Richard M. Berlin, MD

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 . . .

The moon comes up like a melody . . .

I can still hear the click of clue tiles

Today when the ground was no longer...

Hear the story of wood...

They read sonnets for patients...

Years ago I wrote, “I love my patients,

-after reading about a health insurance company CEO’s $19,000,000 paycheck

When I was young, I believed

Poetry of The Times September 2009

My life as a poet changed dramatically in 1999 when Psychiatric Times founder John L. Schwartz, MD, and editor Christine Potvin decided to include my poems as a monthly column in Psychiatric Times. With the creation of “Poetry of the Times,” I experienced a tremendous jolt of artistic energy, a sense of affirmation, and a huge boost in confidence. Writing the column continues to propel my poetry 10 years later.

All year long they gather on this outcropcarved by wind and water into the flankof Lenox Mountain. They arrive on foot,on road bikes and air-conditioned SUVs

“Is it wise to stay on my pill?I know the question may seem inane.”I’ll answer since you’ve paid your bill.

His hand is a farmer’s hand, nails outlined with crescents of black earth, skin calloused, tough as a paw.

My mentors taught me anonymity,to be a blank screen, to reflectand hear the space betweenmy patients’words and their sighs,