Her brain is a riot of knapweed
on which twittering finches feed,
keeping her awake at night
and drowning out each thought
when she rises. She longs to see
a chestnut or a walnut tree
with broad crown and dangling fruit,
or bushes of plump blackberries, but
she cannot leave these walls,
cannot stretch her wings or fly at all.
Once they’ve fledged, a mother puffin
cannot be recognised by her young.
Although the faces are familiar,
the names of her children escape her,
words in a flock, taking wing disturbed,
pouring from the sky like wheeling birds.
She becomes a tawny owl at twilight,
to-witting throughout the night,
unaware that she has bid adieu
to the satisfying echo of to-woo.
Kim M. Russell, 10th September 2019
My response to dVerse Poets Pub Poetics: Making much of madness
This Tuesday we are making much of madness with Laura, who says that the milieu of poetry is often associated with the seeming liberation from cognitive, emotional and behavioural norms. She turns our attention to poets who write of madness second-hand, or were induced to write, by their own neuroses, psychosis, or bi-polar nature, and she shares poems by Sasha Dugdale, Elizabeth Bartlett and John Clare, as well as one of her own.
Laura asks us to write, in first or third person, a poem about our own experiences or about witnessing mental health issues; alternatively, we can base it on a poem which depicts madness.
writing in north norfolk 
a really unique take on the prompt Kim – especially love the first verse with all its noise and longings – clipped wings of the asylum. Admire your rhyming too – very subtle
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Thank you, Laura.
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The imagery of the bird brain is so strong (and actually funny too). The first part with the nesting and nestling of the birds into that image of the mother puffin… I think a lot about he madness in dementia so many of us have to witness (and experience)
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Dementia has so many faces and forms, Bjorn, it can often surprise us.
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The children of the mentally ill often become orphans, as the illness consumes the person. You’ve captured this so well here Kim.
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Thank you, Jade.
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You’re welcome, Kim.
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I love every word, and really treasure these lines: the names of her children escape her,
words in a flock, taking wing disturbed,
pouring from the sky like wheeling birds.
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Thank you, Victoria.
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I must say this touched me. But in all the time my mother was ill, she never forgot my face or that she was my mother. She mistook the nurses fir her sisters, the facility for her home.
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Thank you, Toni. My grandfather mistook me for his sister, but my mother, although she never used my name, did know that she was my mother. I’m tearful now as I remember her face breaking into the most beautiful smile whenever I visited.
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Terrific, very powerful allegory, and a frightful peek into the morass of madness. I described dementia as well in my piece, and several of the other guises madness uses.
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Thank you so much, Glenn. I’ve been up for a short while and will start reading and commenting shortly. I imagine there will be a few poems about dementia.
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When those closest to you don’t recognize you, that is true heartbreak. Our connections to others are what keep us sane. You’ve expressed that beautifully. (K)
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Thank you so much, Kerfe. Dementia is so cruel.
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Yes it is, for all concerned.
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The last two lines are so sad. My father fell prey to Alzheimer’s, and it was so painful to watch his memories fall away.
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Thank you, Maggie. Dementia is a cruel disease.
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Oh my goodness, Kim, that second verse. I had tears in my eyes. This is really one of the most powerful things you’ve written.
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Thank you so much, Sarah. I had tears myself while writing it.
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Well written — rich and wonderfully imaged Kim. That second stanza was haunting to read.
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Thanks Rob.
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A fine close eye for the nettles and crazings which fret the bird brain, an envervated distraction ever about to take wing. Not the soaring vulture of depression or the suicide’s solving leap but still tearing the fabric of the everyday, a “riot of knapweed / on which twittering finches feed, / keeping her awake at night / and drowning out each thought / when she rises. As I re read its madder and more complex, a molting in language of a solitary eye pecking crow.
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That one’s been brewing a while, Brendan. Thank you for the detailed comment.
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