"The Lord's Prayer" by Franz Wright

"I have been attempting to pray
the Lord's Prayer for the first time
since I was a child.  Only now
the problem is not one
of mystified indifference, on
the contrary.  Now
my concentration is eclipsed
by many distractions, though I'm trying to mean it.
One question now is the existence
of the mad.  One of the most bothersome
things about the mad:
they are so often right.
Look at Christ.  And yet
as they are, after all, insane
most don't possess the social graces,
the finances or tact
that would be required, so
there is virtually no question
of their influencing getting anywhere near
the circles where the and the delusional are
                    legislated.
I think of Pilate, eyebrows slightly raised
in weary but astonished sarcasm,
responding to the asseertion, "I come
"to bear witness to the truth." It's horrifying
that I can never read this, that is
P.P.'s reply: "What is truth?"
without having to suppress a strong impulse to agree.
This is the abomination of the secret
envy the sane feel for mad with their constantly
                          menaced
yet suicidal willingness
to say what's true with a clear conscience;
envy of the torturer
who will be going home soon, disgusted
and tired from his day's legal work
to supper and family.
We've grown a good deal more cunning--
compassionate, we call it.
Still, we don't take any chances.
We keep them under control--just think
when we could so easily kill them
just like in the old days of family and morality.  But it's an easy tsk,
since they are incapable of taking any action whatsoever
save that of occasionally perceiving reality.  The real one.
We do this for their own good, of course;
they might hurt themselves, you see, especially us.
And we have any number of methods
which involve both their concrete surroundings
and the medical alteration of their capacity to
think.  I mean, look where it got them.
For no one, absolutely no one,
harbors the slightest desire
to be reminded of reality.
Things are bad enough as it is.
I myself have served with a believer's heart
on both sides, and I must say
I greatly prefer the company of the nuts, though
I will side with the sane any day.
I will freely admit to being a little confused
by this.  It's not so much a matter of Lowell's off-the-cuff remark, "I am inclined to
                                                                                 believe
that it is better to be happy and good
than to be a poet."
It isn't that simple. In fact,
it is excruciatingly mysterious.
But perhaps the human race is not
all dressed up in mystery at all, but
in reality is the Void
in pathetically transparent drag, "or something."
"So to speak."