Dead Poets Live
Published in

Dead Poets Live

Adrift on Oneself

Photo by Bruno Pereira on Unsplash

Everything important is beneath
from icebergs to trees to foundations
of houses — a lair for Grizzly
Pluto & Hades, submarines &
sickle cells, hell, let’s say all disease —
& truth, of course
rarely sees day or light.
We are nothing without rhizomes & unreason
soil & seed, skin to raise
that inky picture from your sleeve.
Even the sun puts on a blanket at night.
Ask most people to look
beneath ground & they baulk.
I have been a therapist 25 years
know humans prefer to swim in thought
top heavy, unanchored & drifting
unaware they have conceptualised themselves.
Fools climb aboard any passing train.
A scalpel for the brain & a pick for the ground
the modern idea is to put the past behind
like a bad smell blamed on someone else.
Yet it always washes back
on the shores of the psyche.
You are not inured to your own depths.
It’s not hell — this is.

Copyright Simon Heathcote



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Simon Heathcote

Simon Heathcote

Psychotherapist writing on the human journey for some; irreverently for others; and poetry for myself; former newspaper editor.