Richard M. Berlin, MD

A poetry reading by psychiatrist Richard Berlin, MD.

As a consultation liaison psychiatrist, one of his assignments was to work on a renal dialysis unit to determine whether or not a patient was competent to opt out of treatment.

His pager calls. Code Blue. And for no reason at all, he lifts the window and blows a little life back into the world.

We lower a plastic tray on his ribs, as if food can stop the dying: cold potato scooped like a snowball, canned spinach. More in this reading by Richard Berlin, MD.

And when they see what I hide . . . up my white coat sleeve, . . . they understand that magic

Our identity as physicians is the foundation for our careers as psychiatrists and the first step in our transition from layperson to doctor takes place in the anatomy lab.

Listen to Richard Berlin, MD, recite one of his poems.

Wild Night, after the cops came to shut the music down, after friends and family were headlights pointed toward home...

And while the spotlight admires . . . the soloist’s passion, I love . . . the page turner even more,

I’m sprawled in the back, . . . riding out swells and storm tides . . . that toss this ship like a marriage.

Another day-glow orange morning . . . of jack-hammering men in the street, . . .their steam-shovel coughing black fumes

with enough juice to jump-start a heart . . . back to the Bo Diddley beat . . . We don’t amp ourselves up to sing the body electric . . .

While she curses and cries . . . I imagine I am the pilot . . . who ditched his Airbus

The scar on her sternum is a zipper . . . opened once to reveal her heart,. . . . the smooth arc of her breasts

But I still have bottles of pretty pills . . . I throw like life rafts to keep them afloat . . .in choppy seas, me passing my doctor-days

“If you were a ship, where would you sail?” . . . “What is your favorite hockey team?” and “What will you do if you don’t get into medical school?”

I don’t like to use the worn out word . . . “bruise” in my poems, but this morning . . . one appears on my inner thigh

their silver bodies glinting in the twilight . . . like shards of broken glass, wing-tip lights . . . flashing like towers on tall buildings

The viola section hears her first . . . Then the conductor tilts his head

Early June, cumulus clouds building...in a mountain sky, the lake filled...with kids, their shining, half-naked

"Einstein’s happiest moment...occurred when he realized...a falling man falling...beside a falling apple..."

Long ago, when I became a doctor . . .I heard the sounds of pheasants drumming . . .in our chests, studied our eggs, our courtship

Richard Berlin, M.D.: “There is something about the condensed pressure of poetry that feels very natural to me.”

Richard Berlin, M.D.: “There is something about the condensed pressure of poetry that feels very natural to me.”

Wall, echoing their grief. . . the tall green willow. . . rooted beside a stream

Richard Berlin,M.D.: “There is something about the condensed pressure of poetry that feels very natural to me.”

Mist rises from the Mediterranean and fills the black folds of mountains like incense . . .

When did my colleagues grow so old? When did the women and men I’ve known for thirty years start to stoop and tremble? When did all the old Chiefs die?

AUDIO A good apple pie fixes every pain. Your grandmother baked them to be sure you’d know- Cinnamon for heartbreak, cloves for shame . . .

One September morning . . .