Poem

 

The eminent psychologist Carl Gustav Jung

when he was thirty-eight years of age

went Bananas

just temporarily

He talked to himself — ranting and raving

and played in his garden like a little boy
 
During the three years or so that he was bonkers

Dr. Jung wrote a weird little book

he said was dictated to him by

a wise, winged old man in his head

The book was about emptiness and fullness

about the devil and God and being human
  
Like I say, it’s a weird little book

but there’s this one part of it I’ll mention

because it fits well in my mind with

a painting my friend made and showed me

The painting, which is called ‘Molt’, is of an owl that died —

all whirring white and purple, drooping brown and blue
  
So the passage from Carl Jung’s crazy book

goes, “The daemon of spirituality

descendeth into our soul as the white bird…

the white bird… bideth with the mother”

(The word ‘daemon’ sounds bad, but can mean

‘divine power’ or ‘guardian spirit’ too)
  
Looking at this wild painting ‘Molt’ — which is

what birds do to make room for a new growth

of feathers, I’m thinking of Jung, who went on

to famously influence our science of the mind

It’s as though he had to go good and mad himself

to get to where he could help us all stay sane

 

[E. Uttley, November 2009]