Tuesday, August 25, 2015

Schizo-Poetry Fragments of the Mind by Susanne Wawra and Kevin Nolan

Susanne Wawra and Kevin Nolan, two poets residing in Dublin, Ireland, created a collaborative work based on images brought forth by color—15 colors total. The first poem in each set is by Wawra, the second by Nolan. Their poems are rich with imagery, sensuality, memory, and philosophy. Self-published by www.eprint.ie in Dublin, Ireland I am surprised that a publisher didn’t pick them up. The work is imaginative, thoughtful, and worth reading over and over again. Below I am happy to share some samples and I urge you to support these poets and their future:

(bright yellow)

A colourable moon perspires down
on a foreign country.

A road surrounds an Anglican church –
the door swings open and a distant high pitched sound gets higher.

The air is wet with Ave Marias, a solitary singer searchingly fingers her
soul and moans low while city foxes dash by dizzy and wild-eyed with
questioning snouts.

Sitting near on footpath
are two people, in love, smiling at each other, knowing each other

In one beats a heart:
its drawers swing open and shut in slow motion, catch imaginary
snowflakes, which melt and leak down to collect in the swells of her eyes
opening like butterflies.

The other’s heart
is wet with vitality, desperate in its countenance
opening and reaching out to her like a legousia flower to the heat of
flavescent moonlight.

By Nolan

The first two lines alone are captivating. Who on Earth wouldn’t want to dive into this poem after reading the opening lines? Along with “The air is wet with Ave Marias,” lending a magical quality to the scene that further unfolds of two lovers sharing an emotional intimacy with each other. Nolan romances us equally as well as the lovers romance each other.

(gray blue)

I hesitate, a breeze beats my back
As if to push me, I start walking in
The crisp cold water swallows my
Feet, knees, thighs, my breath

Hardens. I stand and wait for the
Waves to invite me in, they come
At me – hit, foam, draw back an
Then again. I inhale and advance

Until my heart reaches sea level
It pounds against the wall, throws
Itself towards the new encounter
Entering a dance to its intriguing

Rhythm. I spread my arms and feel
the resistance, I move them back
And forth, the water runs through
My outspread fingers, I shiver.

I give myself to the sea, plunge deep
Into the cleansing blue, grey, green
We embrace each other, we become
Lovers, unified. I am the wave, the

Push, the take. For once, I feel whole,
Complete. I surface, shake, then turn
Around and walk back to the beach
Seasoned with salt, bliss, intensity.

By Wawra

This poem is sensual, enigmatic. The reader can place themselves into the writer’s shoes and feel the waves and be renewed by nature’s envelopment. I live within driving distance of the ocean and it can be therapeutic to wade out into the waves, especially in the early hours of the morning when there are very few, if any, other people around. This poem reminds me of the importance of immersing oneself in Nature, I hope it inspires you to get outdoors as it does for me.


She is dressed in black, a heavy cloak
of darkness mantled on her shoulders.
As she enters the room slowly but
With fortitude, the lightbulbs explode.
A thick blackness immediately fills
The space, it seeps into every corner
Of our being, we become the night.

She speaks of wrong and death and
Hate with a voice that catapults our
Synapses into a warping war of words.
We start spinning, swirl, twist around
Each other till we manifest into a knot.
The sounds echo down our spines,
Vibrate viciously, we are left shaking.

She moves closer, her breath so cold
It clenches our hearts, grips our guts.
A pulsating pain possesses our bodies,
Beats in every cell. A weight pushes
As if to crush us, holding the pressure
To demonstrate its power. The attack
Blows our defence, we are weakened.

She enters our being, spreading her
Poisonous black, detracting all colour,
All light, all life. She empties our very
Inside, only rawness, hurt and despair
Remain. We are shapeless on the
Sharp boards of the floor, surrender.
The ruins moan but we will rise again.

By Wawra

This poem strikes me personally. There is always someone in life that seems to suck the life out of the room when they enter—whether they realize that about themselves or not. This poem is deep, dark, and I wonder who the poet is speaking of, if there is anyone in her life that causes her to truly feel this way. The woman who spreads the darkness in this poem is powerful, so powerful in her negative words and actions that she leaves her victims writhing inside and out. I am thankful for the ending line “the ruins moan but we will rise again,” lending hope that the victims will overcome this poisonous person, just as we all strive to overcome the poisonous people in our own lives.


The moonshine sits on the waves
Making their way to the flat beach.
As they are rolling in, it dances
Across the waterlines. Upon their
Breaking, the white foam thunders.

All colour has been washed away,
All is condensed in shades of grey.
The night simplifies my view, eases
My mood and sharpens by senses.
It talks to me, tells it like it is, makes

No apologies. I can see clearer now,
I listen and understand. The wisdom
of the sea opens up and lets me in.
Everything makes perfect sense,
The answers are right there, I am

Ecstatic. Without looking I have
Found it or it may have found me.
But as the sun pushes herself up
It disappears, I am overwhelmed,
Swallowed by a tsunami of colour.

By Wawra

The poet ties nature into its restorative abilities here again. Quiet contemplation and observation greet us, seeing the world in “black and white” before daylight spreads to obscure the simplicity. It is a beautiful poem and I’m happy to share it with you.


Somewhere in a dark room
mists are mistaken
for spiders’ webs
softly sifting through the air
in beautiful motion, like
those seahorses
lovingly negotiating, the pull
and trusting language of the sea:
its deep shifting tides

a grimy underpaid
emigrant boy is printing yet
another copy of Finnegan’s

He’s never read a word
for his language
and the language of Joyce
are very different.

On a break he exhausts
a cigarette
and traces the image
of the words
as if reading braille

while back in the room
the wings of a gallivanting blue-bottle
surreptitiously kiss,
into a drifting web.

By Nolan

This poem captures a scene that upon observation may seem serene but hints at something darker. An emigrant worker trying to make his way, unfamiliar with the language and the world he has placed himself in, just as the blue-bottle drifts unsuspectingly into the dangerous web. This is another poem that strikes me personally, having moved several times in my life and having to learn the language, customs, lingo of other locations, even within the United States Midwest versus living on the Mexican Border in Texas. The world is mysterious and full of secrets, just like the ocean and its shifting tides in the poem above. A beautiful poem layered with meaning, it gives us pause to linger over Nolan’s words.

I hope you enjoyed these samples of Schizo-Poetry by Susanne Wawra and Kevin Nolan as much as I do. You may purchase a copy of their book for 10 Euros + 2 Euros shipping and handling if you reside outside of Dublin, or 10 Euros + 1 Euro within Dublin at:

Thanks always for reading, please drop by again soon…