“It isn’t what happened that lasts./ Not art, either, but the savory core. What’s felt.”

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Thinking of the letters Elizabeth Bishop wrote to her psychiatrist that I posted about yesterday,  here is a link to an article by poet Molly Peacock about her own therapist, called  My Analyst of 40 Years Had a Stroke—Then Became an Artist,” published in the Partisan Review (June 16, 2016.)

The topic of poets and their relationships with their therapists is a rather fascinating one. I assume we’ll see more stories about it in the following months, esp. after Peacock’s new book of poetry, The Analyst, “a new, visceral, twenty-first-century In Memoriamin which Peacock brilliantly tells the story of a decades-long patient-therapist relationship that now reverses and continues to evolve” (quote taken from the publisher’s description) is published next year. Here’s a poem from the upcoming book:

In Our Unexpected Future

Molly Peacock

Love-sadness prances across the flounces
of peach-gowned women in old-fashioned portraits
as an anniversary presses us toward them.
(Stick-stick: the sound of your cane tip on marble.)

Read rest of poem at The Hudson Review. Also see this interview with Peacock at Duende.

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