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Dr. Bob is Robert Hsiung, MD,
bob@dr-bob.orgShown: posts 1 to 12 of 12. This is the beginning of the thread.
Posted by Atticus on July 22, 2004, at 20:09:30
Spots
A dark maroon spot
No larger than a match-head
Clings to the refrigerator,
Sending seismic tremors
Undulating
Up my outstretched arm,
Making the pitcher of water
In my white-knuckled right hand
Quiver almost imperceptibly,
Creating concentric ripples
In the liquid's glassy surface,
Carrying me back
To my shaky perch
On the lip of the abyss.It's blood spatter,
More damned blood spatter.
A random droplet
That flew from my left wrist
As a rushing tide
From three opened veins
Swirled around my arm
And dripped from my fingertips
With the same unfathomable force
Of turbulent ocean waters
Sliding along damp, hard sand,
The heralds of a hurricane.Cursing, I slam
The wobbling pitcher
Onto the countertop,
Storming to the sink
To wet a sponge.
A single swipe
And the marker
Of that day is erased,
But still I sigh deeply,
Knowing it won't be the last.Another spot, still hidden,
Minute yet immense,
Will always be waiting,
Crouched like a crusty beetle
On the cabinets,
On the floor,
On the wall near the phone,
Hoping to catch my eye
And squeeze a gasp
From my lungs,
Leaving me hypnotized,
Paralyzed,
As I consider the deed,
Now incomprehensible,
That placed it there.My eyes slide,
Unbidden,
Down the metallic door
Like magnets that have lost
Their ability to grip
The slippery surface
Where they once nested
With ease.The heavy woolen scent
Of new carpeting
Rises in my nostrils,
But my eyes still see
The phantom image
Of a brilliant red trail.
A snaking, monochromatic
Jackson Pollock painting
Tracing my unsteady journey
That late spring afternoon
From the box-cutter
Sitting serenely in a ribbon of sunlight
On slick, bloody cushions
To the phone where I punched in 9-1-1,
Spraying the wall
With every desperate stab of a button.I watch myself, dispassionately,
Tottering to unlock the front door
(blackness)
Colliding with a table,
Flipping open the deadbolt
(blackness)
Awaking on the linoleum,
Staring numbly
At a perfect crimson handprint
On the opposite wall
Of the entryway.Christ, I never imagined,
Never imagined
It would be this way.
No gentle stroll
Into that good night
But a ferocious animalistic struggle
To draw just one more breath,
To stave off the
(blackness).The creak of the screen door's
Rusted springs.
A black rubber-soled shoe
And a navy blue trouser cuff.
Squawk of static
(blackness)
So many hands
Grasping me.
How could anyone have
So many hands?I jerk my gaze back up
From the memory
Of my self-made abattoir,
Fixing it steadily
On the empty white space
Where the spot once lurked.I toss the sponge
Back into the sink,
Pour myself a glass of water,
Trying to wash away the spots
Still clustered inside.
-- Atticus
Posted by PoohBear on July 23, 2004, at 10:21:52
In reply to poem ... Spots, posted by Atticus on July 22, 2004, at 20:09:30
Atticus:
Very well done... Too bad that it's based on experience, but perhaps that experience and the desperate will to survive that you described will help others contemplating the same thing and cause them to think before acting.
There's a woodworking addage that might be appropriate here:
"Measure twice, cut once"
While obviously it refers to not wasting time and material, one would certainly want to measure ones life and actions before making that final cut. Unlike wood, the "material" we have is one-of-a-kind...
Blessings,
Tony
Posted by Atticus on July 23, 2004, at 10:51:06
In reply to Re: poem ... Spots, posted by PoohBear on July 23, 2004, at 10:21:52
Tony:
Thanks for the feedback. That was my hope in posting this poem: that anyone who believes self-destruction is a solution to anything is very much mistaken. I learned the hard way, but I'm hoping they won't have to take the road I did before pulling back from the brink. This was a rough piece to write, and my emotions are still pretty raw this morning, but if putting this out there makes anyone stop and think twice, it was worth it. Atticus
Posted by B2chica on July 23, 2004, at 13:45:04
In reply to poem ... Spots, posted by Atticus on July 22, 2004, at 20:09:30
i am only sorry that i have no words to describe the way this poem has made me feel.
i had a strong reaction to it. it's like i was there...inside, beside you. maybe it's too similar to what i have experienced. a part of me felt at piece while another at war when following you.
you have reached inside of me with your words Atticus. not many can do that.
i strongly suggest you hold tight to how this made you feel, not just to write it but to relive it. it's vivid, wretching, and to the extreme of truthfulness and reality.
i wish you great peace after what you have shared with us.
*you have touched my pain with your words atticus.
it's an undescribable feeling.
i thank you.
b2c.
Posted by Atticus on July 23, 2004, at 14:22:26
In reply to Re: poem ... » Atticus, posted by B2chica on July 23, 2004, at 13:45:04
You're welcome. This was the most difficult thing that I have ever tried to write, and even now, the next day, I still feel almost totally wrung out. I don't think that I could have shared all that emotion, and left myself feeling so vulnerable as a result, in any other context. This forum, this Web site, and those who participate in it, are just so supportive, and people like you have been so kind, I felt like I ought to give it a try. I'm glad I was able to reach you. And by the way, you expressed your reaction to the piece beautifully. I was very touched by it, and it made me very happy. I was really worried, after I'd already posted the poem, that some people might find it a little too disturbing. Take care. Atticus
Posted by Jai Narayan on July 23, 2004, at 15:36:46
In reply to poem ... Spots, posted by Atticus on July 22, 2004, at 20:09:30
I read this to my partner as I gulped for air and brushed off my tears of (yes) recognition.
I come from too many generations of cutters....some very sucessful.
It was heart stopping.
You are right it's startlingly vivid.
And...I use the same vocabulary that you do to describe....
it's uncanny.
thank you for transporting me into your experience....I thank the goddess you lived.
Posted by Susan47 on July 23, 2004, at 16:23:16
In reply to Re: poem ... Spots, posted by Jai Narayan on July 23, 2004, at 15:36:46
That was an incredible piece of work. Thank you for sharing it with us. I will look it up whenever I need to ...
Posted by Atticus on July 23, 2004, at 19:37:11
In reply to Re: poem ... Spots, posted by Jai Narayan on July 23, 2004, at 15:36:46
Jai,
I'm glad I'm still kicking around, too. For most of the past eight years, I couldn't have said that and really meant it. All I'll say, by way of unsolicited advice, is that I hope this poem conveyed just how unglamorous and utterly unromantic the messy, brutal act of suicide really is. Stay safe. Atticus
Posted by Atticus on July 23, 2004, at 19:39:20
In reply to For Atticus, posted by Susan47 on July 23, 2004, at 16:23:16
You're welcome. Hope it helps. :) Atticus
Posted by corafree on July 24, 2004, at 16:05:00
In reply to Re: poem ... Spots, posted by PoohBear on July 23, 2004, at 10:21:52
Yes, the spots inside. Would like to wash those away. I will try and measure my life. I believe I have done some very good things. Maybe there are more left to do. cf
Posted by shortelise on August 30, 2004, at 12:58:04
In reply to poem ... Spots, posted by Atticus on July 22, 2004, at 20:09:30
Good work, Mr. Finch. Good writing.
ShortE
Posted by corafree on August 31, 2004, at 21:41:55
In reply to Re: poem ... Spots » PoohBear, posted by corafree on July 24, 2004, at 16:05:00
I just looked back at this and what I wrote. Where was my mind ... I can't even recall what I was saying here, unless all the overdoses are spots, ya' know inside, and then the spots of charcoal all over me at the hospital(s). Printer down but saving to print later. You must be an artist too Atticus, a special eye. You put an incident into detailed expression which makes it understandable. Cool cf
, otherwise how could you have written> Yes, the spots inside. Would like to wash those away. I will try and measure my life. I believe I have done some very good things. Maybe there are more left to do. cf
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