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About
the Author
Michael Ellem
has experienced schizophrenia since the age of sixteen and is an activist in the
mental health field. He lives in By the same
author: Woodshedding
to Recovery: 24 Years - A Personal Journey through Schizophrenia.
Zeus Publications, 2006. The Bird Kite. Zeus Publications, 2007. FOREWORD
Literature
has often been considered an historical reflection of the societal structure of
the time and place wherein it originated. It also serves to give people of other
cultures and origins, a taste of a life lived differently; of locations and
experiences that are especially at odds with the ‘norm’ in life. ‘Partial
Sight’ is one such work. In
this anthology of Michael Ellem’s journey towards recovery… of his first
awakening (1997)… his sojourn of insightful growth out of the confusion of
schizophrenia (which he so ably outlined in ‘Woodshedding
to Recovery’ (2006))… and his discovery of that loved and hated
concept of ‘insight’… Mikey is able to recolour that idea into a framework
of self discovery. He has pondered on one aspect that is so essential for a
recovery journey, one that is explanatory of his ‘awakening’ and of his
ability to continue the journey, ‘through the haze – the mist dispenses
under the heat – until it settles, under a cloud of clarity’.(Awakening)
The
poetry takes us with him through the oftentimes uncomfortable parts of his
journey, to places most readers have never been; psychiatric wards, confusion,
alienation, political and personal ‘backstreets’ of life and living, ‘fighting
the need to hide’. (Anxiety Attack) In
describing the social isolation and depressive episodes of schizophrenia he
poignantly writes of having an invisible identity, being a no-body, of being a
non entity in our world, with all the trappings that society deems essential,
absolutely stripped away ‘no vehicle rego, no jury service, no tenancy
agreements, no overseas service, no mortgages, no telephone, nor electricity, no
trail, no existence’. (No trail) I
can’t ask the reader to ‘enjoy’ reading this journey to ‘Partial
Sight’ but I can entreat them to share some of the journey, have some
insight into Michael’s delving as he undertakes the effort of travelling the
hard road to recovery. The reader will be accompanying him as he journeys to his
awakening, having us develop empathy and some understandings of the highs and
lows of an eloquent journey man, and in the process have the benefit of ‘Partial
Sight’. Here are some samples: PARTIAL SIGHT
Through strands
of hair, It is difficult
to see, A panoramic
view of what unfolds, Instead, I see
parts of the whole, Curved and
twisted by the strands of hair, Swirling in the
breeze, Sometimes
blocking the sight, Of one eye, or
both, So that sensory
experience is dulled for a time, And imagine
being blind. Sweeping aside
the lock of hair, To view
fragments of titles, A mouth, some
tyres. Imagining the
whole through strands of hair, Is preferable
to looking through the prongs of forks, Which dissect
the world into perfect parts. Better to
experience curves and twists, At the whim of
the breeze. FRAGMENTS
I stare through
the window at the man in the lock-up ward, He has the most
unusual smoking style, Inhaling and
exhaling, inhaling and exhaling, in rapidity, Fragments of
life in the lock-up ward, Fragments of
life in the open ward. Through my
bedroom door I can see the nurses’ station, Change of
shifts, new nurses to check, to watch, to scrutinize, to analyse, Fragments of
change, Fragments of
life. She collects
dumpers from the ashtrays, Cuts them open
then rolls a cigarette, I offer her one
and she gratefully accepts, Then rolls
another dumper, Fragments of
lifestyle, Fragments of
life. Lining up for
medication, I wait in the
lounge, smoking, Medication
time, medication time, Fragments of
anger, Fragments of
feelings. AWAKENING
Through the
haze, Sharp,
penetrating clarity, The mist
disperses under the heat, Of feelings,
physicality, sexuality, And my being
erupts into a whirlwind, Of words and
love, Of anger and
angst, Until it
settles, Under a cloud
of clarity. LAYERS
A book on the
shelf, yearned for but beyond reach, The smell of
paper and ink intoxicating, pages to be caressed by a lover, But close at
the touch of loneliness, There is no key
and a layer is peeled. The sunrise and
a waterfall are subsumed by a cloud, Enveloping the
mind in darkness and violence, Senses, swathed
in a grey haze impervious to sunlight, No longer
respond to nature’s perfume, Or love, And another
layer is peeled. Alienated in a
work driven world which says it cares, And does, in a
perverse way, Offering a
glimpse of something impossible, Surreal, A column of
shuffling feet, Blighted by
ennui, And layer upon
layer is peeled. MY BEDROOM
Lying under the
doona, sweating, Brushing the
cockroaches off my face, One crawls into
my mouth. A soccer ball
is being belted against the shed, I close my eyes
and scream silently. The statue of
Buddha glistens in the early morning sunlight, I reach out, to
touch, It falls and
shatters on the concrete, The shards cut
my feet, And my blood
mingles with the corpses of cockroaches. Click on the cart below to purchase this book:
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