Eratosphere - Seccie Competition Malade Imaginaire

There they are, Brian, Bill, Chris O'Carroll, and snapping at their heels Carolyn Thomas-Coxhead, Rob Stuart and little ole me. Is being impressed better or worse than being entertained?

Lucy Vickery 11 May 2013
In Competition No. 2796 you were invited to submit a poem about a minor ailment written by a hypochondriac.

Brian Dillon, in his book Tormented Hope: Nine Hypochondriac Lives, gives a vivid description of the hypochondriac’s mental and emotional landscape: ‘You listen constantly, in a kind of trance, for communications from your body; it is as if you have become a medium, and your organs a company of fretful ghosts, whispering their messages from the other side.’

Among the body parts that whispered especially insistently and alarmingly in the entry were noses, feet and fingers. I was entertained by Rob Stuart’s double dactylic contribution and impressed by Sylvia Smith, Anne du Croz, John Whitworth, Carolyn Thomas-Coxhead, Annette Field and Paul Evans. The winners, printed below, are rewarded with £25 each, except W.J. Webster who takes £30.

The twinges in my little toe
May seem a trivial thing,
But what is small can always grow
And then what might it bring?
Achilles’ problem with his heel
Determined his demise:
A footling ailment may conceal
Fate’s ultimate surprise.
There’s something grave afoot, I fear,
Beyond my doctors’ scope;
And digital research makes clear
I’m on a downward slope.
In truth there can be no defence
Against ordained decay;
And on my feet I swear I sense
The flesh becoming clay.
W.J. Webster

Oh God! I’ve started peeing red!
I’m quivering with fear and dread.
In next to no time, I’ll be dead
From cancer of the bladder.
Or even worse, the thing will spread
Like bindweed in my flower-bed
To kidneys, liver, lungs and head,
A fate that’s even sadder.

I’m in a clinic by the Thames.
Is it a verdict that condemns,
Or is there hope with beastly chems?
If there’s a chance, I’ll try it.
But now, with sniggers and ‘ahem’s,
They come to tell me: ‘Well, it stems
From cherry-coloured M&Ms
And beetroot in your diet.’
Brian Allgar

I nick my fingertip; a bead
Of bright and trembling red appears —
The cause, a paperclip. To bleed
So quick is shocking, as my fear’s
There must have been a trace of rust
(I fancy that some metal flew in),
And lease of life and love and lust
Are now in peril, brought to ruin.
The pain was sharp. I felt the screeches
Whistling upwards from my lung;
The threat of typhus surely teaches
Me that I’m no longer young —
But I had prayed that I’d survive
Beyond the short but average span.
And now this speck will soon deprive
My life. I’ll face it like a man.
Bill Greenwell

All hypochondriacs have learned
What others misconceive,
That where diseases are concerned
You have what you believe.

Malingerers we can never be.
We have our work cut out
To track a symptom’s history —
Obsessional, devout.

This spot I have, a small red cone
That will not go away
Pursues me like a lethal drone.
I google it. Touché.

I find that I can take my pick
Of multiple conditions,
But one thing’s certain: I am sick.
Tell that to the physicians.
G.M. Davis

With this red pustule on my nose,
Swollen, inflamed, immense,
I’m as grotesque as Cyrano
(And I can’t even fence).
The grief this blemish causes me
Is more than just aesthetic.
I’m sure it’s the first sign of some
Contagious or genetic
Affliction. Soon, more oozing sores
Will break out on my skin.
I’ll feel my bowels surrender to
Malignancies within.
I’m not just hideous, I’m doomed.
‘O Lord, why me?’ I cry.
‘I’m too old for a spotty face,
And I’m too young to die!’
Chris O’Carroll

Doctor, I have a malingering pain,
And it’s located right about here.
It might be lymphoma — perhaps carcinoma,
Or virulent form of a stomach glaucoma.
I don’t like to think it might be emphysema;
Please tell me my body’s not full of edema,
But something’s amiss, or I’d be right as rain,
Instead of so riddled with fear!

And that’s just the half of it, doctor; you see
I’ve a wee nagging something right there.
It could be cystitis, or else meningitis;
I’m sure I’ve a smidgen of endocarditis,
As well as some mono- (ahem!) nucleosis.
I’m so very antsy for your diagnosis.
What’s that? You are saying I’m malady-free?
You senile old quack, don’t you care?
Mae Scanlan