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

--

--

Get the Medium app

A button that says 'Download on the App Store', and if clicked it will lead you to the iOS App store
A button that says 'Get it on, Google Play', and if clicked it will lead you to the Google Play store
Simon Heathcote

Simon Heathcote

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