Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Psychosis Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Psychosis poems. This is a select list of the best famous Psychosis poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Psychosis poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of psychosis poems.

Search and read the best famous Psychosis poems, articles about Psychosis poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Psychosis poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:
Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem

MARGINALIA

 Here is a silence I had not hoped for

This side of paradise, I am an old believer

In nature’s bounty as God’s grace

To us poor mortals, fretting and fuming

At frustrated lust or the scent of fame 

Coming too late to make a difference

Blue with white vertebrae of cloud forms

Riming the spectrum of green dark of poplars

Lined like soldiers, paler the hue of hawthorn 

With the heather beginning to bud blue

Before September purple, yellow ragwort

Sways in the wind as distantly a plane hums

And a lazy bee bumbles by.
A day in Brenda’s flat, mostly play with Eydie, My favourite of her seven cats, they soothe better Than Diazepan for panic Seroxat for grief Zopiclone to make me sleep.
I smoke my pipe and sip blackcurrant tea Aware of the ticking clock: I have to be back To talk to my son’s key nurse when she comes on For the night shift.
Always there are things to sort, Misapprehensions to untangle, delusions to decipher, Lies to expose, statistics to disclose, Trust Boards And team meetings to attend, ‘Mental Health Monthly’ To peruse, funds for my press to raise – the only one I ever got will leave me out of pocket.
A couple sat on the next bench Are earnestly discussing child custody, broken marriages, Failed affairs, social service interventions – Even here I cannot escape complexity "I should never have slept with her once we split" "The kids are what matters when it comes to the bottom line" "Is he poisoning their minds against me?" Part of me nags to offer help but I’ve too much On already and the clock keeps ticking.
"It’s a pity she won’t turn round and clip his ear" But better not to interfere.
Damn my bloody superego Nattering like an old woman or Daisy nagging About my pipe and my loud voice on buses – No doubt she’s right – smoking’s not good And hearing about psychosis, medication and end-on-sections Isn’t what people are on buses for.
I long for a girl in summer, pubescent With a twinkle in her eye to come and say "Come on, let’s do it!" I was always shy in adolescence, too busy reading Baudelaire To find a decent whore and learn to score And now I’m probably impotent with depression So I’d better forget sex and read more of Andr? Green On metaphor from Hegel to Lacan and how the colloquium At Bonneval changed analytic history, a mystery I’ll not unravel if I live to ninety.
Ignorance isn’t bliss, I know enough to talk the piss From jumped-up SHO’s and locums who’d miss vital side effects And think all’s needed is a mother’s kiss.
I’ll wait till the heather’s purple and bring nail scissors To cut and suture neatly and renew my stocks Of moor momentoes vased in unsunny Surrey.
Can you believe it? Some arseholes letting off fireworks On the moor? Suburban excesses spread like the sores Of syphilis and more regulations in a decade of Blair Than in the century before.
"Shop your neighbours.
Prove it.
Bring birth certificates to A&E If you want NHS treatment free.
Be careful not to bleed to death While finding the certificate.
Blunkett wants us all to have ID Photo cards, genetic codes, DNA database, eye scans, the lot – And kiss good-bye to the last bits of freedom we’ve got" "At the end of the day she shopped me and all I’d done Was take a few pound from the till ’cos Jenny was ill And I didn’t have thirteen quid to get the bloody prescription done" To-morrow I’ll be back in the Great Wen, Two days of manic catching up and then Thistledown, wild wheat, a dozen kinds of grass, The mass of beckoning hills I’d love to make A poet’s map of but never will.
"Oh to break loose" Lowell’s magic lines Entice me still but slimy Fenton had to have his will And slate it in the NYB, arguing that panetone Isn’t tin foil as Lowell thought.
James you are a dreadful bore, A pedantic creep like hundreds more, five A4 pages Of sniping and nit-picking for how many greenbacks? A thousand or two I’d guess, they couldn’t pay you less For churning out such a king-size mess But not even you can spoil this afternoon Of watching Haworth heather bloom.


Written by Marianne Moore | Create an image from this poem

Baseball and Writing

 Fanaticism?No.
Writing is exciting and baseball is like writing.
You can never tell with either how it will go or what you will do; generating excitement-- a fever in the victim-- pitcher, catcher, fielder, batter.
Victim in what category? Owlman watching from the press box? To whom does it apply? Who is excited?Might it be I? It's a pitcher's battle all the way--a duel-- a catcher's, as, with cruel puma paw, Elston Howard lumbers lightly back to plate.
(His spring de-winged a bat swing.
) They have that killer instinct; yet Elston--whose catching arm has hurt them all with the bat-- when questioned, says, unenviously, "I'm very satisfied.
We won.
" Shorn of the batting crown, says, "We"; robbed by a technicality.
When three players on a side play three positions and modify conditions, the massive run need not be everything.
"Going, going .
.
.
"Is it?Roger Maris has it, running fast.
You will never see a finer catch.
Well .
.
.
"Mickey, leaping like the devil"--why gild it, although deer sounds better-- snares what was speeding towards its treetop nest, one-handing the souvenir-to-be meant to be caught by you or me.
Assign Yogi Berra to Cape Canaveral; he could handle any missile.
He is no feather.
"Strike! .
.
.
Strike two!" Fouled back.
A blur.
It's gone.
You would infer that the bat had eyes.
He put the wood to that one.
Praised, Skowron says, "Thanks, Mel.
I think I helped a little bit.
" All business, each, and modesty.
Blanchard, Richardson, Kubek, Boyer.
In that galaxy of nine, say which won the pennant?Each.
It was he.
Those two magnificent saves from the knee-throws by Boyer, finesses in twos-- like Whitey's three kinds of pitch and pre- diagnosis with pick-off psychosis.
Pitching is a large subject.
Your arm, too true at first, can learn to catch your corners--even trouble Mickey Mantle.
("Grazed a Yankee! My baby pitcher, Montejo!" With some pedagogy, you'll be tough, premature prodigy.
) They crowd him and curve him and aim for the knees.
Trying indeed!The secret implying: "I can stand here, bat held steady.
" One may suit him; none has hit him.
Imponderables smite him.
Muscle kinks, infections, spike wounds require food, rest, respite from ruffians.
(Drat it! Celebrity costs privacy!) Cow's milk, "tiger's milk," soy milk, carrot juice, brewer's yeast (high-potency-- concentrates presage victory sped by Luis Arroyo, Hector Lopez-- deadly in a pinch.
And "Yes, it's work; I want you to bear down, but enjoy it while you're doing it.
" Mr.
Houk and Mr.
Sain, if you have a rummage sale, don't sell Roland Sheldon or Tom Tresh.
Studded with stars in belt and crown, the Stadium is an adastrium.
O flashing Orion, your stars are muscled like the lion.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things