‘
Being poets, their illness cannot entirely define them, while at the same time it becomes clear that these illnesses have shaped them powerfully. Some poetry transcends illness:
If I was ceramic I’d be kintsukuroi,
Pottery which has been knocked,
Dropped, broken into shards then
Mended with gold or silver lacquer,
A delicate meander of liquid gold
Flowing into the breach …
(from Axiology by Anne M. Carson)
Pottery mended with ‘a delicate meander of liquid gold’.
Sometimes the poetry brings brutally raw despair to the fore:
My brain is broken / that’s how it feels
But there’s no glue to fix it / only time and more time
Piles of pills / popped from their shells
Handfuls thrown down / tired throat accepts.
You better yet? / is the endless question
Yes, is the lie.
(from Yes, is the lie by Meg D
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https://www.poetrylibrary.edu.au/poets/buckley-vincent/stroke-0449001
