When origami
used to be mentioned, like many others, I would think of paper cranes,
butterflies and fish. However, these ‘first-to-mind’ associations changed a few
years ago after reading Don Paterson’s Rain. Now, when origami is mentioned, I think of a
single poem from that collection: a blank poem consisting of just a title (‘Unfold’)
and a name (Akira Yoshizawa). The poem is in memoriam and once the reader discovers
that Yoshizawa was considered to be the grandmaster of origami, this poem,
which initially seems to say nothing, takes on a very different meaning…
Yoshizawa once
said “When you fold, the ritual and the act of creation is more important than
the final result. When your hands are busy your heart is serene.”
Such sentiments
have woven their way into therapeutic practices; Occupational Therapy (OT)
exists within most psychiatric hospitals – or did before Cameron began his
destructive reign – not because clay ashtrays will cure mental health issues,
but rather the process of making may offer an hour of distraction.
Ideally, inpatient
services would offer more than clay-shaping and paper-folding – talking therapies
that give the chance of real change – but, in rundown wards where daytime ‘routines’
centre around the blurred chatter of the television, money becomes the reason
for why more isn’t offered. So, for the moment at least, all we can hope is
that OT remains in our hospitals, giving brief relief, until the government
realises that those with mental health issues deserve more – that their lives
are worth more than the subsequent costs.
* * *
To bring this post
back to poetry I’d like to share a poem with you from The Naked Physician: Poems about the Lives of Patients and Doctors (Quarry
Press) and reproduced on The British Journal of Psychiatry’s website.
Origami – Poems
by doctors
(Arthur Clark)
At
first, a long time ago,
there
were only the folds of your armpits
and
your buttocks and groin and eyes,
then
the folds of the palms
whereby
Madame Ricardo purported to know your future.
Much
later came two folds on the forehead.
The
folds at the eyes extended,
the
ones between the nose and lip grew deep.
More
folding. Vertical folds crossed the horizontal,
summers
folded onto autumns, and the year
was
folded by year and put on year away.
Vast
sorrows were folded onto minor triumphs,
tucked
under the slip of memory and lost.
Then
I began to see the process,
in
long shadows, by altered evening light,
as
a process, and how each folding
brings
you closer to perfection of the finished piece.
Thank you for reading,
Lara
Lara