The Portrait of the Poetaster as a Man - Epilogue

This self that I described, as close can be
To what I am: model of my inscape,
That I have built and shaped to verse's scale
Whose truth I measure using what I know.
My thoughts are scraps of rag, but can combine
(If handled with a skill) and make a quilt:
A raw material that few would want,
Refined to decoration and a use.
And thus if I don't daily work my thought
It turns to negatives, would make me drink,
Whereas if I invest in thinking well
My thought encourages sobriety.
This self is self, which I in part control,
(Though it controls, were I to lose my grip):
As thought dives (simple that it is) and delves
It thinks that God helps those who help themselves.

And when I spoke of my objective state
I spoke of where my self was stood or perched,
I talked of wealth and means and state and hope
(You see how I compare to other's lives).
Were this agenda, it would spell despair
And when I weaken (which I do at times)
I find I'll find the best of grounds to lapse,
And yearn to soften blows of this through drink.
But misfortune (and this is like, if not)
Appears at times subjective, relative:
There is a pain - so utter - it swallows
Substance up - things objective take back seat.
My outlook primes the flow in feedback loop,
And I can regulate the present sign,
Prepare to fail if thoughts are negative
And see the change when changed to positive.

And all these squandered opportunities
Are but my self's attempts at loss for self,
A list that's grown with time of dire own goals,
A pelican that lets its blood for play.
And every item in this catalogue
Could be a drink upon the bar that's drunk
In vain attempt to steady nerves and self
But with result of further sore decline.
Although this list of woes turns list of wines
That once were on display and now are drunk,
At times, in my imagination's eye
There is an element of choice in thought.
And when I look at what I have in life
It must be said it could and has been worse,
You could complain that you don't serve or carve
Or count yourself as lucky you don't starve.

Attempts at occupation represent
Self's aspirations to the norms of all,
How I would love to work and earn my keep
With strength that comes from used ability.
And when I worked I ended day with drink
And when I didn't that is how I'd start:
Preoccupation with my dreams of norms
But set me up to fail in other ways.
I need a realistic view of work
Like the ersatz that is my authorship,
Whereby I write such things as best I can
And hope that some will read and maybe gain.
And thus I can command the stance I take
And this command can alter how I feel:
And better easy trade (the iambic)
Than try to master someone else's trick.

And then I spoke of ingrained attitudes,
And these belong to self, which I must change,
And though they should and would be aides to me
They hinder like the rust on rust-choked cogs.
Perhaps I'm not in touch with feeling's range
And this encourages a search for hope
Which starts the quest in bottom of a glass
(In case the object of desire is there).
But now I think my feelings and myself
Have reached a stasis (chaos ruled before)
And from this point I have the chance (with work)
To gain the upper hand and tune myself.
And thus I need not start the search for hope,
I have but just enough for my own needs:
It's vain to look for things externally
When what's required exists internally.

And what I claim for me and alcohol
(I claim, I hope, I offer up to gods)
Is that the drink might be the only cause
Of psychiatric ills that I have known.
When all is weighed of drink I blame myself,
I should have seen the problem years ago
And realised that drink is woe for me
With or without the psychiatric ills.
For me, to drink a pint (or glass of wine)
Becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy
And forges link in adamantine chain,
The chain which binds me to a further drink.
I have described, and know, how I stay dry,
But God above, don't ask me how I quit:
The strength of will that something granted me
Not mine but gifted from futurity.

This city I describe, as close can be
To what I know: model of this landscape,
That I have built and shaped to verse's scale
The truth of which is found if there's a match.
At times I've crossed this young and stubborn wife
That is a city, and in doing so
I have opposed a force that brooks no slight,
And acts on any opposition made.
To be the unuxorious husband
Is but to rail against the vows as spoke:
I choose to live in this metropolis
Defying it will only drive me mad.
London - an institution for the sane
And being that it pays to be at peace:
The other's swim in London's many ways,
Which, past your ken and your control, may phase.

And when I spoke of my asocial state
I mentioned how I fail to interact,
I feel impairments others notice soon,
Which feelings grow to inabilities.
And though I didn't state it then as such
My lack of social grace might well be seen
As others' condescension, snobbery,
England's class hatred of the aclassé.
The stigma's such between the varied groups
That one outside might bear the brunt of it:
No class! No group! Then automatically
You're treated worse than what is known and cursed.
The many's harsh superiority
Will have me madly tearing out my hair:
Despite the fact it's said you choose your friends,
A shrunken choice divorces means and ends.

This lonely friendlessness that I have won
Is but my self's poor prize for lack of grace,
The tallied goals against that grow with time,
The pelican that lets its blood despite ...
This lack of friends could be that fatal straw
Upon the camel's back (the camel is
My sanity): the mind requires others,
To do without will need a certain flair.
I have some friends, not lots, but one or two:
This indicates that when I wrote of this
Perhaps I was unfair, and to myself,
Not totally, but maybe just a bit.
With friends, my past remains, in which I have,
Put politely, not advertised myself:
I yearn for social steps, and novelty
Of me not as my own worst enemy.

Attempts at finding love but represent
Aspiring to the norms of others' joy,
And I would love a love which is returned,
With rounded strength and sensuality.
Love's play has never been a friend to me,
And thus I've either been one mad in love
(Regardless of reciprocation) or
Sublunary - I have known each extreme.
And both extremes are stressors (in their way);
Through gifting heart with love your life is ruled,
You don't command - you are commanded to:
Through lack of love you need command yourself.
And thus with affectations and my lack
(The lack my choice, or veto of those wooed?)
I talk of love but when it comes to me
My chosen option stays celibacy.

And then I spoke of some in family,
Such others weave with self, and will not change,
And though they should and would be aides to me
Some hinder like the rust on rust-choked cogs.
Perhaps you wouldn't be a bit surprised
The number in my family who tend
To aggravate my psychiatric state
In place of calming it (which few will do).
And it will really come as no surprise
Concerning those who are a cause of stress,
I influence their acts, behaviour, words
As much I do the rain the wind and sun.
For these self-immolation could suffice
But as I wish to live as best I can
I start to feel that I can't tolerate
The parts of family that find I grate.

And what I claim for my psychiatry
(I claim, I hope, I offer up to gods)
Is that the demon drink has been the cause:
If I abstain, the illness may remit.
When lunacy is weighed I raise my fist
And blame the gods (the others in the skies)
And say 'Why me? Why am I singled out?'
'And Why do I invoke hystericy ?'
And so to say: madness is my weakness,
I try for strength in all I can control
And hope my weaknesses protected thus,
This, an experiment, which still could fail.
I haven't tried to tell you how it is
To be so mad that you need locking up:
Just thank the gods you have sufficient sense -
We have no common frame of reference.