Confession

Last week I was fortunate enough to meet the poet and playwright Basir Kazmi and chat to him about his work, the idea of writing drama to be read rather than performed, and the merits of poetic form. I’ve always been a dogged free-versist – what the fuck do Wordsworth, Shakespeare and Chaucer know that Plath, Eliot and Pound don’t? – but nevertheless the conversation inspired me to try my hand at a ghazal, the form for which he and his family are famous.

It’s tricky shit.

I pushed and pulled at this thing and was left with a mutant – something not traditional, but not so separated from the original to be pointless. A Western cultural appropriation of an Eastern art form? Maybe. I’d rather look at it as an amateur’s attempt to express admiration.


Confession

I hang slack, a coat draped over a chair,
A lead weight hangs, pinning me there,

I take deep breaths, scrabbling for words
To translate my anger and despair.

I pull my chin from my chest, a Herculean task,
Try to release my voice from its lair,

I stop, hitching, silenced by the feeling
That I’m sputtering out like a flare.

“I’m not working,” I finally whisper,
Lungs starved of air –

“Oh Kit,” you smile sadly, squeezing my hand,
“I know – it’s your cross to bear.”

4:48 Psychosis, a poem

With apologies to Sarah Kane & thanks to the workshop.

I’ve been reading a lot of Sarah Kane lately, inspired by my dramatic writing class. The voice(s) of 4.48 Psychosis in particular resonated quite strongly with me. We all have nights were we sit awake and torture ourselves with our inadequacies; some nights we win, others we lose. Ultimately, Sarah lost. Night after night, waking at 4.48am, she tried to express what it felt like to lose your grip on, well, everything. She chose to die before the play saw the light of day.

I think what resonated with me most was this: if The Bell Jar presents an image of someone beaten by life who finds something, some semblance of hope by the end of the novel, 4.48 Psychosis abjectly refuses to. It forces us to confront that little voice in our heads that tells us we’ll never make it, and accepts that we might, with the best of intentions, lose anyway.

Smile, it’s only poetry.


brace brace brace
the happy trajectory we were on
has encountered some

turbulence

please ensure you secure your own oxygen mask
before attempting to aid others

brace brace brace
we apologise for the inconvenience;
no soul could foresee
this tragic turn of events

brace
tuck your chin,
put your hands over your head
block out the sound
block out the fury
block out the world

close your eyes

wake up tomorrow, do it all again