Richard M. Berlin, MD

We come for freedom and the chance to live the American dream.

Let spring training not be a mere memory.

A million doctors on fire, three million scorched nurses beside them, burned out as the flames progress.

Grandpa Murray, rags to riches, American big shot, the man who dreamt even bigger for his first grandson when he placed a doctor’s bag in my crib . . . the proudest man at my med school graduation.

Drama for the day, the telephone rings, spring blossoms, senior year is sad, Mother Earth takes revenge, praying for Sully to land us on the Hudson . . .

Dr Berlin offers salve to the soul with a recitation of "Let Evening Come," by Jane Kenyon, and then some.

When the AIDS epidemic was at its peak, Dr Berlin wrote his own version of "Spring and All," in which he speaks directly to the original author, Wayne Carlos Williams. There are parallels to coronavirus in these works.

In this series of recitations, Dr Richard Berlin will present a poetry with special meaning for all of us, as we cope with the COVID-19 crisis. He continues the theme of praising our nursing colleagues with Dorianne Laux's poem "Nurse."

Beethoven’s baton, the genius "gone mad," deaf to criticism, his joy as he conducted, all the notes he trusted the orchestra to play . . .

A poem titled Loves by American poet Stephen Dunn inspired me to write a poem about everything I love about my work as a doctor.

Why poetry? As the great Israeli poet Yehuda Amichai said, “When words fail, that’s when poetry begins.”

Nurses are on the front line in the care of COVID-19 patients, and for many years Dr Berlin has admired and resonated with the poetry of nurse practitioner Cortney Davis. Here: a recitation of two of her poems.

Richard Berlin, MD, recites "COVID-19," by Dr Chris Fitzpatrick. It is a series of haikus strung together to highlight the many moments in hospitals that are happening everywhere in the world. This. Very. Moment.

His widow sues. Five night-sweat-years later, our colleague wins in court, because he has good documentation.

I read Dear Provider in a letter from a health care company. Provider is a fine word, and I’ve always felt proud to provide for my family-but the company doesn’t know guys from Jersey are sensitive.

A phone rings on stage like a flashback and we return to our fantasy that characters can die and revive, that the show must go on . . .

The past is prologue riding close behind. Give up your practice? And do what instead? Psychiatrists are not the retiring kind!

Our daughter’s first day of Med School ten years ago, computer charged, a career choice . . .

I imagine Emma on a winter night, an eight-year-old curled fireside in a wing chair, proving her skill with weeping willows...

They sulk and swear when I say, “Sorry, no Jollies,” tune out when I lecture about sugar, acid, and tooth decay- they’ve known sweetness and want more....

My musician patient in a fetal curl, Tchaikovsky’s “Meditation” plays an endless loop against this climate controlled conspiracy of monitors and machines...

The moment the maestro flicks his baton, an orchestra thunders and the pianist suffers a stroke. But everyone plays on...

A ghostly glow frames the face of a man with nothing to hide...

Always ask the name of their dog.

They ask me to sign the moment before my poetry reading and I comply...

We fled the computer room like inmates after lightning fries the prison fence. Then we rounded with nurses who knew the doses and what made patients moan...

Do I have to speak? I know you know...

I’ve been waiting for one of those nine bare-breasted sisters to land by my side and inspire a sonnet...

The Monarch’s cortex, head of a pin, contains maps of Earth and heavens within...

They love to talk like air traffic controllers: “Angle the spinal needle 20 degrees and push gently toward the midline.” And though I don’t say “Roger”...