The Fear Of Not Fearing Poem by Diana van den Berg

Once I walked
my midnight forest
wrapped in awe
of delicious solitude
and ghostly fever trees
amongst dark shapes
outlining moonlit patches
and breathed the honeyed scent
of yellow puff-balls
or milk-white,
miniature propeller flowers,
and once inside,
I would read my favourite poetry
or work in silent ecstasy
into the entrails of the night
surrounded by my four-legged children
while my now-grown two-legged ones breathed peacefully
through their childhood dreams,
but now I barricade myself
and my cat and dog
in my bedroom after dark
and put on the burglar alarm
and the most I can do is
watch television (sometimes with the sound on)
and start at every misinterpreted sound
of the thud or metallic ring of fence-jumpers
or cracking branches
or breaking glass
or the screeching alarm
and stare into the blackened night
in ramrod terror
through my now-imprisoned forest,
for men carrying packets in the dark
or shiny dark cars that creep
unlit and stealthily
through the sleeping streets
until, against my will,
I lapse into unconsciousness
from sheer exhaustion
(with one finger on my panic button round my neck, however) .

At the lightening of the Heavens
I thank my God
for saving us all another night.

Sometimes I am not so afraid
and sometimes not at all, but
most of all,
I am afraid
of not being afraid
as they burst into my bedroom (twice)
when I wasn’t afraid at all.

I wish I knew
the minds of (general and specific) burglars
for then I could relax
until the next predictable attack.

I would rather be afraid
than have reason
to be afraid,
but where will it end?

Being a self-confessed workaholic,
I need to work at night
but I can’t risk losing another laptop, camera, or cell phone or any windows
so tonight will find me
losing another night’s work
and
on guard
again.

(16 September 2007)