I can’t get enough of Sam’s poetry. It takes me to a dark and desolate place, but it also draws me in. I can’t read too much of it at a time. When it comes to Vaknin, tiny nibbles are better for you than large gulps.
In the Concentration Camp called Home
There’s more of his poetry here: http://samvak.tripod.com/contents.html
Since I was in my teens, I have always loved “The Desiderata,” written by the poet Max Ehrmann. It was incredibly popular in the 1960s and 1970s, during the consciousness revolution (I remember seeing it on posters everywhere and I think someone even made a song out of it in the early 1970s), but since then seems to have lost its popularity and isn’t as widely quoted.
But The Desiderata is still so poetic, so relevant today and contains such sage advice for holding onto your integrity and dignity and living the life God meant for you to live. You also do not have to be religious to get something out of it.
Desiderata
Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and ignorant; they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be critical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be careful. Strive to be happy.
© Max Ehrmann 1927
Sorry, but I can’t get enough of his poetry.
http://www.narcissistic-abuse.com/narcissism.html
The Toxic
waste of bottled anger
venomized.
Life belly up.
The reeds.
The wind is hissing
death
downstream,
a river holds
its vapour breath
and leaves black lips
of tar and fish
a bloated shore.
Strolling in the boneyard of my life:
bleached dreams,
mementoed ossuary of my insights.
On flaking fenceposts, impaled the child that I had been.
Peering from desiccated sockets, the Plague that’s me:
dust-irrigated, arid tombstones,
a being eclipsed.
Incredible poetry from one of my favorite bloggers.
Such a pretty young face,
to hide such a dark heart.
To show no trace
Of her black art.
She weaves the pain
The heartless schemes.
Destroys the name,
And all her dreams.
Who knew such a vicious snake
Could crawl and creep
just for evil’s sake
Disturb the sleep.
Of other souls and beings
Just for a comedy,
To create the beginnings
Of tragedy.
All is lost now.
Nothing is left.
She can but bow,
and be bereft.
[My lame attempt at freeverse poetry, for whatever it’s worth.]
Softer, more buoyant than ocean water
Welcome as a warm spell in January
and sudden as a summer squall
hot floods of tears from some unknown cistern rise up and
caress my face like
the loving touch of the mother I longed for and never had and
my fears and doubts fade and dissolve
Relaxing, not scared and
Melting into this dark warm and unfamiliar place
I sleep but never forget.
Ascending to the surface through an ocean of dissolving dreams
I cry out to the stars: Where are you? Who are you? How did you know?
I wait and wait and wait and I
hear nothing but the endless silence of the stars and
the crashing of the waves on the faraway shore and
the beating of my heart and
I wait
Then the answer comes: I’ve always been here.
Look inside and then look up.
Loving arms reach down and lift me up and
hold me like my mother should have and then I hear these words:
“You have passed this test.
Now, armed with the twin swords of truth and light
the dangers you faced can no longer harm you.
You are strong, you are safe and
God anoints you
with every tear that falls.”
Searing, powerful poetry from a fellow ACON. There’s nothing more I can add, so I’ll let her words speak for themselves.
Sam and Lidija in the documentary, “I Psychopath.”
Found a link to this on Twitter. I have little to add–I know next to nothing about poetry, so I’ll just let his words speak for themselves.
One thing that does stand out to me, is that Sam’s words show a man who suffers greatly from his disorder and at least a part of him wants desperately to be free from it. Lidija is his comfort and strength and he yearns to break free of the prison of narcissism to be able to return the love she gives to him. Such passionate words from a man who insists he has no ability to feel love.
I really hope he is a good husband to his wife, who seems very sweet and empathetic from what I saw of her in “I, Psychopath.”
http://samvak.tripod.com/herbirthday.html
Her Birthday
I. Apology …
My Wife:
Sometimes I watch you from behind:
your shoulders, avian, aflutter.
Your ruby hands;
the feet that carry you to me
and then away.
I know I wrong You.
Your eyes black pools; your skin eruptions of what is
and could have been.
I vow to make you happy, but
my Hunchbacked Self
just tolls the bells
and guards you from afar.
II. … And Thanks
In the wasteland that is Me
You flower.
Your eyes black petals strewn
across the tumbling masonry.
Your stem resists my winds.
Your roots, deep in my soil,
toil in murk to feed both you and me,
to nurture Us.
And every day a spring,
and every morn a sunshine:
you’re in my garden,
you blossom day and night.
Your sculpted daint feels
in my hands like oneness.
III. In Toronto
So much is left unsaid between us.
Your crests of silence
fallen on my shores of pain.
IV. Dedication (9th Edition of “Malignant Self-love”)
My Wife:
You are in every carefully measured space,
In every broken word
That we had mended with
The healing hyphens of our together-
-ness.
This book, the memory of us,
A record of survival
Against all odds.
Malignant Self- gives way to love, two points, we are:
Revisited.
V. Happy 2014 (dedication on the book “Macedonian Woodcarving”)
Carved in the wood of our togetherness, entwined,
the chiseled hurt of us:
sprawled in your arms, my wounds
and your iconic smile,
Madonna of leaves and angels.
Only one unicorn we are,
sheltered behind the royal doors
to our love. And you?
My own Iconostasis.
Lucky Otters Haven 