bioneural.net » poetry

Hanging up the stethoscope

Bruce — Sat, 15 Dec 2007 11:56:35 +0000

The week just gone marked 15 years in medicine. Two of those years were spent in New Zealand, the rest in England, and the last 10 in general (family) practice. It also marked the end of my clinical career—I'm hanging up the stethoscope and starting down a new path. I don't yet know where that path begins, let alone where it leads. But it's something I have to do. Leaving clinical practice is not a rash decision; it was in fact made during Project Koru. I had wanted to re-train in public health, but my application to do so in New Zealand was rejected. For a variety of reasons re-training within the UK National Health Service holds little appeal. So I thought I could return to general practice for a time while I considered my options. Thus I returned to the despair, hopelessness, poverty, psychosomatic illness, the reek of stale sweat and urine in nursing homes, and of cigarette smoke that lingers in your clothes and hair. And I found that I just can't do it any more. Herewith I present an Ode to general practice: I don't want to stick my finger up any more bums; I've had my fill of free-range brats and control-less mums. A look at your tonsils and throat I ask; You cough in my face as I perform this task. Stop smoking and loose weight I hear myself say, But taking some responsibility is not your way. Your job/ lover/ mother is making you ill; Nothing I can fix with patience or pill. The poverty ...

Benevolent circle

Bruce — Tue, 21 Nov 2006 09:40:06 +0000

From http://www.bioneural.net :

This is a short and rather cryptic piece about devotion to duty and the introspective self-doubting thoughts it sometimes brings, and the anticipated healing power of friends. It isn't dated, but I'm guessing that I wrote it during my rather traumatic internship as a House Surgeon in Whangarei. Nowadays I don't usually resort to poetry when I can't sleep, but my sleep is still periodically disturbed by the same negative thinking—thinking that can resist even the wise words of a very good friend. The soundlessness of silence grows upon the evening. Sleep is defiant, as a dream not remembered. So trapped in its cage of self-reflection, The spirit cries out, a sigh drowned by the wind. Oh where is my Benevolent Circle? Thoughts turn inward in times of fragility, In the solitude of duty, And now, in sleeplessness. Thoughts dark as a shadow cast by night, To which the Benevolent bring illumination. The time will come, as time must, When the bonded spirit finds peace. For such a comfort is the warmth of a friend, In a cosmos so vast, cold, and indifferent. And the Circle will complete, as a circle must.

Excerpt from Buddhist literature

Bruce — Thu, 13 May 2004 16:25:24 +0000

From http://www.bioneural.net :

I don't know who wrote this, but they are fine words. Can you identify the author so I can properly attribute them? In referring to the religious devotion of the author, this prose succinctly captures his or her wonder at the beauty of Creation (or, if you prefer, the environment on the third planet from the Sun). It shows an appreciation for the physical world around us, and demonstrates how this appreciation can be enhanced by giving it a spiritual context. You don't need to be religious to be spiritual: prophet and scientist alike may draw inspiration from these words. My footsteps I know you hear night and day. Your pleasure Blooms in the purple of autumn's dawn, Sparkles in the springtime shower of blossoms. The nearer I come to you on your path, The livelier dances the sea. Like lotus-petals my life unfolds From birth to birth, And your crowding suns and stars Circle men in wonder. The blossom of the world woven of light Fills your offering hands, And your shy heaven Unfolds its love, Petal by petal, In my sky.

Experience is unique

Bruce — Sun, 11 Apr 2004 07:16:57 +0000

From http://www.bioneural.net :

Akka Mahadevi was an Indian poet living in the 1100s. Although here she is writing about non-devotees, there is also a message about the uniqueness and strength of perception derived from experience. If you haven't done it, you haven't lived it. If you weren't there, you didn't really experience it. Value the diversity in perspective that others bring to a situation... Would a circling surface vulture know such depths of sky as the moon would know? Would a weed in the riverbank know such depths of water as the lotus would know? Would a fly darting nearby know the smell of flowers as the bee would know? Bee on a rata flower (a New Zealand native) Extract from: Ramanujan AK (translator). Speaking of Siva. Harmondsworth: Penguin; 1973: 123.

Papa and His children

Bruce — Wed, 31 Mar 2004 08:35:16 +0000

From http://www.bioneural.net :

I was at high school in the mid-80's when I wrote this short poem reflecting a level of anxiety about the threat of nuclear war... Papa had many children. He let his children play with fire. They put fire in the sky, And it singed his eyebrows off. Any family has it's fights; His children fought often. Some of them built powerful eggs. When they hatched, Papa saw the birth of a thousand suns. His children had gone. He didn't weep. They were bad children; He was glad they had gone.

Summer of study

Bruce — Sun, 28 Mar 2004 08:46:51 +0000

From http://www.bioneural.net :

During the summer of 1992 I was in my last year at medical school, studying for Finals—the exams to end all exams (well, for a couple of years anyway). My diary recollects an attempt to escape the physical bonds of chair and desk through poetry... Class of '92 (Otago Medical School, Dunedin NZ) I hated study. Gravity seemed to tug endlessly, pulling my weight into the hard chair and starving my backside of oxygen causing pain so I SHIFT and SHIFT and SHIFT, never comfortable. I would be hot and bothered, unshaven, with a dripping nose and hair unbrushed. There was never enough time in a day and never restful sleep at night. It felt so unhealthy. A pale slave to learning, outside those more fortunate would be enjoying the onset of summer.... Shimmering in the warm light of the Day Star Beneath airs of remarkable tonic, Are emerald waters of liquid jewel. Serene is the lapping of waves against Dazzling white sands that Crunch softly underfoot; A comfortable heat soothing sole and soul. Ones' moisture is distilled to a summer wine That presides briefly upon the brow, Only to be milked by the rising airs And carried away by the gentlest of breezes.

The inspiration of Kahlil Gibran

Bruce — Thu, 05 Feb 2004 07:35:04 +0000

From http://www.bioneural.net :

If you ever feel the need to take a moment to reflect on the goings-on in life, look to Kahlil Gibran for inspiration. First published in 1926, a paperback edition of this philosopher-poet's The Prophet has accompanied me since 1989. I heartily recommend it as an aid to reflection, and share here a few choice extracts... On Death: For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and melt into the sun? And what is it to cease breathing but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered? For Opa, d. 2 February 2004 aged 96. On Marriage: Love one another, but make not a bond of love: Let it be rather a moving sea between the shores of your souls. Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup. Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf. Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone, Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music. For my wife, with whom the sum is indeed greater than its parts. On Joy and Sorrow: When you are sorrowful, look again into your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight. For my parting colleagues as we come to terms with change. All extracts from Gibran K. The Prophet. London: William Heinemann; 1980.