Between Hours is a new collection of poetry put together by Salman Akhtar. It was a labor of love for Akhtar and the 10 poets whose work is featured in the anthology. A unique compilation, it features solely poetry written by psychoanalysts. These are the hidden weavings, inner visualizations, and middle-of-the-night connections produced by the deep workings of psychoanalytic inspiration.
Ten poets, 10 thumbnail sketches of each poet, and 10 poems each, a prologue, and an epilogue comprise this slim volume. The poems on the following page give a taste of what is in the anthology; a collective of wisdom and creation.
Sheri Butler Hunt, M.D., is a graduate analyst in the adult and child divisions at the Seattle Psychoanalytic Society and Institute. A published poet and member of TAP's editorial board, she welcomes readers' comments and suggestions at annseattle1@gmail.com.
Conceptions
A big black clouddropped two smiling raindropsin the purple courtyardof the lotus on a satin lake.A blue owland a pink mynahflew out of the flower.And the flower undulated with waves of lusty pride.
Worthless Angels
On this fork in my trailWho can truly sense my conflict?Who can show me the right path?The one who cries with my paindoes not knowwhich way to go.The one whose counsel is astutefeels not my longing to take the other route.
Poetry in the Suburbs
(The reporter asks, “Why would this suburban town need a poet laureate?”)
We don't need poetry in the suburbs, here.We have drive-thru, and take-out, and deliveryand that is plenty.We have no midnights, where fear grows teethand no daylight to pull them; we have burglar alarms.No ball ever bounces foul here; no hero quails.We have X-box.No mother sits vigil by her child's bed at night,her chest so tight she hitches her breathand offers everything she has,everything she will ever have,grasping for the words to make the promiseand the strength to say it—“please.”We don't need poetry here.No girl's heart peers out from beneath the thorn bush of her discontent;No colt-legged boy wears his like a beacon, or a chain.We have free parking, and mowed lawns,And the smell of new paving never leaves the air.And if the tattered man at the off ramp, holding a sign“Homeless—Will work—Anything helps—God Bless”Makes us tremble and look away, we don't need a way to say to him,