The Place...a poem.

I was wondering what to write for this post, when I came up with the idea of posting a poem I wrote a while ago, called ''The Place''.

When I first started my nurse training, I was seconded to a psychiatric hospital for 8 weeks and can remember feeling very overwhelmed during my allocation there.I was very young and naeive (only 18 years old) and impressionable too. This poem was inspired with the images and observations from that time, in mind...though actually written only a few years ago. It also has a ''back in the day'' feel to it, but thankfully, much progress has been made in relation to mental illness in recent times.

Since then, with the events I have experienced in my life and having being in a psychiatric hospital myself on several occassions, my attitude has changed dramatically.

If I were to write a poem today, it would be very different...

I have received the highest standard of care for my mental health over the years and have always been treated with respect and compassion, even in the most distressing times.



The Place


Identitity robbed as you crawl through the door,
chin hung so low it's drag-netting the floor.
From external chaos to institute hell,
a place to reside whilst you feel so unwell.

Desolate dayroom a wheeze and a choke,
light blotted out by the thick yellow smoke.
Expelair whirring, a permanent rattle,
trying to freshen in ongoing battle.

Toppling ashtrays with butts dipped in ash,
bins overflowing, assortment of trash.
Cleaners work swiftly in hurry to leave,
afraid of their contact with mental disease.

Laundry room hung with a hundred grey frocks,
basket containing a thousand odd socks.
Clothes spinning round in the dizzying drum,
nerve endings soothed by the hypnotic hum.

Shampoo like dishwater, shower room bare,
plughole clogged up with a knot of old hair.
Blocks of grey soap with no lather or smell,
noose-like red cord of emergency bell.

Throw away razors removed from the shelf,
tin foil mirrors reflect someone else.
Watermark visible, greasy grey stain,
hours of scrubbing, to wash off the pain.

Giant steel trolley, no oil on its' wheels,
rattles along with its barely warm meals.
Fork made of plastic, a knife with no blade,
dining discomfort so aptly displayed.

Four times a day, there assembles a queue,
two blues for him, and a white one for you.
Harpoon sedation, the staff unperterbed,
pumped into those who are really disturbed.

People so high, that they wrestle the clouds,
others so low, they sit darning their shrouds.
Some pace relentlessly, shoe soles are bare,
others call out in a wail of despair.

Creative therapy, morning and night,
art is encouraged, promoting insight.
Portraits of self, twisted face in a scream,
palette of darkness reveals the unseen.

Time has no relevance, clocks have expired,
minds in a mangle, and bodies retired.
Amidst all the chaos and thoughts full of sin,
the process of healing can slowly begin.

For those who are lucky, it's quick and is brief,
a respite for mind bringing utter relief.
For others, much longer, a voyage of strife,
then there are those who are troubled for life.


Where is this place you ask? downbeat and grim,
they told me the name once, it's "OUT ON A LIMB".

© Ellen Johns



Published by Blackmail Press Issue 14 2005