The Psychologist - Poem by Briony Nicholls
Saw a psychologist today for the first time
But the cold damp weather dampened the room
Of heart-to-heart discussions. My voice permeated
Its air of uneasy silences and stale shadows that
Drone innumerable silent tensions and grief
About all the treachery on the outside that has been.
The psychologist is braced for all manner of bizarre storms -
Even for perfect ones if need be -
For it is her job (Lord help her sometimes) ,
To be like the seaside boulder on the beach, that is
Pounded endlessly each day by the ceaseless waves -
Now with an eaten away hole in its heart after all that has been.
The psychologist launched impeccable professional sympathy
To my neat arrangement of exotic psychological wares,
Before I couldn’t help puncturing her air with a sharp
“No! Perfection is now absolutely critical! ” rebuke.
The psychologist, stunned in splintering confusion,
Could only stare and stare at the strangely seated person
Who, in a colossal wave, began spinning and weaving
A whole cupboard of intricate intrigues out of which
Many ghosts emerged from long buried dead concerns
Complete with the old knives and forks that were
Once used to eat them. The psychologist could only stare and stare
At the catharsis in his swirling dance, who
Now a demonic black-caged panther was
Twitching and pacing angrily in his small cave
His yellow sallow eyes against black fur
Mesmerising the psychologist like a hypnotised bird
Into a whirlpool of strange tongues and strange intimations, until -
Time is finally up! And the psychologist snaps shut
To safety at last, quickly erasing her look of relief!
With his climactic sentence suddenly choked in,
The client is ushered out of the damp stale office
With the stolid hunch of a defeated baboon
His spirit crashing, falling as he is embraced and
Devoured by the patiently waiting steel-gray afternoon
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