Nathan M. Simon is a training and supervising analyst at the St. Louis Psychoanalytic Institute. His medical training was at Washington University, residency at Yale, and he was the director of psychiatry at Jewish Hospital in St. Louis for 16 years. He received his analytic training at the Institute for Psychoanalysis in Chicago. He is in private practice in St. Louis, teaches at the St. Louis Psychoanalytic Institute and the St. Louis University Medical School, and is the director of the Schiele Clinic at the St. Louis Psychoanalytic Institute.
Simon's interest in literature and poetry has unfolded over his lifetime. He has written on a wide variety of subjects, which include: therapeutic abortion, heart disease, adoption, health-care delivery, and a book on psychological stress in intensive care units. Some of his poetry will be published in Friends of Acadia and New Millennium Writings.
Simon creates a delightful, earthy bridge between natural, everyday scenes and the events of the mind. With humor or a tightly woven image (as in his haikus) he evokes a sense in the reader that he or she knows these scenes and feelings, too. The result is a poetic déjà vu; a feeling of something in common with the author, and an easy entree to his writing.
Yesterday I realized my bird feederHas come to resemble my mindCrowded with starlings, pigeons, and gracklesArrogant, raucous, pterodactyl Jays.At the pole's base that fucking con artistSquirrel waits to take over.The elegant, quick finches, sparrows, buntingsCardinals, chickadees, rufous sided towheesShare perches and cup without strainFind room to feed til a banditClears the deck, exiles them to highIn the sweet gum or pyracantha thicket.Smeared, spotted nondescript blacks and graysGreedy beyond belief, ugly without reliefOf a single joke, they take over like terrorists.I believed the ad “Guaranteed to attractSmall song birds. Thwart large birds and squirrels.”“Thwart” my ass! Nothing thwarts the force of wanting.In my head rare flights of song bird joy,Ordered multihued harmony are drivenOff by starling-grackle thoughts in feedingFury showering seed cascades of feelingOut of the cup. If my head is everClear again I'll report it to the Audubon Society.
The fountain murmursIn summer's duskBeyond the hedgeThe white ghost looms.2Time has curled upIn the willowDusk slowly dripsDown its branches
Sheri Hunt, M.D., is a candidate at the Seattle Psychoanalytic Society and Institute in the adult training program and a graduate analyst in the child division. A published poet and member of TAP's editorial board, she welcomes readers' comments and suggestions at .