A Volume of Poetry
By John C. V. Fisher
Key Themes: poetry, mental health, recovery,
This is a book of poems that is not necessarily about fixed ideas or subjects. It is instead something like a rhetorical exercise mostly determined in rhyming free verse. The literature it contains is a form of self-analysis as well as self-questioning that searches to have a degree of impact on its reader. Mental health is an occupation it incorporates to delineate the voyage it takes through the pages that make up the book. It is hoped it will be enjoyable to read and informative in the areas that it takes place in.
About the Author
John Fisher is an individual who has delved into the metier of poetical creation as well as being interested in popular music and the crazes of the art world. Mental health has been a feature of his existence and much of his poetry is influenced by the treatment he has received. Born in 1979, he has created a few books, is developing his studies as a student and is presently trying to set up a space in order to produce an artistic collective that can develop and display their work.
You begin poetry with a line
Like taking your first sip of wine
From a glass presented to you
With a rich velvet redolent hue
And you voyage on through astral projection
Within your place in natural selection.
“If we say we have no sin we deceive
Ourselves and the truth is not in us.”
Something seems to be asking us to believe
In the divinity of a man called Jesus.
Women ask – “Which one of your children is the messiah?”
Could it be the one that brings baptism in fire?
I could be in one of John Donne’s sermons;
The spirit could be giving me its summons
And it can attach the poetry to my soul.
It could be presenting me with my role
As humanity continues upon the earth
Within death, the progress of life and birth
And an individual is given its ego,
The process of us enigmatic in embryo.
When the Jesus stuff seems to be all syncretic
And they tell you you are another schizophrenic
We then enter the realm of gnosis and
Judgement Day is everything you can understand,
Where you have been in life and what you have done,
The poetry as it is weaved to become spun.
I take the time to check out the scene,
See what I got to do with the rhyme routine.
It’s what nature does to you for a change,
Showing you the breadth of its range
From everything to the look of the mystic,
Everything he divines deep in the physic
On some sort of television for you to see
Wherever it is you so happen to be.
And when everyone thinks that you are mad
Sitting down in rehab eating your salad
You think about everywhere you have flown
And how in this life you have grown
And what and who is important
Whilst thinking of every last living plant.
In every man’s life there is a Mary Magdalene time
As you view the presence of the present in the paradigm.
Life is wisdom; some people know so much more
As all I do is head off and go and fuck a whore,
Wondering what goes on to make a schizophrenic
As if I could agree that Jesus had no ethic.
Sometimes I am pathetic, that is true
But I can enjoy things for fun as well too.
The thing that I love is the art of music.
I like it so much you could call me a critic
And all this leads to the broadcast of my personality
As I go to ask Jerusalem, the holy city,
What has happened to the discipline of scripture,
Wondering if there are any grounds for rapture,
Why life makes moments to move and move,
Living in these times as science tries to prove.
The man who I am saw the wandering Shekhinah
And wondered when God came to be called Allah,
The religion of life being philosophy
As we deliberate our place in holy matrimony.
I wonder how those people create a diagnosis
And if there is an exact science in psychosis.
And my life formulates a reading of the Koran
And maybe God has created for me a woman.
I like the beats of rhythm on the page
Even when in hospital in a metaphysical cage.
And poets who have come and gone
Leave me their words as their welcome.
There is a travesty you have to go through,
Recorded in the rich tapestry which people drew.
And humility ends up as your final target,
A primal Jesus going berserk in the market.
Protecting the holy name that makes God,
His providence making the epoch of each period.
And you might write poetry with the prosaic
Linking words to make something like a mosaic,
Ideas all around you like a swirling jungle
And you make what you can do with the hustle,
Not wanting to do anyone any harm.
Just hope all the stuff can grow on the farm.
You can make it like you are Ulysses,
Seeking the end of life in breeze on the seas,
Someone waiting for you along at home
So that the stars say you are not alone,
Faith carved deep upon your heart
With what happens when art blows you apart
And we find our situation in circumstance,
Check out what appears as the evident expanse,
Rhyme a reason for melody and memory
As time takes time to emit a story.