This poem by Charles Olson so clearly captures my lost years, when poetry and I were strangers. The dose for bi-polar stole the lightning from my mind where poetry is born and I walked among the the dead of spirit.
La Chute
my drum, hollowed out thru the thin slit,
carved from the cedar wood, the base I took
when the tree was felled
o my lute, wrought from the tree’s crown
my drum, whose lustiness
was not to be resisted
my lute,
from whose pulsations
not one could turn away
They
are where the dead are, my drum fell
where the dead are, who
will bring it up, my lute
who will bring it up where it fell in the face of them
where they are, where my lute and drum have fallen?
— Charles Olson
Well Bottom Blues 
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