Doctor pens CBS poem

The Foundation previously shared the piece Phantoms by Australian poet, David Rowbotham, which appeared to speak directly to the CBS experience. We continue the poetry theme with a recent offering from Canadian doctor, Harald Gjerde, who is nearing the completion of his formal training in ophthalmology. If Dr. Gjerde’s poem is any indication, then it might just signal that the new wave of eye specialists will be well-versed in CBS and ensure the syndrome is given coverage during the patient’s eye consultation. 

With the kind permission of the author and the Canadian Medical Association (who originally published this work), Dr. Gjerde’s poem is presented below. Alternatively, if you would prefer to hear an audio description of the poem read by the author himself, please click here.   

 

Le fou Bonnet  by Dr. Harald Gjerde

 

I know they’re not real, what I’m seeing.

But they look real.

Nobody believes me;

They think I’m crazy — “le fou” they secretly call me,

Just because I see things they don’t.

Now I’m in this hospital … this institution.

 

They say I have les cataractes

And that I’m blind.

I beg to differ —

I see many things scattered about in this room.

How can my eyes not be working

If I can still see?!

Let me show you the world through my eyes,

And you be the judge.

 

When the candles get lit,

I see a bright scatter, a flash.

The flicker from the flames makes the world move

And lights up a tapestry on the wall.

The colours that paint the rolling hills of Bretagne,

So vivid, so green.

When I ask the nurses about it,

They say there is no tapestry, just a white wall.

They keep pushing medications on me.

I believe them, since no one seems to see it.

Mais, mon Dieu! — It looks so real!

 

 

I get taken outside for some fresh air,

And it is extremely busy:

Horses and carriages transporting goods and people,

The mud kicking up behind,

With emaciated, stray dogs roaming the roads.

I can see the beads of sweat on the merchants,

And practically reach out and pet the strays …

 

The hospital workers do not take notice.

Their pace is much slower than the commotion.

They must either truly not care,

Or the horses, carriages, dogs do not actually exist.

Their profession precludes the first —

I must be wrong then.

 

In my old age, I’m not crazy,

But the line between réalité and imagination blurs.

Red birds, yellow birds, brown birds;

I see them inside, flying and chirping,

Yet birds don’t live in hospitals.

 

The gentle, grassy hills are around me

With a small village in the distance,

Not unlike the tapestry on the wall;

Only there is a family of rabbits now racing across.

Clearly not a hospital.

Occasionally, sa Majesté le roi Louis XV comes to visit;

Except I know ce n’est pas sa Majesté

Because his face looks drawn in

With ink from a swan’s quill.

I cannot read the newspaper anymore,

But I can count the jewels on his crown while he’s here.

In this hospital room.

 

“Bonjour!”

A figure comes into my view.

I can tell it’s my nurse. She’s smiling.

A bird — a small sparrow, it looks like —

Is yelling obscenities from her shoulder.

The nurse is obviously oblivious.

Hilarious.

 

“Temps pour vos médicaments, Monsieur Bonnet.”

Alas, they still think I’m crazy.

 

 

NOTE:

 

le fou                                                                                           the fool; crazy

Bretagne                                                                                     Brittany, the northwestern province in France

Mais, mon Dieu!                                                                         But, my God!

sa Majesté le roi Louis XV                                                        His Majesty King Louis XV

ce n’est pas sa Majesté                                                             it is not His Majesty

Temps pour vos medicaments, Monsieur Bonnet                 Time for your medications, Mr. Bonnet