Poetry Of Evil: The Mental Health Poetry Podcast

Welcome to the Poetry of Evil: place w here mental health intersects with poetry.

I’m your host and the author of these poems, Daniel Viragh.

It’s a beautiful night, in Vancouver, British Columbia, and I am so glad that you are joining us, from near or far away.

Be sure to visit poetryofevil.com for all of your evil poetic needs, including:
- transcripts of the poems
- ways to comment on the material, and submit your own material
- and (of course) our store.

Tonight, we will be looking at poems that explore the subconscious as a land worth exploring. So, the first poem is called (aptly) “There’s A Land,” and it’s from my book “The Womb”.

"There's A Land"

There's a land, where the dead go on living;
and nobody knows, what's quite there;
there's a band that forever keeps giving,
there's a park, and a tree, and a bear.

There are voices and stalkers and dowager queens;
and Russians, and spiders, and Jews;
there are autumns, and evenings, and seasides, and innings;
but the gods of the place, they're not new.

They quarrel and they seek, they murder, they scowl;
they mention our names, through and through;
they petition, they speak, they fester, they reek;
they torment themselves, not just you.

The place that they're in — call it heaven or hell —
its doors only open at noon;
they take only losers, not beggars, nor choosers,
but they take all they can, all anew;

They take also survivors, and rapists, and porn stars;
and executive directors, by the pound;
they take the reporters, and early connivers; —
they take firetrucks and hospital beds, around.

This place that they're in, it has no doors,
only windows, and souls, and blessings — but enough said;
they give, then they holler; they scream; and they
stutter; something about our daily bread.

No one does answer; not one of them, has ears;
and if you've starved, you only go on, your second date;
you might meet a movie star, or a pope; or a monster;
the priest might even tell you, you're late.

So then you all have it — you're stuck, and
that's the secret — this monstrous, turbid thing, it is only you;
nobody answers, 'cuz it's not the right questions;
and when they're gone, they're just brought back, in two.

And how to get out, how to grow lucid? And how not to
avert your gaze? And how to grow lonely, and how
not to be tepid? And how to dampen the
madness, the craze?

Start by getting even; start by seeing slowly;
start by breathing into, your yarn; the faith that
they've pulled over your eyes; it's the face that
you wear, when you fawn.

Start by seeking, not an erstwhile companion;
start by finding the deepest you; forgive you
your sins, and your memories, and your deserts;
forgive them your whims — and we're through.

This second poem is called “In The Golden Balloon,” and it’s a meditation about the role of the Divine, within the subconscious.

"In The Golden Balloon"

In the golden balloon, where the flowers are mended,
and the dogs are too close, and the groceries too dear;
I run errands and write stories, for those who've ended,
their lifelong dependence on family smear.

For only when we've parted and pardoned,
their artillery's endless bombarding of our own cherished gums,
can we consume and constipate and burp without purpose,
can we visit the dentist, without fear of reruns.

But when you visit anew the sight of your gory,
desiccated, sub-bathroom charm; only when you've
understood the homeless, the elephant in the room,
begins to take form.

It's not only a matter of controlling the restless,
it's also a sin to promote too much grace;
those with the power to condone all that's worthless;
are also the men with the disgust to save.

For when we've departed, and made to feel worthless,
and all that remains is the mud on your cane;
(and you've bejewelled and emblazoned your name on your casket)
can you really ensure the cleanliness of your game.

And all that is holy, and all that is one,
will rise one day with the power to be,
not alone and unworthy, but forgiven and holy,
and all that there is, is the yearning to free.

And finally, here’s a poem called “At The End of My Travels” from my book by the same name.

"At The End Of My Travels"

I came upon you, empty city:
I didn’t even know your name.
I knew your streets were coarse, but pretty;
your steeple had basked in red-hot flame.

I preyed upon your altar, then:
your cobblestones, I ate with the spiderwebs.
I marched upon your open palazzos,
with steel toes and minuets.

I would’ve drank from your fountains, two:
too bad I didn’t bring a cup.
I bathed in your sunlit gardens;
and your prisons, I shook them up.

Your brothels and your cigarettes,
I carved into the hollow of my skin.
I took a dab of oyster juice,
for the port, and the sea, within.

I tarried longer by the market:
in its autumn, I espoused a feast.
I wanted olives for the baker;
all I managed was dry yeast.

Evening came, and then I scurried:
I was swept away by glove-dealers, astride.
My carcass, they dropped a bridge, it under;
but my songs, they hummed with pride.

Thank you so much for listening! It’s been a wonderful pleasure to share these meditations with you.

This podcast is meant as a collaborative community, where people can comment on the poems, submit poems of their own, and share their own mental health journeys. So please visit us at poetryofevil.com. We take your privacy seriously, and this is a safe space for you to share.