Reports of the death of psychoanalysis are exaggerated, as Adam Phillips’ elegant, elusive writing shows

Grief

The piercing grief, the dagget in the throat

The feel of choking hands, the ruptured heart

Every part is hurting in such pain

The waves roll in again, again, again

There is a layer of grief trapped in the skin.

We need a soothing touch it is no sin.

I close my eyes against the demon pain

Touch me, darling, touch me once again.

l long to hear your key turn in the lock

My inner wrist weeps, love, it’s you I lack

The roses by your gate

Revealed my sweet fate:

That I would love you in summertime,

That my poetry would always rhyme,

That a dream of petals falling from above

Would drench us both with sunshine’s golden love;

That we would fall into deep grassy meadows

Full of daisies,lie on our backs.

Swallows Darting across the sky would see

Our shapes intertwined with bright buttercups. Who knows when love will erupt

And carry us on its flowing waters To places unreachable in summer saunters? Into the eye of love itself.