Poetry of the Times

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