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Many of us write poetry in order to conquer our fears. Specifically, our fears relating to the uncomfortable feelings of anxiety, depression, PTSD and trauma. In every episode, I pick one topic related to mental health, and I read a few of my own poems related to that topic. Art in all of its forms has the power to subdue and sublimate these feelings into something that is beautiful, lasting, but also an honest appraisal of what happened to us, and what we hope will never happen to us again.
Welcome to the Poetry of Evil: the place where mental health intersects with poetry.
I’m your host and the author of these poems, Daniel Viragh.
It’s a beautiful night, in Vancouver, British Columbia, and I am so glad that you are joining us, from near or far away.
Be sure to visit poetryofevil.com for all of your evil poetic needs, including:
- transcripts of the poems
- access to all of our other episodes
- and ways to offer feedback on the material.
**
Tonight, we will be talking about the ROAD and the JOURNEY that it takes us on. So our first poem is called Footsteps, and it’s from my book, “At The End Of My Travels”.
Footsteps
There is only one place, where you began;
and only one other place, where you will crow.
Where we’ll wander, none may know:
we’re all going, where we need to go.
Mould your hands and knead the dough:
your conscience speaks, the tide is low.
Where we’ll wander, none may know:
we’re all going, where we need to go.
The swallow leaps, yet the arrow’s slow;
I puff my cheeks, but my breathing’s faux.
Where we’ll wander, none may know:
we’re all going, where we need to go.
You wonder why, I left you so;
you ask to speak; I don’t say no.
Where we’ll wander, none may know:
we’re all going, where we need to go.
Tonight’s second poem is called “Everything Brings You,” and it’s from “Buddha’s Broken Fingernail”. Here too, the emphasis is on the journey itself, and where it brings us.
Everything Brings You
Everything brings you,
towards this once instance of frailty
and conceit, amidst the hunger
and the pain.
The frozenness of simony shatters,
in that one significant instance of contact.
In that one mesmerizing second,
when two bodies meet,
are you able to keep your cool?
Can you simply just exist
and breathe and enjoy
the singular beauty,
when everything
you’ve wished for has been
provided?
It’s calling you home,
softly, gently,
like a crimson whisper
on an autumn day.
Come side with me.
Come be mine again.
And finally, our third poem is called “I Trust The Journey,” and it’s about looking forward, and not losing hope.
I Trust The Journey
When it gets cold;
when you get hungry,
when we grow old —
I trust, I trust, in nothing
but the journey.
It may be stale, but our
broken bread,
it may be eaten by two.
Your voice might crackle,
and there’s this golf ball
lodged in my throat —
sitting on these sins is
getting uncomfortable.
What of the maybe’s,
the if’s and the but’s —
the so’s and the uhm’s,
and the ahh’s and the
ohh’s?
I trust, I trust, in nothing
but the journey.
And finally, tonight I will share a fourth poem, called “Watch Out For The Immigrant Amongst You”. It’s meant to be taken sarcastically, of course — but as an immigrant myself, I often reflect on the journey and what it means to cross borders and oceans.
Watch Out For The Immigrant Amongst You
What out for the immigrant amongst you.
These people from other places —
you know, you shouldn’t trust ‘em.
They wake up early — often, when the
cock crows — they send their children to
surrogate religious schools and they
work menial jobs during the day — often,
serving you fries, or shining your shoes.
They don’t have the newest gadgets or
gizmos — they soak vegetables in water,
with the vain hope, that they will metabolize
into soup.
Watch out for the immigrant — they
spend time in dark, oily, sub-apartments,
more often than not conjugating French verbs
with their eight-year-olds, and worrying about
how to pay the gas bill, or the grocer.
They drive 1990 Oldsmobiles,
in which the ignition doesn’t work below -5ºC,
in this great Northern country of ours.
Watch out for the immigrant.
Their accents and smelly winter coats
give them away.
They stand in line when the store hands out
free potatoes, and they skimp on dinner to
take their son to the matinee. Their idea of going
out is Chinese take-out on New Year’s; a date is
considered unimaginable.
Would you date an immigrant? After all is
said and done — and the person has acquired the
rudiments of your mannerisms and a modicum of your
language and an iota of your culture — would you allow
this person — notwithstanding their skin colour — a
chance at being happy by your side? In your family?
Think again — because in this country,
we are all immigrants.
***
Thank you so much for listening! It’s really a true pleasure to share these offerings with you.
“Poetry of Evil” is meant as a community, where people can comment on what was shared, and perhaps share poems of their own, should they so wish. So please do come visit us at poetryofevil.com.
Have a beautiful night!