Sometimes the poem forms the thought through form, or helps hold a set of thoughts and feeling that would struggle to otherwise express themselves in words. The following arose from one such occassion a few weeks ago…
A Madness There’s no space here for wrong or right – the split through you and I which they call sane. Pain becomes the wings by which we fly. It’s only silence when you feel it’s not quite clear, demanding stillness from the foaming rain – there’s no space here for wrong or right. Sense dances through the walls in noise and light – not counterpoint; the growth around its claim – pain becomes the wings by which we fly. A vision testing bounds of depth and height disorientates like oil spilt on the pane – there’s no space here for wrong or right. It rainbows around the subject, clasping tight then loosening like notes held in sustain – pain becomes the wings by which we fly. That subject – us – unshackled by divides that soothe the impact of the valent strain – there’s no space here for wrong or right – pain becomes the wings by which we fly.
Benjamin Dorey 