ANNE'S BOOK OF COMMON PRAYER

18 3 2010

Beyond the bedroom windows were rooftops strung with wires
purple cloud-maps buoyed up in a hot pink radiance,
in the living room below me were my family,
noises boiling up the stairs, the sunset
behind the roofs and wires was vividly immediate.
I stared at it I held the madness in
with a terrible effort, I exercised iron self control
my brain was a total internally introspective thing,
I didn't some and I was silent, staring.
If my absorption broke I'd burst in smithereens
spout dreadful gouts of stinking blood I would go horribly mad.

The locum doctor disapproved of my self diagnosis,
was frozen faced at my frightened tears. I told her what the matter was,
she squatted on the hospital admission I needed like a toad
cold, wet-skinned and unmoved, blinking, watchful of my weaknesss
her power made her hostile, she was determined not to yield an inch.
What friend could I tell? The media makes madness terrifyingly sensational
with a fiery Gothic winged mythology, it sells papers, sells TV.
It didn't scare the doctor who finally admitted me, he was compassionate,
he telephoned and urged, and overcame, the dilatory,
had grasped it was an emergency and he secured help for me:
still thrillers, TV and Hollywood accuse the mad of unspeakable crimes,

the wicked get rich and flourish like the green bay tree.