Part
the first:
I
sit in my car,
secure
before my interview,
listening
to the whispering voices
of
my radio.
I
hear a father telling falteringly
of
his son:
a
boy called Henry.
My
whole attention’s won.
I
am stunned
as
the gentle man says how
Henry
once took hash
and
mislaid his sense.
From
that time on
he
was troubled of mind;
pursued
by demons
none
else could see.
He
was put away.
Institutions
became
his
unhomely home:
no
place of nurture.
Escape
was his constant
cunning
endeavour;
but
success in this business,
presaged
failure elsewhere.
Once
out in the world
he
had no sense of self;
no
idea of what was real,
of
what was good or ill.
He
was overwhelmed,
fragile,
incompetent;
not
knowing whom to trust,
or
what to do for best.
Drugs
gave a peace
beyond
all understanding;
but
loss of understanding
was
too high a price.
The
destruction of self,
is
no rational sacrifice.
All
drugs do is pacify,
not
make one whole.
Eventually,
love won
and
Henry was drawn back
into
the light of reason,
and
found true peace.
He
was re-united
with
his worried Father and
close
family and friends:
a
sort of resurrection.
Part
the second:
I
feel I have a choice:
one
won through pain and love;
a
choice unwelcome,
though
offered of benign intent.
I
ken a solid semblance
of
what I heard the man relate
could
become real for me
–
but at a woesome price.
A
dilemma, richly dark,
is
for me now proposed:
either
to accept the present pain,
as
for the best;
or
else allow a higher cost,
and
so to have returned
what
I have loved and lost
and
still do sadly grieve.
The
choice seems clear:
but
I am well forewarned
that
no glad good
will
come of such desired renewal;
but
only further, deeper pain
and
greater suffering.
It
is not possible that I should help:
but
only hurt.
