Crazy
The psychiatrist sat
in his belle époque chair,
his beard a quenched fire,
crossed leg a hot wire.
He stared at me fixedly,
flirtatiously, fictively.
I closed my face another notch;
crushed haven on the velvet couch.
The questions were wrong
denser than dusk, older than insects,
each one packed with boxes
full of white mice and foxes.
Can you remember? not Can't you forget?
So much smoke and hot ash;
and after all that, his cigar
was just a cigar.
March 2025
posted for the Word List
running with the bureaucratic theme this week
Image: Woman Leaving The Psychoanalyst, ©Remedios Varo Fair Use
I love how you have turned a potentially abuse of power into the surreal little touches - the mice were most welcome- Jae
ReplyDeleteyou've got me chuckling on this one. that coke-addled dude really f*d things up, didn't he? the imagery throughout is so deft - brushstrokes that illuminate and without rancor somehow mock the lionized image of those who sit in judgement ~
ReplyDeleteThanks, M. You couldn't have said anything to please me more.
DeleteWow, sounds like the wrong person was the client. Smiles. Love the quenched fire and hot wire. Also "I closed my face another notch." I especially love the truth in "Can you remember? not Cant you forget?" Wonderfully penned.
ReplyDeleteHmm, and how does that make you feel? Ouch! Why'd you hit me? This is a dark confection as I read it, Hedge, a granny smith with not one but several razor blades hidden within it, the very poison apple that keeps the patient away from the next appointment and makes Sigmund have weird dreams about walking around naked. The 1st and 3rd stanzas in particular showed your savvy use of the List words--no one could have done more with them than you have done here. I love the illustration as well.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Shay. It's from one of my bizarre dreams. I've never been to a shrink,but I'm sure if I did it would be exactly like this.
DeleteWith this short-ish poem you cut through the crap and say more and say it better than the authors of longer ones have attempted to say about this topic. And that close is just perfect, too.
ReplyDeleteThe last lines are killers in a poem that hits hard against the "smoke" of those who sit in seats of judgment and power. The vulnerability of the persona in the face of this is all the while in the foreground. A devastating indictment.
ReplyDeleteLove how you set the scene, used subtle rhyme, made me happy I chose a female therapist. It's all about the dreams, yes?
ReplyDeleteI love the ending with a flick of an ash. Interesting how contemplating our inner workings come down to ashes.
ReplyDeleteThis reminds me how I have sat through therapy sessions listening to someone assume their degree can dig out the me I'm confused about. I don't go to therapy any more. I love the attitude and honesty in your poem. Love your ending. I came away from most sessions, asking "Who the hell did I just spill my guts to?"
ReplyDeleteThis is terrific! The imagery and language agile, surprising, taking us into that room with you. The questions denser than dusk and older than insects is wonderful, takes us directly into the realm of the unconscious. And yes, seems that after all that, we are still just left with our selfs. I do like a good cigar.
ReplyDelete