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Rosemarie Rowley (1942-)

The Puzzle Factory


1.        Admission

i.

              1I want to see someone holy, to confess
              2The nature of my soul, free with grace
              3The prisoner of my conscience, to bless
              4My heart and mind, mend my spirit, trace
              5In my confusion a sanctity. Can you address
              6This, say I’m sending for one, place
              7And time to be chosen. Nurse, lest I digress
              8From the disorderly matrix of my case
              9With words, I now ask you to impress
            10It in your diary. I am out to pace
            11The healing of my heart. You say bad cess
            12To me, my illness is the token of a race
            13Gone to extinction, burned out without will.
            14Someone will come when I have had my pill.

ii

            15The priest will come when you have had your pill:
            16Please sit down or you’ll disturb the sick
            17Creatures in my care. You are very ill.
            18This asking for a priest is just a trick
            19To waste our professional time, kill
            20With constant wearing down, incessant pinprick
            21Our repertoire of compassionate nursing skill.
            22The pill is good for you, just take a lick
            23The candy coating’s nice. You’re very ill.
            24He’ll come for sure when you have had your pill.
            25Your eyes are bulging. I told you you were sick.
            26Come here, you wretch, stop slinking out the door.
            27The priest will come. I told you so before.

iii

            28The priest will soon be here. Nurse said so before.
            29I can’t believe you’re getting any better.
            30Double dose, Nurse. And if you hear her roar
            31Kindly call. I’ve got the very fetter:
            32But of course we won’t use it. Give her more.
            33The pills really quieten them. The letter
            34From her GP I believe she tore—
            35Up—I think she was declared a debtor
            36To the bank. A hundred in the red, a score
            37Of unpaid bills. She’s no go-getter—
            38Hasn’t the gumption for the daily strife. Store
            39Her records in this file. Now we can net her
            40Give her ECT, a woman without a man
            41I’m tired of helping them out of life’s thrash-can.

iv

            42I’m tired of helping them out of life’s thrash can,
            43But a few electric shocks will sort her out.
            44So trusting, a permanent also ran,
            45A loser, a messer, there’s no doubt
            46Anxiety personified. I believe she ran
            47Through the ward in her night-dress. A scout
            48Saw her clawing at the window. At once a ban
            49Must be enforced on walking patients. Rout
            50Their needless guilt and crucifying unsan-
            51itary nightmares. They cause a drought
            52Of human sympathy. But then I’m no fan
            53Of unchecked impulses. And yet a pout
            54On her dial as I give her the injection.
            55I smile at her, to show her my protection.

v

            56We smile at them to show them our protection.
            57She’s safe now, in the stupour of the drug.
            58The ECT machine has passed inspection
            59It’s funny how it makes me feel a thug.
            60Shock wave, then convulsion and projection
            61Of limbs flying like a stranded bug.
            62Her mouth foams. I think its found in section
            63A of the manual. I don’t want to be smug,
            64It’s really harmless. But pitiful. Introspection
            65Punished here. They just need a hug.
            66But who will hug the face of life’s rejection
            67Especially now. The heartstrings’ tug
            68Is dead forever in the electric shock
            69She won’t remember love that science can mock

vi

            70You won’t remember love that science can mock.
            71Well, I’m your social worker. And I see
            72You’re still complaining about the electric shock.
            73I haven’t time to discuss loss of memory
            74You don’t need it, really. The lock
            75On your door is necessary. The ESB
            76Were on. The charge. This going into hock
            77With public bodies has got to stop. Have you VD?
            78Oh, good. There’s not a problem I can’t knock
            79Off in three minutes. And Science is free
            80To bare our secrets, systemise for good the Rock
            81Of Ages. Nothing, it is clear, can simply be.
            82There’s solution in sociology. Resistance
            83Is a Case Study, just needing persistence.

vii

            84I’m a case study, that just needs persistence.
            85I rock myself all day. The constant flight
            86From life’s troubles is my whole existence—
            87I am tempted to yield to my spirit’s blight
            88And remember little else. Your assistance
            89And ECT have burned my memory bright
            90With tears that can never be shed. The distance
            91In my eyes shows thread of the dark night
            92Where mystics have written of the soul. Co-existence
            93Of chemical pill and mystic insight cannot light
            94The lamp where my reason had subsistence:
            95Pills hold me in thrall to nothingness and waste
            96The sweet spring of my youth now has a bitter taste.

2: Experts

i.

            97He knew the under-sexed and over-privileged,
            98Was on to a good thing with hysteria:
            99Knew these maladies could be treated, wedged
          100In with a 19th century mendacity feria:
          101Days when a solitude of young women pledged
          102A secrecy to incestuous fathers who were weary
          103Of wives’ costly chilled ardours, hedged
          104Implicitly in a materialist world. Wisteria
          105And aspidistra were fecundity. Dredged
          106From the classical annals of outer Siberia
          107He made a new codex and creed, alleged
          108Incestual fantasy the norm. ‘Twould sear ya
          109But Freud couldn’t see Freud. He couldn’t see
          110Beyond his own sad childhood fantasy.

ii

          111Well beyond his own childhood fantasy
          112Jung sought for spiritual food, was rapt
          113In a mythic reconstruction of the memory,
          114Where race enriches the individual, sapped
          115By his failure to talk to God, to see
          116Where his life takes him past the untapped
          117Resources deep in his psyche. A mystery
          118Of a kind to rescue him where he is trapped
          119By the ordinary day’s demands. A pharmacy
          120Cannot store the elixir of life. Wrapped
          121Within the search, a person finds the key
          122Deep in his own unconscious, a mapped
          123Territory to Jung. We cannot blame
          124Religion or the meaning of the game.

iii

          125Religion or the meaning of the game
          126Skinner understood to do with rats.
          127People were like rats, exactly the same
          128Only tiresomely mad as bats.
          129Still, with a few electrodes, shame
          130Could be seen as extraneous, and pats
          131On the head an adverse stimulus, a tame
          132Physical reaction. So congrats.
          133To the nerve cells, to hurt or maim
          134Is merely a blind animal impulse, that’s
          135All. Love is a case, he claims,
          136Of stimulus and response. Pour that in your vats.
          137We’ll go on conditioned reflexes down to hell
          138Or up to heaven, depending on the bell.

iv (Reich)

          139Heaven doesn’t depend on the bell—
          140My discovery was the function of the orgasm.
          141No matter what sex is, just do it well
          142I sent whole populations into spasm.
          143When they saw my work was going to sell
          144They flung me into prison with enthusiasm.
          145They were certain I should be going to hell
          146For feeling was a kind of protoplasm:
          147Medical pros knew I shouldn’t excel
          148At this peculiar brand of iconoclasm.
          149The nasty and particular fate that befell
          150Me has opened up in medicine a chasm—
          151For the puerile info is, mind’s just a body-smith—
          152I’m proof of sanity, sensation’s zenith.

v (Szasz)

          153Proof of sanity, sensation’s zenith!
          154Some folk would rather have it that they’re crazy
          155My books set out madness as a myth—
          156Whatever is socially not aisy
          157I say power is the only monolith
          158The kernel of the matter. Being lazy
          159Is perceived generally as the kith
          160Of she devils, born of a hazy
          161Notion that witches were power-smith
          162For man, not Satan. It was quasi-
          163Religious views persecuted a fifth
          164Of women at one time—I’d say none were mad,
          165But the defiant, the unregenerate, and the bad.

vi (Fromm)

          166The defiant, the unregenerate and the bad
          167Were seen by me to be in a fix,
          168And at bottom, it really makes me sad.
          169I spend my life wondering how a person ticks
          170Who can’t love his family, and be glad
          171To be alive and kick against the pricks
          172As if he enjoyed it. Instead, we’ve labelled mad
          173All who can’t love, are hurt. The crucifix
          174Holds hearts in thrall that daren’t pad
          175With the cushion of affection, the onyx
          176Jewel of life. It doesn’t, sorry, add
          177Up to much. I mustn’t get prolix.
          178For as you know, my name is Eric Fromm
          179I’m un-ambitious, loving, and quite warm.

vii (Laing)

          180He’s un-ambitious, loving, and quite warm
          181I’m honest, poetic and Glaswegian;
          182I tend to see the truths that others scorn
          183That people just want to cry a squidgen
          184And mostly there are reasons for mind’s storm
          185Like himself below, their names are legion
          186But basically reflect what can transform
          187Love into hate, homely life into region
          188Of frosty intercourse; failure to conform
          189In grisly incommunicado. A Collegian
          190Scorning academic discipline, I perform
          191Wonders of healing. Without religion.
          192My name, I’m sure you’ve guessed, is R.D. Laing
          193To love mankind, I’m doing all I can.

3: Visitors

i

          194When they visit her I stay downstairs
          195Beside the office. What goes on upstairs
          196I can only guess at. I saw my mother
          197Here. And she looked far away. I was sure
          198She couldn’t possibly love me any more.
          199She held me close before the lift doors closed
          200And whispered “tomorrow” before I nose-
          201Dived away from her tears. It hurts me still
          202She didn’t say goodbye, but that the pill
          203Made her feel that things were going down-hill.
          204I thought she loved me, her one and only joy -
          205It’s plain to see I’m not at all a good boy.
          206She doesn’t care now if I’m bad or good:
          207The doctors say she’s doing what she should.

ii

          208The doctors say she’s doing all she should
          209I always thought she was a little queer;
          210And I, a friend, have done all that I could.
          211Why, once she even called me “my dear”
          212Another time, she told me I was ugly
          213Because I tried to snatch her little snuggly.
          214Even with her boyfriends, I was flirty
          215And she grew morose. I found her dirty
          216The Irish habit of never ever dusting
          217Of leaving everything till tomorrow, trusting
          218The dirt won’t show under the bed.
          219I guess the men knew they’d never wed
          220A slut like her. Literary pretension
          221Leaves in the married state a fierce dissension.

iii

          222Yes, in the married state there’s fierce dissension
          223I favoured her. Watched her declension
          224From mirthful girl tittering at the boys
          225To serious critic of their serious toys—
          226Motor cars, drink, sex and nightly snooker—
          227And going home they’d swear to seeing a Pooka.
          228Her aversion grew. She saw a paradigm
          229Between the world’s power games, and mine.
          230The penile appendage was another projectile
          231Not in essence different from a missile.
          232Phallocracy’s the centre of the matter—
          233We can’t say heart, for fear it would grow fatter—
          234Her thesis was, the male impulse to kill,
          235Which she’s now counteracting with a pill.

iv

          236She’s now counteracting with a pill
          237All I’ve ever done to make her ill—
          238My promises to love her were a pain
          239Which bled afresh like wounds, again,
          240Prised open with my inexact criticism
          241Which so often took the form of witticism.
          242I thought her aspirations smacked of vanity;
          243I mimicked her, made much inanity
          244Out of her wholesome hope. She cried
          245So often I thought our love had died—
          246But no, it had become a separation
          247Which became my malevolent inspiration—
          248It wouldn’t have mattered save I was her spouse
          249To whom she pledged and swore eternal vows.

v

          250He to whom she pledged and swore such vows
          251Was soon discarded. A regular louse
          252He blackmailed her with threats of suicide
          253Once he knew that love had really died.
          254He didn’t love her, but felt a man diminished
          255When she first told him their thing was finished.
          256He’d rather move her purposefully, claim
          257That underneath all women were the same
          258Though she was bright. But that was her misfortune,
          259As if she were born to carry a torchon,
          260Be there if he raped her. That was the bitter end
          261And thus a woman scorned went around the bend.
          262Hell may have no fury, but the hospital has more
          263Treatments to even up the score.

vi

          264Treatments may even up the score
          265I saw her crying in the street, pour
          266Her heart out to strangers. I ran inside
          267To get her a glass of water. She denied
          268Who she was. She said her name was Phyllis
          269But long ago she was known as Amaryllis
          270Then she said she was a lonely Valentine
          271Who could see her undoing in red wine
          272And then she said her name was Holy Mary
          273And like the nursery rhyme, she was contrary
          274But not because of cockleshells and bells
          275But she had seen demons who had lived in hells
          276Where phantom lusts raged in bodies pure,
          277She was, she wept, a virgin and a whore.

vii

          278She was, she wept, a virgin and a whore
          279I understand, but I wish I knew more—
          280In general, I’d say she’s very nice
          281They say that every person has a price
          282And she had none. She took seriously
          283Every nuance and tone, even imperiously
          284Withheld approval at a tincture of a lie,
          285And she became worse as time went by.
          286She couldn’t exchange the merest pleasantry
          287Without her ignoble life, her peasantry
          288Snapping at her heels with bitter pride
          289Of ancient lineage. No bartered bride
          290In work or misery, but trusting to failure
          291Like babes whose brains had yet no suture

4: The Malady

i

          292Her song is absence, but her art is absent.
          293She exists in her own bad faith, a centre
          294Flying out at her own frozen pace, a dent
          295In the counterpane of her hated mentor,
          296Herself. She exists to prove she’s hell-sent
          297Out of the racket of silent cacophony, dissenter
          298To the faith in herself she herself bent
          299In the flying wind, a sad lamenter
          300Of what is good, is gone. A secret assent
          301Is wound up in the coils of her tormentor;
          302Her language locking the floodgates like cement
          303Now bursting in the tide of being repenter.
          304Undone with nitpicker’s gravity, like a crime,
          305Her centre is time, time spent doing time.

ii

          306Her centre is timeless, time spent doing time
          307And its slow pace towards healing. Time and again
          308She pulls apart the treasury of thought, rhyme,
          309Lets it fall in a cluster on good. Pain
          310Welcomes the transition, and the undoing, clime
          311For a fated ego to unblock the drain
          312Of warm feeling, current for the grime
          313Encrusted hearts are fed. The purpose plain
          314Is to loose the vestige of sentiment, climb
          315Into the turret and throw away the key, main
          316Chance with the stowaway scissors. Clip the sublime
          317Tresses. Then throw them to the wind and rain,
          318Crying “Whatever is, let it simply be
          319Remember these beauties which are not for me.

iii

          320Remember these beauties which are not for me
          321And throw away also the brazen treasure chest
          322Where I had etched our memories in my blood, see
          323The unsalutary symptoms of my plague, test
          324For reference and you will find perfidy
          325Where once the Queen of Ransoms was thought blessed.
          326All that issued from my pearlised eyes, the key
          327You warders stole when trussing up the rest
          328You called a person, whom you said was free.
          329Degradations begin at the breast,
          330Where once the child of happiness went on spree,
          331Called his mother saint, and father quest.
          332Now the imp has danced the reel of wrath,
          333Seeing his mother near a psychopath.

iv

          334Seeing his mother near a psychopath,
          335I tear my hair to make the falsehood right
          336My heart is broken, tell it not in Gath
          337Or how this lasting daytime’s blight
          338Has torn my family, who in my wrath
          339See an everlasting endless night
          340Inhabited by the spectre of a Plath
          341Scribbling in the darkness without light
          342But my darkness is the troubled aftermath
          343Of the pills and treatment, I am out of sight
          344And in my place a wretch turns polymath
          345Garbling in unknown tongues of wrong, to fight
          346With streeling sense the battle order’s rage.
          347Suppressed, my fever is to tear the page.

v

          348Suppressed, my fever is to tear the page,
          349To make what happened disappear. In fact,
          350The long slow death of prisoner in a cage
          351Is paradigm to show we cannot with tact
          352Alter what has passed. Put on the stage
          353A show to please the mainstream. Pack
          354In anguish what can understand our rage
          355Directed at oneself. It cannot be the rack
          356Which I am strung upon, it is the age
          357Abstracted in concerts to show its general tack.
          358My sickness testament to the malady of the sage
          359Who exclaims, all is futility. I am proof demoniac
          360Our time’s neurosis hides eternal truth—
          361I am the victim of my own timeless ruth.

vi

          362I am the victim of my own timeless ruth
          363Compassion never really knew its name till me.
          364I picked up every brown winged bird, couth
          365With longing for the south, and set it free
          366Pushed a leaf off every insect, smooth-
          367Made the way for every tiny bee,
          368So all should be free to sing. In youth
          369I tried a quaver or two, like he
          370Who charmed the generations, Bob of Duluth:
          371Yet never felt as free as his songs said we’d be—
          372Besides, money was involved. And my sleuth
          373Said, don’t sing for money, for poetry is paid no fee
          374I believed it, and gave away my song
          375Sang everywhere I felt I didn’t belong.

vii

          376I sang in places I did not belong,
          377I wept in ruins younger than yesterday,
          378Made every tried logic a fiddler’s song,
          379Made every song lament that it should pay
          380Respect to what the culture said was a long
          381Concept of morality, the pedant’s way
          382To higher densities of philosophy, a gong
          383To summon spirits, dismembered and astray
          384In the rank demonology of the cursed day
          385God wove weft and warp, and right and wrong
          386Sent angels upwards, bad spirits in the drey
          387Where secrets bought and sold for centuries, bong
          388Out the names of those who die for good.
          389I am on-beckoned by an infinite sisterhood.

5: Regression

i

          390The physical and the spiritual entrained
          391Together, each got a body blow
          392At the five doors of sense, were trained
          393To ask “who’s there?" There was no show
          394Only a dumb anguish, which fear constrained
          395To mock with a meek smile. It was no-go
          396Between the spirit and the body. Brained
          397In the emotions, boxed in chemicals, no
          398Ordinance of personhood, where once had reigned
          399Sweet reason. Love was an absent foe
          400Which hammered constantly to prove it gained
          401Nothing by execution. It was always so.
          402History was a fop, a dull conspiracy
          403And truth was the mockery it could never be.

ii

          404Truth was the mockery it could never be.
          405The fact was God, or godless, to be terse.
          406What happened to the sacred territory
          407Of “you and me” celebrated in verse,
          408Popular song, crooned on the radio, free
          409Our realm of household love and felt in Erse?
          410Who hears it in the corridors of insanity?
          411A demonstration of the knee jerk, privy purse
          412Of medicine’s rendering up of soul to fee.
          413Knave or fool, the hospital’s daily curse
          414Reduces to physical reaction, eternal verity.
          415A matted mass of measly microbes pressed
          416As in answering a summons. It’s a cod.
          417Believe in us, not in the one true God.

iii

          418Believe in us, not in the one true God,
          419Our name is Legion, and we live by lies.
          420All who have the reckless midnight trod
          421On creaking floorboards, have heard our cries.
          422Once Truth and love and day are gone, a squad
          423Of demons rushes in with night. And ties
          424Of birth and blood friendship are odd
          425Sport to our presence. Where there’s fear, prize
          426Only what is ours. In the land of Nod
          427Is the appetiser to our full-blown sway. Spice
          428At first, we eat the heart away, prod
          429At the props of decency. We advise
          430A cunning madness to pay virtue’s toll,
          431Alienation is our cherished goal.

iv

          432Alienation from God is our goal,
          433And so the frantic woman in the den
          434Of mad lionesses like herself, can roll
          435Back the dawn of her burnished Imagist pen
          436That rides high on uncommon destiny, a role
          437To astonish history: to parade in the fen
          438Of amazed critics who astutely poll
          439Her chances of pulling off the impossible: zen
          440Hell turned to heaven, a bartered soul
          441‘Twixt good and evil. Faust again,
          442This time a woman. And did the dice roll.
          443How near she came to surpassing men
          444Comprehending paradigms of moral weight and swoon!
          445This gift to herstory wedged the crack of doom.

v

          446Her gift to herstory wedged the crack of doom
          447On which bad faith depended, and bad luck
          448Though all the doors were opened to that room
          449Of life abundant, she preferred to truck
          450With half-baked notions, that needed a zoom
          451Lens to enliven, bring the monstrous ruck
          452Of materialist philosophy to its destined tomb
          453With indifferent scorn and second-fiddle schmuck.
          454She pipped such notions that have need to vroom
          455Down the fables of casual accidental muck
          456That so-called scientists call the present boom
          457Of wealth, indecent waste, and pass-the-buck
          458Philosophy. Hers was the chilling answer—
          459Merit must be found, even if it were cancer.

vi

          460Merit must be found, even if it were cancer,
          461And right must be subsumed for wrong to flourish.
          462The scars must be telling, a gut-lancer
          463Not the healing power of God and good, perish
          464The thought. Ms. Average is a shoddy chancer
          465Thrown out the window for normalcy to cherish,
          466A viper in the bosom turned necromancer
          467Which makes even her last few days currish
          468In the extreme, snapping at the heels of a dancer
          469Whose departed spirit love has failed to nourish.
          470In his pop-eye stare the last great romancer
          471As she bites the dust of a lifetime’s demurrage:
          472Being sorry for oneself is jumping the gun,
          473Saying no to life before it has begun.

vii

          474Saying no to life before it has begun
          475Refusing to take part in one’s own story
          476Being sorry for oneself can be such fun
          477Not accepting one’s part in Creation’s glory
          478Is just a way of saying, I’m going to shun
          479This life of accident, appalling gory
          480Strife and competition. Attila the Hun
          481Had the size of it. We’re doomed a priori
          482To murder, bloodshed, before our race is run!
          483I will abstain from this compact of fury
          484Leavened in the gloom of mind. No sun
          485Will shine its light. A ribald Tory
          486Mocking rebellion in the frenzied fray,
          487I’ll die before I live to fight a day.

6: In the Corridor

i

          488The first cut was the deepest, the jangle
          489Of many keys upon a laundered breast,
          490The thud of silence, after the wrangle
          491That ensues between the keeper and the rest.
          492He’s not on till noon, this rota’s in a tangle
          493Can I, with sanity and eyesight blessed
          494Make sense of it? I’d ask you to wangle
          495Another bed in the upstairs ward – Depressed –
          496I’ll keep her there. It’s like being in a mangle
          497With psychotic, manic. It puts to test
          498Our professional forebearance and our angle
          499Of objectivity. She needs to be caressed;
          500But we can simulate with pills and shocks
          501The nature of our nursing and our locks.

ii

          502The nature of our nursing and our locks
          503Are intertwined in tight conspiring bonds:
          504Our chief deterrent, a kind falsehood, rocks
          505The towers of belief. The magic wands
          506Of doctors’ pencilled orders, the lonely nox
          507Of dreamless sleep keeps lies in ponds
          508Where like trapped fishes, the poor soul knocks
          509At the glass bowl of truth; to correspond
          510With fact its punitive task. Deadlocks
          511Of intuition and of sense, and diamond
          512Of a dark jeweled head. A soul’s rot,
          513Self a forever-running vagabond.
          514Lies added to lies make fiction grate,
          515Upon the brain, a client of the state.

iii

          516The nerveless brain, the client of the state
          517Is now the subject of much ripe canonic:
          518Nerveless of course it’s not, it’s just late
          519In registering emotion – unTeutonic.
          520Or should we say, it registers a rate
          521Unsuitable for programming. Quiet histrionic.
          522A bandaged soul is not the proper fate
          523For one dignified as man/woman. It’s ironic
          524To call us human when the experts prate
          525Of matters manic-depressive or catatonic.
          526Why can’t we be normal, find a mate?
          527Why be platonic and demonic?
          528But in straps and chains the State no longer dresses
          529Those whose being a bad entity possesses.

iv

          530Those whose being a bad entity possesses
          531Will find a chink in their immortality.
          532What began as admonishment regresses
          533To where good is not a necessary
          534Part of the fabric. Instead it dresses
          535Up with lures to attack with finery
          536Of thought and diction the unschooled messes
          537Of adolescent putting on of agony.
          538Fearful violation of self presses
          539Against the grain of ineluctable reality
          540And the often sought after caresses
          541Contain the essence of the germ “to be”
          542Gone putrid, dank with fright and with dismay
          543A violation of all that for which we used to pray.

v

          544A violation of all that for which we used to pray
          545Brings us to the hospital’s grey door
          546Our alter ego standing in the way
          547Of “I” shouts “Rape me no more!”
          548With your shard of promises. Now I pay
          549Dearly with my dream’s life store
          550I put off learning to be human, say
          551Now I was wrong. I know your lore
          552Of madness, debauched reality, lay
          553At your feet my broken self. It’s sore
          554To have carried the load such a long way,
          555So out of touch. I know the score.
          556Your tranquillising chain, your strait-jacket
          557Await me with instructions on the packet.

vi

          558Awaiting me like instructions on the packet
          559Are tortures both medieval and new.
          560In darker days the sick kicked up a racket
          561And it put visitors off, (like at Kew).
          562It’s nice to know my treatments in a bracket
          563With bloodletting, hot water, and the pew
          564Where I was taught to sing hymns. A placket
          565Round me, and the infirmary screw
          566Tight around my neck. I’d like a whack at
          567The orderly who tells me what to do
          568But mostly, I’d like to put a tacket
          569In that deep frenzied heart to which I’m clew
          570And worm-eaten puzzle. And yet I thole
          571Daily in hopes God will mend the hole.

vii

          572Daily, in hopes God will mend the hole
          573I shrive out in tiresome counterfeit
          574I can’t be said, to own, at all, my soul
          575And see myself always in defeat—
          576A nicety. Conjecture and the whole
          577Triumph of order, science and mercy-meat
          578Ground out in daily routine. And the role
          579Of patient is to be her own compleat
          580Invalid, see herself as droll
          581Carbon copy of a great deceit
          582She has no right to herself. A pigeon hole
          583Is perfect metaphor, she’s obsolete
          584In the great life-game. She’s out of kelter
          585Here she will find unremitting shelter.

7: The Cure

i

          586Heaven, if depending on the bell
          587Could be on earth, if we could get it right—
          588If we could make positive the hard sell
          589To keep us doped on optimism through the night;
          590How lies and fibs we’d never tell
          591To ears whose eyes were allowed the sight
          592Of something good. And in our cell
          593Of-nothing-is-under-the-sun-but-it's-right
          594We’d call love into question, sound the knell
          595Forever on the famous serpent bite
          596In history nothing went wrong, tell
          597No story, nor children hear a fight
          598Psychologists tell us another fairy tale
          599It hinges on the blaming of the female.

ii

          600It hinges on the blaming of the female
          601The matter, mater, matrix of our song
          602That she should live and yet could tell the tale
          603And do justice to herself, right the wrong,
          604But ambiguity is dressed in shyness, scale
          605By which is measured, protesting, long
          606Improbability. That she did not rail
          607Against conception, suffered silence, did not bong
          608Out the names of her betrayer, gave a pale
          609Image of her integrity. A fiery tongue
          610And truth locked in shame, indeed to fail
          611To vindicate her honour had her hung
          612Not in a gossip column, a rolling crown,
          613But in the mental health hospice of a town.

iii

          614In the mental health hospice of a town,
          615The brain is deemed a strange and complex thing:
          616No one understands, it is admitted with a frown,
          617But there’s no knowing what experiment can bring.
          618Our cunning chemicals and knowledge bring renown
          619And soul and spirit, anachronism, ring
          620Of medieval superstition. We drown
          621The patient in our pills, a fairy queen
          622Reduced to blubber. He blubbers. Down
          623The hatch. You’ll get fat, probably sing
          624Only one song of the hundreds that you own—
          625Synapses seared with poison, heart a broken wing,
          626And eyes that bulge with knowledge that has spoiled
          627God’s work mangled in the serpent’s coils.

iv

          628God’s work is mangled in the serpent’s coils
          629And stares out, a beheaded, gibbous post
          630The pure subtlety of intellect, soiled
          631And little left, wandering as a ghost—
          632The self has been killed. Where one had toiled
          633To mine the diamond heart in suffering’s most
          634Difficult moments, now reduced and boiled—
          635A globule to replace a sacred host.
          636The body’s gross distortion, now foiled
          637Of natural grace, on the moneyed coast
          638In the profession’s gutter, a slovenly gargoyle
          639Shows the profitable nature of the toast
          640They raise to themselves “Control is the way
          641On man-made pills we have the final say.”

v

          642“On man-made pills we have the final say –
          643Here’s to procrastination. I’ll earn my pension
          644Of dull days with no combat’s edge to pay,
          645Or decorate my feigned interest’s pretension.”
          646Somehow, there was hope in the urge to pray
          647An end to constant friction, tension,
          648To bring living peace. I shouldn’t mention
          649Survival of the fittest was the way
          650Our natural historian’s notable dissension
          651To edge God out of the picture, to betray
          652With nonchalant vocation a whole Being’s declension,
          653Reduce the power of thought, and good, to lay
          654Wreaths at the feet of a secular, concerned world,
          655While centuries of philosophy underneath whirled.

vi

          656Centuries of philosophy underneath whirled
          657And on a raft of confused fear, I pay
          658Respect to the one’s jealousy which hurled
          659Mistrust of the ages, am witch to say
          660Whether I sink or swim. Yet I am furled
          661On the flag of disrepute, dishonour, may
          662Be called mad. When my hair was curled
          663And my dress pressed, I was eager, nay,
          664Clumsily anxious for your praise. You purled
          665My plain, turned rival in the fray
          666Like a mother wishing a daughter gnarled,
          667A jealous eye undermined my day.
          668I keep looking for the good friend who’ll smile
          669Who, seeing me well and happy, won’t be riled.

vii

          670She, seeing me well and happy, won’t be riled
          671Nor will she freeze the summer with her frown
          672When she consults Britannica, finds there filed
          673References she heard only in the town
          674Yet I was familiar with. Me, that clown,
          675Now out of hospital, whom she’s reviled
          676To every acquaintance. “She’s really down
          677Poor thing, she’s swallowing pills, piled
          678High in charactery in her cabinet. Her academic gown
          679Worth nothing, like her scroll. I dialed
          680The holograms on her pills, a disjointed crown
          681Got me the doctor. A roof could be tiled
          682With what she’s taking. He’s found the right palliative
          683The exact chemistry—her brain’s co-relative.”

Notes

1] This poem "won the Prize in the Scottish Open International Poetry competition in 2000, though it was written in 1987 after a psychiatrist, Dr Brion Sweeney, said it might be therapeutic to write some of my feelings down about hospitals and hospital treatments. The poem came out in sonnet form, because the form carried me along." (poet's note).

11] bad cess: an Anglo-Irish expression meaning "bad luck."

31] fetter: see "infirmary screw" (6.vi).

34] GP: General Practitioner, family doctor.

38] gumption: personal "drive."

40] ECT: electro-convulsive therapy, electric shock treatment, a routine pre-1960 way of managing mental disorders, use of which is still prevalent today.

47] scout: orderly, watchman.

54] dial: face (after the "face" of a clock or watch).

75] ESB: Electricity Supply Board (Ireland power utility).

76] hock: debt.

77] VD: venerial disease.

81] The hymn "Rock of Ages," by Augustus Montague Toplady, addresses Jesus as it opens, "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, / Let me hide myself in Thee!"

92] mystics: especially St. John of the Cross (1542-91), who authored Dark Night of the Soul.

100] mendacity: habitual lying. feria: fair.

104] Wisteria: climbing blue-flowering shrub.

105] aspidistra: common household pot plant.

109] Sigmund Freud (1856-1939), Austrian psychiatrist, the founder of psychoanalysis, who coined the phrase "Oedipus complex" for what he believed to be a common but repressed human desire to commit incest. Freud’s theories have now been discredited by Richard Webster in his book Why Freud was Wrong (1996; poet's note).

112] Carl Jung (1875–1961), Swiss founder of analytical psychology, who proposed the existence of a collective unconscious that expressed itself in myth and archetype.

126] Skinner: B. F. Skinner (1904-90), founder of behaviorism, a form of psychology that used conditioning to produce well-adjusted individuals. His experiments were based on the behavior of rats.

138] the bell: one of Pavlov’s theories influenced Skinner's stimulus-response experiments—this recorded the flow of saliva in dog when feeding was preceded by a rung bell. It reduced everyone’s behaviour to this idea.

139] Reich: Wilhelm Reich (1897-1957), an Austrian psychologist who proposed a novel form of energy, the orgone, that contributed to health and sexual potency. He died in a US prison where he was serving a two-year sentence for selling orgone accumulators in defiance of a prohibition by the Food and Drug Administration.

153] Szasz: Thomas Szasz (1920-), a professor emeritus of psychology at the State University of New York in Syracuse, published The Myth of Mental Illness in 1960 and has worked for decades to assert the rights of people judged mentally ill, as with schizophrenia, and consequently institutionalized, tortured with electric and insulin shock therapy, and condemned to social deaths before their bodies died.

156] aisy: easy.

159] kith: kin, people.

166] Fromm: Erich Fromm (1900-80), German-American social psychologist.

175] onyx: jewelery, a "form of chalcedony consisting of plane layers of different colours" (OED).

180] Laing: R. D. Laing (1927-89), Scottish psychologist who argued that the so-called delusionary thoughts and ideas of the mentally ill ought to be accepted as truthful, authentic accounts of individual experience.

183] squidgen: little bit.

199] lift: elevator.

213] snuggly: woven shawl (not in OED either as a noun or in that sense).

226] snooker: a billiard game with elements of pool and pyramids.

227] Pooka: Irish folk evil animal spirit.

230] penile: penis-like.

232] Phallocracy: male society.

259] torchon: dish-cloth.

262] "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned" (Shakespeare).

273] nursery rhyme: "Mary, Mary, quite contrary, / How does your garden grow?"

275] seen: "seem", a misprint in the 2002 edition.

289] bartered bride: the title of a comic opera by the Czech composer Bedřich Smetana.

291] no suture: a baby whose brain lacks sutures, which are channels of soft tissue that separate six cranial bone plates, suffers from craniosynostosis, which prevents the normal growth of the brain.

295] counterpane: bedcover (poet's note).

297] racket: din. cacophony: loud discordant noise.

310] clime: atmosphere.

319] "Here, what is beautiful is not so in the eyes of the narrator" (poet's note). An allusion to one of Grimm's fairy tales, the story of Rapunzel, a maiden imprisoned in a tower who let down her hair to enable an enchantress, and later her prince, to climb up to her. When the enchantress found out that Rapunzel was with child by the prince, she cut off the maiden's hair and cast her into the wilderness.

323] unsalutary: unhealthy.

330] spree: "wild splurge, i.e., shopping spree, from the Irish word for `fun'" (poet's note).

335] To the mad person, wrong and right can be confused.

336] Gath: ancient city in Israel, the home of Goliath.

340] Plath: Sylvia Plath (1932-1963), an American poet, married to British poet laureate Ted Hughes, and the author of a semi-autobiographical work The Bell Jar, published the year she committed suicide. She also had undergone electric shock treatment. Rowley has written an essay on this, published in Thumbscrew (Oxford, 1995).

346] streeling: straggling, disorganized.

361] ruth: pity (cf. the more familiar `ruthless').

364] couth: known.

370] Bob of Duluth: Bob Dylan (1941-), enormously popular and commercially successful American folk song writer.

373] poetry is paid no fee: “poetry has no fee” in 2002.

386] drey: unwheeled cart.

409] Erse: the Irish tongue.

412] fee: pay.

416] cod: joke.

419] Jesus asked a demon that possessed a man in the country of the Gadarenes, "What is thy name?", and the demon replied, "My name is Legion: for we are many" (Mark 5.9). It was long thought that mental illness was because of demonic possession.

426] A country, east of Eden, to which Cain was exiled after murdering his brother Abel (Genesis 4:16).

435] Imagist poets such as the Americans Hilda Dolittle ("H.D.") and Ezra Pound sought to reduce poems to their essentials. Pound's "In a Station of the Metro" is typical:

The apparition of these faces in the crowd:
Petals on a wet, black bough.

441] Dr. Faustus, the subject of plays by Christopher Marlowe and Goethe, sold his soul to the Devil for knowledge, power, and love that turned out, in the long run, to be comparatively worthless.

445] herstory: the feminist's personal "history," a term coined by Robin Morgan in 1970.

450] truck / With: do business with.

451] ruck: controversy.

453] schmuck: fool.

454] pipped: gave birth. vroom: "The roaring noise of a motor vehicle accelerating or travelling at speed" (OED).

462] gut-lancer: a newly coined word (a knife's drawing out of a person's guts in what used to be the most brutal form of execution, hanging, drawing, and quartering).

464] chancer: risk-taker.

466] necromancer: one who raises the dead by magic.

467] currish: snarling like a bad-tempered dog.

470] pop-eye stare: fixed gaze so intense that the eye appears to protrude or start out.

471] demurrage: hesitating, refusing to take action.

480] Attila the Hun (406-53), who invaded Europe from the east and was well-known for his cruelty in war.

481] a priori: from the very start.

485] Tory: British political conservative, traditionally representing the interests of the landed gentry, nobility, and monarch. Here, "a conservative who believes that life and its strife will never change and so will give up" (poet's note).

492] rota: rotation of duties among a roster of employees, roster.

494] wangle: somehow get, as by devious means.

496] mangle: a mechanical wringer of wet clothes in a laundry.

506] nox: night (Latin). "Some Latin writers, like Catullus, believed that death was nox perpetua, or eternal darkness" (poet's note).

517] canonic: dialectical systematizing.

525] catatonic: in a state of stupor.

531] "Being immortal was considered a good, but what if one ends up with the wrong crowd? " (poet's note).

539] ineluctable: inescapable. A favourite word of the self-exiled Irish writer, James Joyce.

544] used to pray: "used pray" in 2002.

548] shard: broken fragment (of pottery).

559] "The mental hospital often enables research experiments" (poet's note).

560] racket: a real fuss.

561] Kew: an allusion to Richmond Royal Hospital near Kew in southwest London, which specializes in psychiatry.

562] in a bracket: of the same sort as …

564] placket: female underskirt.

565] infirmary screw: collar to restrain the patient.

568] tacket: nail.

569] clew: guide to a maze.

570] thole: endure.

573] shrive: make confession.

577] mercy-meat: gift-food, charity, good will.

579] compleat: after the manner of books, e.g., compleat gourmet, etc.

584] out of kelter: in no good spirits, in a bad way.

601] mater: mother. matrix: womb.

607] bong: sound out loudly, like a bell.

625] Synapses: the interfaces between neurons.

629] gibbous: hunch-backed.

664] purled: "pleat or frill like a ruff; to frill the edge of" (OED, "purl," v. 1). Purl and plain are knitting stitches which often go together in a pattern.

669] riled: angered.

672] Britannica: the encyclopedia.

678] charactery: (pharmaceutical) symbols, an echo of Keats:

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
` Before high-piled books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain;

680] Drug companies put holograms on the packaging of pills to foil counterfeiting.

682] palliative: pain-killer, temporary reliever of symptoms.


Online text copyright © 2009, Ian Lancashire (the Department of English) and the University of Toronto.
Copyright © Rosemarie Rowley 2007. Not to be republished without permission of the poet.
Published by the Web Development Group, Information Technology Services, University of Toronto Libraries.

Original text: Rosemarie Rowley, Hot Cinquefoil Star ([Dublin]: Rowan Tree Press, 2002): 113-42.
RPO poem editor: Ian Lancashire
RP edition: 2007
Recent editing: 1:2007/3/20*1:2007/3/21

Form: sonnet sequence
Rhyme: various but mainly ababcdcdefefgg


Other poems by Rosemarie Rowley