December 27, 1975
Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
The Analyst
What was it like in 1967, he muses
Saying, "Yes I was an analyst and
They were my patients."
Yes, I could look at people and
Tell them, "This is what is wrong!"
All through my short life I've been
adjusting maladies for broken-hearted
wisps desiring love - and I will
prescribe large doses of hope
and the wisps will blow away,
because hope cannot retain them.
Is it because of this, he asks himself,
That I have slammed my casebook
And why I say, "no, I cannot
read you like a book," but all the
time saying, "She loves me anyway."
I cannot write poetry anymore - and
I will idolize past efforts as they
gather dust on my shelf.
I cannot analyze people anymore -
and yet I will say - she loves me -
Poor thing.
And poetry is a weapon if it speaks
the truth.
I laugh and say, "No I'm not in love,"
And I will get questioning gazes
from her eyes -
Which I will turn away from -
And what is it that I want
from her?
Ah, I am a scoundrel telling people
oh, I cannot analyze while all the
time I analyze with analytical precision
She loves me
She loves me not
And my head is filled with all these
thoughts and I can't express myself -
And times are I think I'm going
to explode.
I am a painted canvas
Which you will have to read
And when you scratch the paint
to find out if I'm a copy
then you will either love me or hate me
And I cannot tell you
What will be the end result
Because I am such a bad analyst
when I try to analyze myself.
copyright 1999-2006 by Michael F. Nyiri
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