In late 2000, David Hart, Poet in Residence at the South Birmingham Mental Health Trust, spent time observing life in older adult wards.

 

Below is a selection of poems he wrote. Some were developed from something a patient said, or the rhythms of their speech. Other times, a person presented themselves as a "walking poem". We hope you enjoy them.

 

From your hands I can see
that you are emerging from a deep thought.
Where have you been ?
Ah, I see, in that kind of place,
by the river where the flying fish are,
where the flying fish rush into the sky
and know why
and where the river slips away
into the silent sea.
I see into your mind,
I understand

 

 

I’ve been so bloody tired
for a bloody long time,
tea’s bloody cold,
it’s always the same.

 

I come in here thirsty and this is what I get,
A teapot full of bloody
tea that’s certainly wet

 

but not hot, I’m seeing red,
I want hot bloody tea,
I’ve been so bloody tired,
it’s bloody being me

 

 

A young man said, "It’s like being in a cage here"

 

Inside the concrete bunker
there is a glasshouse,
in the glasshouse
we walk through treacle

 

and back through it
and sideways through it
and we fly through it
and crawl in it
and we hop, skip and jump in it

 

until the tea trolley comes
and we have a tea trolley party
a cup of tea in the treacle party

 

and then we walk through treacle again
inside the glasshouse
inside the concrete bunker

 

We are reasoning shadows
who knock on walls
not expecting a reply
except our own knocking, knocking.

 

We are reasoning shadows
who knock on air,
not expecting a reply,
except our own knocking, knocking.

 

Across the room,
what a journey,

 

and back again,
and across the room again,
what a journey.

 

Three people laid out on the sofas
far away in the television sleeping room,
a film in black and white plays into their dreams
and the outside world is the outside world
is the outside world
is the outside world

 

where something is happening,
something must be happening
in the rushing way of the world.

So I walk up and down my cell,
a journey of six paces,

and when I have forgotten I am doing it,
I go to fetch wood for the fire
but there is no wood. After a hundred and two paces
I give up and return to my cell
where I walk up and down,
a journey of six paces
until I have forgotten I am doing it,
then I say my prayers.