Poetry

"I pulled my scuffle hoe hard through the clay’s crust and heard the blade scrape metal and earth."

"And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold, And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold."

"I shall forget civilization, I shall forget color, caste, I shall move in a fantastic world of raceless men and women..."

"rescued from the filth of paradise, hosed off, shining, my cracked fingernails caked with dirt."

"The diameter of the bomb was thirty centimeters and the diameter of its effective range about seven meters, with four dead and eleven wounded."

"The buttonholes, the sizing, the facing, the characters. Printed in black on neckband and tail. The shape, the label, the labor, the color, the shade. The shirt."

"...seeking and longing for the garden of cherry blossoms..."

A psychiatrist reflects on the importance of time... and living in the moment.

"It was word and note, The wind the wind had meant to be—A little through the lips and throat. The aim was song—the wind could see."

"We were three men alone in a ward room built for fifty, dust film on the floor..."

"I can smell the aroma of spring tulips filling the air-spreading peace and good cheer..."

"But where are the songs of praise for church basements? That lower level, that rock bottom room sunken & reverent with flickering lights..."

"For we are a healing and a growing greenhouse..."

"We were three men alone in a ward room built for fifty, dust film on the floor..."

"For you and I, know that this space, this pace, this race is a gift to be shared, craved, and loved."

"In the corridor, he demands a confession: Who peeled back his bandage? Who let him look?"

"Soon the train will stop. The border guard will give me back my passport – but I know we’ll be back again soon."

"As we enter the old hilltown graveyard, stone rows rise toward the church like a long flight of stillness..."

"I’m never finished answering to the dead."

"In the corridor, he demands a confession: Who peeled back his bandage? Who let him look?"

“In the realm of psychiatry, the therapeutic value of poetry lies in its ability to transcend the limitations of prose, offering a space for the unsayable and the ineffable.”

"The river is famous to the fish..."

"He's dying on dialysis—I’ve known him since my first days as a doctor, and now he wants to quit."

"He’s dying on dialysis—I’ve known him since my first days as a doctor, and now he wants to quit..."

As Martin Luther King Day approaches, a psychiatrist shares his thoughts... and hopes we are in within reach of those dreams and ideals.