A Hole in the Roof: A Poem of Joy and Sadness

No-one to lift the sun above your bed, and Tanaka Ryohei's Well No.1

I want to give a rare disclaimer with this post: this is a poem about deep depression as well as joy. It’s also one of the longest I’ve written, and in many ways one of the ones I’m most proud of, because it tells the truth about depression, which I’ve wanted to do for a long time. I am not currently in the midst of depression - but the poem draws on the experiences of when I have been. Which brings me to the disclaimer: there are a couple stanzas in the middle here that are very dark. The poem builds towards joy, but if someone happens across this who is in the midst of dark depression, please approach this with caution/wisdom, and perhaps consider reading at a later time. Having said that - I hope the rest of you find something of worth here.

(Tanaka Ryohei, Well No.1)

So. You are cutting beets, ordinary, 
on an ordinary day in your own kitchen. 

Depression cuts a hole in the roof
and falls out of nowhere from the ceiling to 
the basement. It does not announce itself, or stormcloud the weather
gradually gray, or rap sharply at the door like an inquisitive visitor. 
It settles on your shoulders over your whole body
like a cloak. It does not tell you how long it will stay. 

Let us stand still, you and I, under the weight of all 
that smothers, and speak together. 

For a while you will half-swim through an endless landscape 
of grey in an unfinished painting, monochrome and monotone, 
every step receding, the world receding, being receding
while waves pound at your feet, waves that pull up and relentlessly 
fade. Suction without movement. 

You will stand under relentless fog. 
Rain that always was, and always 
will be, and no-one 
to hold an umbrella over your head;
no-one to lift the sun above your bed, 
no-one to batten down the hatches of your mind. 

You will grow extinct, in the way that dinosaur bones can be found
fossilized in stone. Was it ever truly necessary, 
the specificity of your being?
The aliveness of you?
You will ask yourself this, gazing in the mirror. 

You, who are eking out a life. 
one-third. 
You who dreamed of being a person once. 

Let us turn and consider this;
That despite how slim the boundary lines of the universe are 
that hold us in, joy does not acede. 
It moves in a wave that has no frame; 
flowing endlessly horizon over horizon, 
every endline just a call onward, onward -  
to new beginnings - 
and will you answer? 
The call shimmers bracing through the air,
a fizz and sparkle of gold and splash of prayer. 

The months lost to sadness become months banked for joy 
to burst forth the more vivid because summer, tremendous warlord of joy, 
throws open the doors to her true home and casts the winter out. 

Lightness arrives in unlooked-for meadows 
of the soul, in unexpected hours that gleam, robust and touchable, 
clearing out the shadows of your mind and turning them to shimmer. 

You are less empty than you imagine. 

Just a tablespoon of hope like syrup on a pancake, 
just a warm voice over a phoneline like honey on a sandwich,
a long walk in the morning through trees 
that canopy your head in green, 
and all at once here you are, meeting yourself at last in your own body, 
your own mind known, lungs inflating, breathing. helium. 

your fingers clasping around a warm teacup, and the radiance of it. 
the dog's eyes, bigger than saucers, warmer
and more knowing than the sky. 
and evenings turn easily to untroubled dreams. 

The portal caught you this time, and you walked
it, but came out unscathed. 

Grace has no end. 
It remains unearned, and ushers in hope. 
Let the light touch your mind. 

~Claire 

Thank you for reading! If you're new here, I publish one original poem a week, paired with art, most on the theme of joy. Also, the art in the center of the post is Clare Haley, Bask in the Glow, a scene from Yorkshire

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