Mind, Id, Ego, Psyche

The art or science of psychology is a closed book to me.

I try to stay away from excess mental confusion. It can lead to personal disaster. This does not mean mental confusion stays away from me.
I suspect this is, in part, because my favourite poet is John Clare. He went insane and died in the Northampton Madhouse.
Victims are always at risk of being harmed with no visible scars.
We may be a little more understanding today. Well maybe…
I was asked to share a site focussed on mental health so this is it:


Mind Undermined

So joyous was the heart sometime.
Maybe it was going mad,
Where life immerses all in slime,
Then the happy will turn sad

And hearts at ease become all tense
And all things seem so inane,
So, take care with things that make sense;
They could prove that you’re insane.

And through all of this delusion,
Glinting from deceitful dreams.
Nothing may come to conclusion,
Ah, nothing’s as it seems.

The senses never do tell true,
Lies are fed unto the brain.
Then hear the call of that cuckoo
In the Winter on the plain.

So sad now is the heart all day.
So happy are the mad!
For Death it has a shining ray
And no corpses can be sad.

Id Marred

Rotting carcass not yet dead,
Shadow of a former thing.
Let foul lies not go unsaid
Hateful life – this is your sting!

Dwindling to demented age,
Rage all spent upon self-hate.
Each old fool was once a sage;
Death like old Time is running late!

Hanging on to some cheap life.
Clinging to the sin of Hope.
Aching from the wounds of strife,
There’s no point now when you cope.

Ranting at an empty space,
Wrath against imagined wrong.
Life deprives the soul of Grace,
Let’s all join a sing-a-long.

In the eyes a monster lies
Deep in there, what can be hid?
Hark, the howling creature cries;
It’s the monster of the Id!

Ego Stained

Here and there and roundabout,
Through the spirals of the brain,
Dwells a constancy called “Doubt”;
Everywhere it leaves a stain.

Judgements are so easy done
Those adjudged then cast aside.
Who has lost and who has won?
Victory goes to idle Pride!

Into the mire some are tossed,
Just because of who they are.
And maybe they are all now lost;
Lest they have a lucky star.

Shadows passed along the wall
Wraiths that once were living too.
Souls of those been made to fall,
In great wrongs there’s nothing new.

There and here about around,
Through the torments of the stained.
Muted, they now make no sound,
Drift the souls of those so pained.

Psyche Maimed

In recesses of the mind,
In the deep sleep of the night,
Dreams may come that are unkind,
Give the soul a dreadful fright.

Visions of a long gone wrong,
Phantoms of those gone and dead.
Then the soul is borne along,
Dreadful things in dreams are said.

Those who died that you could live
Speak all kindly now to thee.
Who can cope when they forgive;
Forgiveness never leaves you free.

There’s a debt can’t be repaid
Where the creditor is dead.
When the final act is played,
Your soul is safe – for it has fled.

In recesses of the soul,
In that sleep that’s known as Death,
Then perhaps things may be whole,
There beyond the final breath.

©Trevor Morgan, 1995, revised 16 January 2018


Hidden Feelings

I went to a funeral a few years ago.
The widower still lives nearby. He seems to shun company and walks a lot. I was thinking about him when this came to me.
There are a lot of old people left alone in their loneliness. There is much sadness about in society.

Hidden Feelings

The coffin was heaved on the shoulders
And they shuffled mock-solemnly on;
And he thought of the lady he loved,
Of her spirit departed and gone.

In side he cried with despair,
But the face that he wore was a mask.
His feeling he just could not share
And his duty was up to the task.

Black shoes shuffled out to the hearse
The coffin slip gently inside.
In side him he raged and he cursed,
But his feelings he knew how to hide.

The face that he wore was a mask,
True feelings he could never show.
Yes, his duty was up to the task.
But despair that he felt was to grow.

A year to the day he was found.
An old man devoid of all hope;
For no one had rallied around,
So lonely, he just could not cope.

© Trevor Morgan 15 January 2015

The Lee Shore

In the age of sail the greatest danger was not an enemy.

The gentle lapping waters of Lyme Regis Bay hold a secret. On the sea floor there are more wrecks than in most other parts of the seas. The Bay faces south west and the prevailing winds are from south west. In stormy seas this is a lethal combination.

The Lee Shore

They fought the wind, they fought the tide,
They fought the raging sea.
No matter though how hard they tried,
Those rocks stayed to the lee.

And lee shores are the curse of all
Who sail upon the sea.
For you don’t need the sirens call
With rocks close to the lee.

The wind and tide will kill you there,
Though you may tack up wind.
And drowning takes away all care;
Even when you’ve not sinned.

There’s no discerning in a gale,
The wind, the rain, the tide.
Exhaustion leaves you cold and pale
And there’s no where to hide.

The rocks they welcome each ships hull
And puncture it right through,
And they may fracture many a skull,
As lee shores welcome you.

So, fight the wind, and fight the tide;
Try tacking from the shore.
Lyme Regis bay is not that wide,
Where corpses wash ashore.

There many a widow has been made
Of wives of men at sea,
They plied the sea on honest trade,
Near shores there to the lee.

© T Morgan 10 January 2017

The Stag in flight

This was written as a part of a long narrative.
But it can stand alone.
I have no problem with the cull carried out by competent marksman as there are no longer large predators to keep populations in balance.
I loath the nasty practices of hunting and killing wild beasts just for the thrill of it. Living close to Exmoor I meet those who can justify these acts. They tend to get a bit sniffy when they find themselves hounded by hunt saboteurs. Strange that, the saboteurs are on the hunt as well!


The stag in flight

“A stag stood on the Polden Hills
And snorted at the East.
The sunrise there would bring no thrills,
When would this hounding cease?

He’d run for most of yesterday,,
His lungs had seemed to burn
And now here with the break of day
Would that mad pack return?

Those slavering hounds he had outrun,
His legs were cut and torn.
Hope does not come with rising sun;
He heard a huntsman’s horn.

He snorted at the break of day,
Got up and loped along.
He felt that he could get away
And now he felt quite strong..

Those hounds were tearing up a hind
The stag did not know that
And soon he left the hunt behind:
The land was low and flat”

From “The Tale of Alfred and Gudrum”

Copyright 2004

Moths Flutter

Poetry in its use of rhythm, alliteration and rhyme and the art of the pause, was initially an aid to memory before literacy was widespread.  Content is also an aid but only if it lights a spark.  It is easy to memorise a rude or funny song lyric.
Modern, so called poetry, just does not get this. So-called free verse to me is not verse at all; it is prose. Some of it may be quite nice prose, but to call it poetry is to usurp the art form.
I no longer go to poetry groups. I do not want an explanation of a poem before it is spoken nor an analysis after. That is pretention. The work must speak for itself.
The earliest verses we know of tended to be narratives or prayers to deities. Later we get comedy and comedy can be hard. Yes comic verses and song lyrics are a very serious business. This I find so hard with my butterfly brain.


Moths Flutter

Moths flutter up to the light
And flames may cause their doom.
One night a moth went to such height
And fluttered to the moon.

It flitted all about the place,
It fluttered round about,
It landed on the moon man’s face;
You should have heard him shout!

“Oh, you gave me such a scare
Landing on my nose.
Pray, what were you doing there?”
But no moth ever knows.

Light seems to seep into their souls,
It causes them to yearn.
And they will leave their grassy knolls
And many of them burn.

Hypnotic light attracts them so,
They journey to its source.
That’s why the moon moth had to go.
Now could I fib? – of course!

© Trevor Morgan 2018

Bloody Robin Redbreast

The European Robin (Erithacus rubecula) is a pretty garden bird that is easily enticed to feed from your hand. It is to many their favourite garden bird. This is not so to me. It has been estimated that 10% of deaths of male Robins is as a result of killings by other males in territorial disputes. These birds are aggressive murderers. But, they look nice so we put pictures of them on our Christmas cards to celebrate the birth of the Prince of Peace.
So if you find a dead Robin and ask the question:  “Who killed Cock Robin?”  You can be fairly sure the answer is:  “another Cock Robin”!

(It’s an old saying that there is no tree big enough for two Robins)


 Bloody Robin Redbreast

Little Robin red breast
Who did you kill today?
Oh, another Robin Red Breast,
Well, what more can I say.

So, did he sing too sweet,
Or come near to your tree?
Or did you think it really neat,
Or did he fail to flee?

This dead Robin red breast
Did he not go away?
Did he not know you were the best?
So, did you make him pay?

Did you tackle him up front,
Or sneak up from behind?
For, you see, to be quite blunt:
You’re nasty, are – your kind!

Little Robin red breast
Maybe you’ll die today,
When another Robin Red Breast
Will seek to have his way.

You may sing too sweet,
Or sit in the wrong tree.
And he may think it really neat
To have a killing spree.

That other Robin red breast
Will then have had his way,
And he will know he is the best:
At least for one more day!

© Trevor Morgan, 2018

Blackthorn Blossoms

Change is not by definition disaster!
Things move on in new ways.
In the months to come we will see our hedgerows covered with blossom as Spring emerges.

Blackthorn Blossoms

The blackthorn is flowering
Its blossoms are white
The petals are showering
They bring such delight

The paths and the roadsides
Are confettied in white
But nothing abides
All passes from sight

The hedges go green
When the blossoms are gone
But they’re verdant and sheen
So, let’s not feel wan

© Trevor Morgan 16 May 2017

Winds of Change

Adaptability is crucial in times of change
We are now living in such times

Winds of Change

“Whirling and swirling in patterns so strange,
The dust out of doors is dancing about.
This is not the same as strange winds of change
That make things once certain now feel full of doubt.
The future’s scarce like such swirling’s of dust,
For it’s in no way as easy to see.
Yet each in their time must do as they must.
This now it seems is the way things ought be,
Who is secure then when old realms decline?
When problems abound and times become hard
Beneath the dark cloud who sees the sun shine?
Like dust and like dirt outside in the yard,
Now, oft times we see such swirling’s of hate
When fleet winds of change are beckoned by Fate.”

From: “The Children of Gewis”

Brutality of War

Wilfred Owen said he wanted to write of the “Pity of War”.   He did that so well. I saw things through different eyes in a different time and in beautiful and far away places. With the backdrop of forests, mangroves and the tropical seas things seemed more contrasting to me.  The stink of phosphorous within the exotic ecology of  North Borneo seemed so brutal.


He still sees the glint of sunlight

Those two men were clear on the height,
I noted their slow stooping run,
Through the sun’s glint on the fore sight
Quite calmly I aimed the bren gun.

I felt the recoil in my shoulder,
Heard metal sounds of the spent rounds,
Chill gripped my soul and grew colder.
My conscience screamed like baying hounds.

The men jerked up static and stiff,
Each grunted a guttural sound,
There came an end to this mischief
As folding they slumped to the ground.

I still see the glint of sunlight,,
There on the fore sight of the gun
But an evil can’t be put right:
“Oh My God – Just what have I done!”


Aftermath of Action

Sweet sickly smelled the killing scene
Where so much rich red blood congealed.
The scene seemed intimate, serene,
As if some sacred scroll was sealed!

Until all of their blood had chilled
He stood in shock and shook with grief;
As violently as they’d been killed
This aftermath brought no relief.

There was there now a strange bond sealed
‘tween soldier and his victim
And his stained soul would hold concealed
How killing them had altered him.

For really, he could not see why
All these young men just had to die.


Tauau Bay, Sabah, 1963

Tracer tracks and the stinking smell of smoke,
For it was there faith sank without a splash
As hope ebbed slowly in the stink and choke
To the sounds of fire and the distant flash.
Then charity failed and it had to go
As landing craft ran round into the bay;
Helicopters whirled down and flew in low,
The action was fought out on that fine day,
With pressure on triggers so gently squeezed
Until the gun recoils against your grip.
Death in a vicious spitting hail’s unleashed.
This with the flashes from a distant ship
And with the whine of shells erupting fire
There came the news stories written by a liar


From: “Saga of Sabah”, 2002

Lords and Ladies (Arum maculatum or cuckoo pint)

Lords and Ladies (Arum maculatum or cuckoo pint)

The “lords and ladies” grew deep in the shade
Then bore red berries hid quite out of sight
It did not grow within a sunlit glade
And shunned the Sun’s direct and brilliant light
For not all will partake of bold display
Nor choose to live high up above the rest
There’s safety when you hide yourself away
Through solitude it seems some may be blest
But should a mighty oak collapse and fall
A shady place may face the Sun’s full glare
Poor arums then have not the wherewithal
Existence then it is not worth a prayer
New oaks may grow and cast a cool new shade
But care not for the dead, now all decayed