Poetry Of Evil: The Mental Health Poetry Podcast

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

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

I’m broadcasting live from the Vancouver Public Library, 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! .

Today, I would like to talk about the difference that art can make in our lives, and how making art allows us to heal from within — also, how processing what happened to us allows us to grow.

I will read 4 poems about how art can change who we are, and make us into better, more empathetic human beings.

I Turned Your Garbage Into Art

Dear Dad,
I turned your garbage into art,
you said I wasn’t worth a fart,
I proved you wrong,
I wasn’t there, for you to hurt,
for you to share, how great you weren’t:

for fathering me with pride,
dear God, believe you me, I tried
to make you look good, Daddy,
how much I cried until I realized
the problem was yours, and yours alone —

now the only Pride I have is the one
felt by the Gay man as he wears his colours,
from white to dark, from blueberry muffins, to saffron-in-the-park,

God how I tried, to hate myself to be,
and yet I persisted and
I became, a forest amongst God’s trees.

My Development As An Artist

First, there were sounds,
Then, there were shapes,
Following that,
Feelings.

Then, we added colours,
Like forgiveness and orange anger.
Later on, some ochre for the medusas,
And some shit-green, for the platypuses.

Then came the whole social-insurance bit,
With a touch of morose impotence
Masked by incredulity.

Finally came satire,
Adumbrated by solipsis,
And the catch-all: hypothermia,
Followed closely by rheumatism.

True:
the difficulty in any art form
Is to keep it
Close to the subject.

Well, This Thing

Well, this thing that you call “art,”
when does it begin, and from whence does it start?
Is it in the heart of some cathedral?
Is it at its door? Or at its steeple?

Is it in the furnace? Is it in the grave?
Is it in scenes of warfare? Is it near Abraham’s cave?
Is in the body? Is it in the mind?
Is it in your country? Or rather, is it in mine?

This thing that you call “art,”
we gotta wonder, where to start;
we gotta wonder, from whence to speak,
from where to burn, those children we seek;

we gotta wonder, and we gotta pray,
that we’ll always open, for it the way.

This is the Art

This is the art that needs to be made
This is the debt, that needs to be paid,
this is the depth, that needs to be brought,
this is the metal, that needs to be wrought;

These are the words, and these are the stones,
these are the forgotten heroes and mores,
these here are worthless and these others are gems,
these are the humans, and these are their wrens.

This is the art that needs to be sold,
and you are the person that needs to be told,
that the wisdom and fallacies of youth and of old,
are nothing but mud that the dam could not hold.

Nothing but sorrow and nothing but pens,
nothing but ashes that were scattered again,
nothing but flashes of lightning in the dark,
and nothing but foolish walks in the park;

Nothing but substance and nothing but hate,
nothing but constant moaning by the gate,
nothing but idol-worship and nothing but pain:
nothing but instruments to record your gain.

**

Thank you so much for listening! I am so glad that we could spend this time together. Please, tread carefully as you meander amongst your feelings. Have a good night!