2 - Poetry

I felt the ache in my head,
The cranial vessels’ pulsing beat,
My restless, trembling legs in bed,
The tingling in the soles of my feet.

I felt the weight in my chest,
A dull pain, a persistent throbbing.
I felt the fatigue that comes without rest,
My eyelids heavy, my head nodding.

I felt the fire in my heart,
The caustic acids that stain and burn.
I felt the words that scar and smart;
My eyes water, and my stomach turns.

My doctor, in his compassion and skills,
Pondered my symptoms, noted the signs,
And after diagnosing, he prescribed my pills.
Blessed assurance!  I knew I’d be fine.

I still feel the dull pain in my head,
The cold voices saying I’m not good enough,
The loss of vigor on a path long tread
When the going’s rough, and rough’s too much.

I still feel the weight in my chest,
A silent anguish, a dire longing.
I still feel weary always giving my best
And yet never really fully belonging.

I still feel the flames in my heart,
Kindled by wounds, emotional yet real,
Searing every broken part,
Telling me who to love, how to feel.

Though often physically expressed,
Emotional hurts, silently endured,
Are least likely vocally confessed 
And more often spiritually cured.

Those whom faith makes reticent
Peer into the body just fine.
Science is their medicine.
Blessed assurance!  My God is mine.

For power’s not only in the doctor’s hands
But also in the Master Healer’s touch,
As I’m the one whom He fully understands.
Blessed assurance!  His grace is enough.  

---

Ed Meyer, Ph.D., is an assistant professor in the Department of Neurobiology and Developmental Sciences.

1

high tech and high touch 
treatment scans and MRI’s 
where is the high touch    

2

covid-19 lands,
people suffer, gasp and die.
Life goes on somehow.

3

when a patient dies
people mourn; still the daisies
bloom again in spring.

---

Paulette Mehta, M.D., is a professor in the Department of Internal Medicine.

Princess bedside and stand-up telephones. 
Landlines. Ma Bell. 
Telephone booths. 
Victrolas. 78 and 45 rpm records.

Ash trays. Analog photography.
Alarm clocks. Walkman. Transistor radios.
Beta and VHS. Tape cassettes.
Vacuum tubes. IBM desktop typewriters.

Blockbuster stores. Telegrams.
News reels at the movies. 
Air mail and Special Delivery.
Three cent stamps. Fountain pens.

Oldsmobile. Pontiac. 
Nash Rambler. Plymouth.
Spark plugs. Packard. Edsel. 
Rumble seats. Leaded gasoline.

Rhodesia. Belgian Congo. 
Washington Star. New York Herald Tribune
Hotel lobby toilets, some with dime stalls.
Motel vibrating beds for a quarter.

.

Elevator operators. Hotel page boys.
Top hats. Hamburg hats.
Girdles. Stockings with seams up the back
Women wearing hats in Catholic church.

Chocolate malted milk shakes. 
Banana splits. Royal Crown Cola. 
Crudities on the table at restaurants. 
White Castle’s dime hamburgers.

Children born to married parents. 
People saying “You’re welcome.”
Walking straight to the airport gate. 
Mincemeat pie at Thanksgiving.

Black rhinoceros. White rhinoceros. 
Grevy’s zebras. Addax. 
Pangolins. Mountain gorillas. 
Smallpox. Chernobyl. 

Are we next?

---

Frederick Guggenheim, M.D., is Professor Emeritus in the Department of Psychiatry, College of Medicine. 

On a lazy Sunday, 
I sit in the sun,
reading a book by the swing. 
Some shadows watch over
the unturned page, 
and me,
if I fall asleep.

There is this crowd that walks with me
when I walk alone.
Some dear ones sit around the table,
When I sit alone.

On a tired day, I sit by the fire.
In my head are some forgotten words
of a harvest song.
I hum that tune.
Off tune.
A chorus sings along.
When I sing alone.

This crowd is not of strangers.
They have names and I know them.
Warm breath, and warm hands.
So close I held them.

My first dog. 
Then the other one.
A bird, a mouse,
some dear patients, a mentor,
a friend or two.
A dear uncle and an aunt,
a sister, a brother,
a grandma, a dad, 
and yes, some children too.

As I smell a flower and look at the sky full of rain,
as I read a book or cook a meal,
they walk around me-
loving, chatting noiselessly.

They didn’t pass, and I didn’t move on.
Moving with me is the crowd.

At the stove, there is a familiar smell:
a recipe I know so well.
Grandma.

On another day,
the floor has my cut hair
falling to the ground.
It’s a shade of black and brown.
I have seen these colors and felt that exact hair run through my fingers.
I combed it back and kissed a head, to which I said
‘now go play’.
My child.

I laugh at a joke in the Reader’s Digest
and a dad seems to lean back on his chair, 
trying to catch his breath,
laughing just like that.
My father.

I tease a friend and know those words 
those that I said before.
Retold stories, 
shared memories.
Old friends.

They don’t move on, neither do I.
Moving with me is this crowd.

It could be painful
if I try to let them go,
like a part of me.
It’s crazy but comfortable
when I let them stay.
They are a part of me.

This crowd around me

The crowd helps me stand straighter,
hold my head higher,
extend my hand to a firm handshake
or to wipe a tear.

I don’t hold the memory
neither do I cry anymore.
I live and laugh loudly
quite like before.

They wait around,
Just in case I need a story,
Just in case I need a laugh
Or flavors of sips of tea.
They live with me,
the posthumous crowd.

---

Manisha Singh, M.D., is an Associate Professor in the Department of Internal Medicine in the College of Medicine at UAMS.

There are days I am disillusioned,
When I am bereft of my purpose,
Alone in my office,
Peering out my window
While the rain is pouring down.

Then I read their words,
Hear their voices,
Remember their faces, 
And relish their smiles.
Then I remember. . .

I am a champion for the learners,
A guide on their journey.
Their passion inspires me, 
And though I am their teacher,
They are teaching me.

I am not a healer,
Nor have I held a life in my hands.
Yet I peered into the eyes of those
Who will one day be healers
And hold my life in theirs.

Though I profess the intricacies
Of the body,
The art of the human form,
They convey a more noble cause
To restore it when broken.

They are my students.
I am but their teacher.
Since they give my life meaning,
Though they are not yet healers,
They are already healing me.

---

Edgar Meyer, Ph.D., is an assistant professor in the Department of Neurobiology and Developmental Sciences.

Do you ever feel like a shirt,
With wooden clips pinning your shoulders to the line,
Left blowing in the wind to dry,
With your colors bleaching under blue sky?
Do you ever feel like a sock,
Bought extra in a pack of three,
Left in the crease of a washing machine,
Each cycle bringing swirls of new dirt and clean?

Do you ever feel like a blazer,
Complementing a blue button up,
With fitting cuffs level with the first thumb,
And a flower-pinned lapel smelling sweet as plum?
Do you ever feel like fresh underwear,
Sought out like the last clean pair,
Slipping on with ease with only a folding crease,
And fitting the form of hips with fleeting Tide whiffs?

I feel everything,
I am a shirt that is both clean and dirty,
Cycling through the laundry each week,
Tidying myself for a new day,
Getting dirty the same day.

---

Mason Belue is a medical student at UAMS.

In ancient times the knights rode out to cheers and loud applause,
To fight our foes, those armed heroes, took up our common cause,
And now a gentler sort suits up to face our fears and ills,
They wear clear shields and masks and gloves to fight this one who kills.

God bless and keep you, fearless ones, who face this threat for all,
And keep us mindful of our debt to you who took this call.

---

Lee Archer, M.D., is the chair of the Department of Neurology.

Do you notice me?
Do you see my soul?
Or does attire blind you?
And is all I am a role?

We all have a part to play
And I play mine well
So I keep on performing
In this living Hell

Do you know what it costs me?
Do you see the price I pay?
You may see a coat of white
But I see a world of gray

I make a great impression
But you don’t know the real me
I am hidden in plain sight
White coat anonymity

---

Tyler Estes is a M.D./M.P.H. student at UAMS.

I dreamt I had a garden

in the backyard of a home

that doesn’t actually exist.

It wasn’t a large garden, 

and it wasn’t a large home, 

but I was content and I was proud.

The yard was mostly well kept,

but not the garden—

It was overgrown,

and I couldn’t walk the plotted path.

The weeds had taken it over.

I could see that the produce was plenty,

though I couldn’t recall

what was planted.

I could see something

that looked like cabbage.

I wanted badly to tend the garden,

to do something healthy

that I would enjoy, 

though I knew that first 

the weeds must be cleared.

But the day had grown too dark,

and I needed equipment

that I didn’t yet have,

so I would need to be patient.

And I was not only at peace—

I was free.

---

Rachel Armes is a program coordinator in the Institute for Digital Health and Innovation at UAMS.

It is a long story. This is a short version:
I was about to die.
I was about to make room for new people.
My job was going to be the dream job
of someone who has been waiting for a break.
But I was stubborn; I was not sure I wanted to expire
and the doctors knew too much about death’s tricks,
so, I lived for a while longer, because, also, someone died
her heart was still beating.
So, in a barbarous display of art and cunning
the surgeons carved the dead woman’s chest
and cut her heart out for me.

The empty cavity of my chest waited like a yearning womb
like a bride at midnight, while the doctors held
in their obtuse machinery of death, the flicker of my life,
and the other person’s heart entered me, it filled my chest
and eagerly resumed its mandates of drums and cymbals
blowing, pumping, hissing, blindly loyal to the blood.
And in an instant the other person and I fused, bride and groom,
my life and her life, half in half, betrothed
surrendered to the mystery of electricity and flesh.

---

Carlos C. Gomez