Treasure Island

Fred Babbin

(1925 / Chicago)

Artistic Syndrome

Poetry – this madness
This feeling-thought
that looks like thought
that holds my brain
and makes me forget.

This cocaine
I must inject
Into my veins
to feel alive.
I must run-write,
I cannot stop.
I cannot stop.

Submitted: Friday, July 11, 2008
Edited: Sunday, January 03, 2010

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Comments about this poem (Artistic Syndrome by Fred Babbin )

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  • Wandering Scarlet (4/6/2010 11:05:00 PM)

    as Freud once called cocaine 'the miracle drug' i agree the artistic syndrome does indeed work miracles (Report) Reply

  • Vanessa Cabrera (3/27/2010 9:58:00 PM)

    Its a very nice poem. Artistic perhaps its a syndrome but its not being addicted of writing your poems or anything. It's just how you show your self or being you your passion and fashion. (Report) Reply

  • Wandering Scarlet (1/1/2010 6:46:00 PM)

    Haha i laugh because i see and understand just what you mean by the heroin, I was once addicted (not to heroin) . (Report) Reply

  • Christine Austin Cole (7/20/2008 11:08:00 AM)

    Poet themselves are, I think, mad by definition (in a most wonderful way, I mean) . Poetry itself, then, is perhaps the one viable, generally acceptable, outwardly obvious expression of the condition – especially given today’s predominate absence of eccentric garb, passionate oration and the like. To embed one’s self into words, to set it on the page, is to introduce order, to process, to experience most fully the thought/emotions that are rampant within. It is both a necessity and a drug, I’d agree. There is a reason, I believe, that they say poets “suffer” writer’s block – a poet without words enough knows a pain, ironically really, that simply cannot be fully described.

    (Right / Write) on, my good sir.

    Begging your forgiveness for the rambling (a habit, I’m afraid) ,
    Christine (Report) Reply

  • Dr. Kolitha Lelwala (7/18/2008 7:29:00 AM)

    Wonderful Poem Fred, I came to this page having read your comment on Joan's poem, loneliness. Anyway, having stayed long in captivity of poetry you may have comment on this poem, kindly comment on this


    A good pem Fred, I came to your poems having read your comment on Joan's poem. you may like this poem, comment on it.


    Autumn leaves float
    in the morning breeze
    giving percussions to
    chirping birds.
    Cotton wool flies in the fog
    blending with the mist

    There you see a lad
    corner in the down town
    with torn linen
    seated knees flexed
    head resting on knees

    Virgin rays brings warmth
    yet being destroyed
    By winter breeze
    The chest wall has no move
    ventricles in asystole
    skin has run dry
    tears freeze corner of eyes.

    The wind blown from the history
    Brought him to the future.
    It would be delightful departure
    goodbye to the 'life'. (Report) Reply

  • Not a member No 6 (7/13/2008 3:34:00 PM)

    It generates a momentum all of its own Fred, and drives us into a fine frenzied circle of need and thrill, and you've hit the nail on the head very concisely. But now you're coming down from the high and it won't be long before the urge builds again to the point where resistance is futile, and write again you must, you must! jim (Report) Reply

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