitive, engrossed in your trauma”;

You said it was a cry for help

but they shrugged, priding their better worth;

You felt something in your heart

sank-shrank

All throughout life stages, pinpointed as 

the HSP* and the society blaming you as some

weak, cowardice -sin,

you finally became who you were meant to be

Now,

You walk alone,

You work individually,

You create depth in your solitary refuge,

Yet you always stand up for the ones

sincerely in need of help,

You feel the pain of all,

even the ones who once hurt you,

You bear no grudge

You no longer carry the obsolete cliché 

of sensitivity being insane,

You go on,

You are unstoppable

You are an empath.

* HSP – Highly Sensitive Person

ABOUT THE POEM: "Being an HSP from childhood to adulthood, I have often been reproached by many people of being “too sensitive " and they have advised me to be tough skin. Thus, till my early 30s I kept believing being highly sensitive was a flaw and that gave me some inferiority complex. However, my whole perception of myself changed after I read the book , The Highly Sensitive Person by the clinical research psychologist and author, Elaine Aron. In that book, the writer emphasizes that we should consider being an HSP as a quality and channel it in the right direction in our daily lives. I have written this poem based on my own personal experiences and for other HSPs who have crossed my path."

ABOUT VATSALA: Vatsala has been writing poems for more than 30 years and she is the author of numerous poetry books. She is also an abstract artist and likes to experiment various possibilities that bless Art. Vatsala is a literary translator and currently lives at Rose-Hill, Mauritius.

Blog: https://booksbyvatsalaradhakeesoon.wordpress.com



TUMBLING ON

By Martin Embree

I’m just a lost tumbling weed

A lonely tumbleweed

From neon lights, jackpots, and greed

Winds brought me to Oklahoma

Tulsa, Oklahoma

Seldom forcing a persona

Tulsa is where I found myself

I accepted myself

Stopped drinking from the bottom shelf

Not like other bushes, I burn

I learned to love the burn

Should probably show more concern

I’m still just a tumbling weed

A blazing tumbleweed

I’m happy, I cry, I still bleed

Once they see my flame, they fear me

Complete strangers fear me

Once they know they don’t come near me

To survive, I hide my fire

Do you fear my fire?

Am I a weed or barbed wire?

All I am is schizophrenic

Yeah, I’m schizophrenic

Living honest and authentic

Uh huh I’ll keep on tumbling

Through the mud tumbling

Getting dirty feels humbling

I told everyone my illness

I live with my illness

All words gone, an eerie stillness

Moments of silence are found few

The ones I trust are few

It would be hell if they all knew

Lost in fantasy and what’s real

Why is the stigma real?

I’m forced to be stronger than steel

My flowers made of fire bloom

I roll around in bloom

Warding away the lurking gloom

People say I shouldn’t have kids

For what I’ll give my kids

Thoughts like that lead me to the skids

Who can I find and call my own

I’m stranded on my own

As if destined to be alone

The world will never understand

How can they understand?

The struggle keeps my fire fanned.

I can be a ball of fire

I’m sage that found fire

A guiding light, not a pyre

Frightened, tortured, I denied it

At first I denied it

She died, then I couldn’t hide it

After my older sister died

My denial died

We pulled the plug, I barely cried

Her hands curled, my eyes blurred with tears

It’s been years I’ve shed tears

Only real feeling are my fears

I confess, I’m a tumbleweed

A bright traveling weed

Going wherever the winds lead

When you go tumbling around

You learn to get around

Every direction is homebound

When grief descends it’s dark at night

I burn with the stars at night

Don’t pity my plight

I’m here right where I need to be

Wherever that may be

Still burning, still hurting, still me

You know I’m just a tumbleweed

Strange for a tumbleweed

The dry desert is all I need

No chains on me, I’m freed

ABOUT THE POEM: "I’m was reading through a book on poetry forms and discovered the blues poetry format. For fun, I started writing blues about my experience with my mental illness."

ABOUT MARTIN: Martin works as a mental health technician in Tulsa, Oklahoma. He lives with schizophrenia and is a tech in the same facility he was in-patient years ago. He began writing poetry as a coping mechanism.

WHEN IT COMES

By Dan Healy

When it comes, the days won’t end,

As morning lyes come longer,

When the mirror on your beside

Grows a good bit taller.

When the windows creak and push

With gentles winds and whispers,

When the light grows gently dim

And evenings grow some quicker.

When the haze now gently falls

And pounds on your two eyes,

The sky stays tall, as it won’t fall

As moonlight follows sunrise.

ABOUT DAN: Dan is a PhD Chemistry student at the University of Manchester, who enjoys writing poetry on the themes of mental health, their Irish cultural background and the occasional bit of science and nature. The poem when it comes details how dramatic seasonal changes in Northern Europe can have a profound effect on mental wellbeing. The poem has been adapted to a third person perspective from its original writing to highlight the wisdom that can come from navigating these challenges.

NON COMPOS MENTIS

By Tadgh Quill-Manley 

Pain that rips across my head

Like a bullet in the sky

Other problems are the cause

Answers to which belie

Clearly it’s not straightforward

As a multi-faceted mind plight

The road still being navigated

With no clear end in sight

What does it take, one wonders

To strip me from this shell

I must somehow battle endless angst

And fight my way out of this hell

The tendency to go insane

Is soothed by the sounds of drops of rain

Providing consolatory solace to

The prison in my brain

On an excursion of investigation

To a solution momentous

A dilemma once explored by Freud

My ‘non compos mentis’

Healing, a path

Will take much time

Dealing with each of the root causes

Obstacles, I’m yet to climb

Bearing little room for pauses