The Sword in the Stone, by Louise Glück:
My analyst looked up briefly.
Naturally I couldn't see him
but I had learned, in our years together,
to intuit these movements. As usual,
he refused to acknowledge
whether or not I was right. My ingenuity versus
his evasiveness: our little game.
At such moments, I felt the analysis
was flourishing: it seemed to bring out in me
a sly vivaciousness I was
inclined to repress. My analyst's
indifference to my performances
was now immensely soothing. An intimacy
had grown between us
like a forest around a castle.
The blinds were closed. Vacillating
bars of light advanced across the carpeting.
Through a small strip above the window sill,
I saw the outside world.
The closing line of this (much longer) poem, reminded me of one of my favourite songs. “we artists are just children at our games”:
But just then my knees give under me
My head feels weak and suddenly
It's clear to see, it's not them, but me
Who's lost my self-identity
As I hide behind these books I read
While scribbling my poetry
Like art could save a wretch like me
With some ideal ideology
That no one could hope to achieve
And I'm never real, it's just a sketch of me
And everything I've made is trite and cheap and a waste
Of paint, of tape, of time
Mark Carrigan 