This poem “Sicisintiséis” (Psychosynthesis) is not an attack! It is however a small warning to anyone embarking on any kind of analytical therapy. Neither is this a poem written with any great emotion. (I wrote it some years after leaving therapy). It is cynical and even humorous coming from hindsight. It is not even a very ‘good’ poem because for poetry to be good I believe the whole self must be involved. I am not involved here, merely a bystander.
There is remembered rage when traffic lights meant nothing and I had begun to regress dangerously. I beat a hasty retreat at this point while it was still possible. Now, years later and through other connected experiences, I think I have learned to ‘patch it up’, cope with the same demanding lifestyle, yet keep it simple.
Taoi ag glacadh bliain shabóideach! Maith an rud gur bhriseas an tsreang imleacain Le snap tola bhfad ó shin Gan buíochas duit! Tusa ‘bhí chomh deimhnitheach Go mbeifeá ‘Ann’! Nach tu ‘bhí id’ dhia beag agam anois Is mórchomhacht agat, (rud a bhí) Nach mó beargsholas tráchta nach bhfacas ‘S mé ar mire ad’ adhradh A bhaidhb, A bhí chomh chomh oire, chomh ‘h-ann’ Níos ‘Ainne’ ná mar bhí aon mháthair riamh Dar liomsa! …Thugais craiáin is páipéar don bhunóc, Lena smaointe ‘Ieiriú! …alia suiminte is tusa laistiar de - Tú chomh saor le gála gaoithe Is an stiúir chéanna fút! Mise, im chrogall Ag iarraidh teacht thar an bhfalla chugat, Sa dóigh go nglacfá liom idir chorp is chraiceann (“Crogailhín deas!”) Dá snapfainn m’fhiacla féin Ni fhéadfainn breith ort a ghála gaoithe, Atá ag glacadh bliain shabóideach Amuigh i meiriceá! …An mó beithioch eile a chruthaigh tú Led bhraíocht dhiablai? Capaillna bpláigh leoin, Beacha, deargabaoil…. Beidh siad siúd uile ag feitheamh ort Nuair ‘fhillfidh tú id spéirling Cés moite den chrogall, A bheidh faoi loch……..!
You are taking a sabbatacle year Just as well I broke the umbilical cord By force of will power long ago And without help from you! (or no thanks to you!) You that were so sane, so certain That you would be there Wasn’t it you I had made into the little god With great power, (something you actually had). It was many the red traffic light I did not see And I immersed (or ablaze) in admiration of you 0 Blaidhb You, who was so perfect, so ‘there’ (together?) More ‘there’ than any mother ever was I reckon, ….You gave crayon and paper to the ‘child’ to illustrate her/his thoughts …..a cement wall and you behind it… You, as free as a gust of wind And a similar freedom in direction! … Me, a crocodile Trying to cross the wall to get to you so that you might accept me, body and skin (“Nice little crocodile!”) If I were to try with my teeth I could not grasp you (trying to catch the wind) You, who are taking a sabbatacle year In America! How many other creatures did you create With your devellish magic? Horses of the Apocalypse, Lions Bees, devils coachmen….. They will all be waiting for you When you return in a whirlwind (hurricane) But the crocodile Will be under water…….!