"This is Just to Say": Poetry Challenge - Manhattan Institute for Psychoanalysis

Last night, to while away the time and to dispel our anxiety over the current situation, my husband and I started to play around with altering real poems to reflect the world today. This turned out to be a great deal of fun. So I thought I’d share one of our joint efforts, and at the same time invite you to do the same.

So . . . challenge on! Find a poem (or part of a poem, or even the one I have used) and rewrite it to make it a reflection of some aspect of your current experience. It doesn’t have to be funny; it can be whatever you want it to be. It can also be a fun family activity. Please share your efforts with us all in the comments section below, for laughs, or tears, or whatever.

Here’s ours:

Original Poem

This is Just to Say
(1934)
by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

Rewritten Version

This is Just to Say, 2020

I have used up
the tissues
that were by
the toilet

and which
you were probably
saving
for your turn

Forgive me
they were absorbent
so clean
and so soft

Debora M. Worth, LCSW, is a graduate of the Manhattan Institute for Psychoanalysis. She is faculty, supervisor, and training analyst at MIP, and served as co-director of the institute from 2007 to 2012. In addition, she is teaching and supervising faculty in the Child and Adolescent Training Program at the William Alanson White Institute. She is in private practice in New York City, working with adults, couples, children and adolescents.

To contribute to the special series on COVID-19, send blog posts of up to ~1,000 words (read full submission guidelines here) to Analysis Now blog co-editors Justine Duhr at justinetduhr@gmail.com and Robert Levin at rob@robertlevinlcsw.com.

If you enjoyed this post, we recommend:
Special Series on COVID-19 by Justine Duhr, MFA, and Robert Levin, LCSW
Thinking Analytically in the Time of COVID-19 by Sandra Green, LCSW
Minding COVID-19: Re-establishing Communication Through Mentalizing by Troy Becker, Psy.D.
How Can We Wake up From This Bad Dream? by Irina Simidchieva
An Elegy for My Office From a Psychoanalyst Working Remotely by Blair Casdin, LCSW
Psychoanalysis in the Time of Plague: This *Is* Psychoanalysis! by Veronica Csillag, LCSW
Uncommon Teletherapy Suggestions by Andrew Hartz, Ph.D.

Constance M

· Reply

April 15, 2020 at 8:09 PM

LOL.

Cynthia Chalker

April 15, 2020 at 11:47 PM

“new bones”

we will wear
new bones again.
we will leave
these rainy days,
break out through
another mouth
into sun and honey time.
worlds buzz over us like bees,
we be splendid in new bones.
other people think they know
how long life is.
how strong life is.
we know.
———————-Lucille Clifton

Cynthia Chalker
· Reply

April 16, 2020 at 12:40 AM

Oops! Didn’t read all of the of the directions!
- Debora Worth
  · Reply
  
  Author
  
  April 16, 2020 at 7:21 AM
  
  Cynthia, I can’t wait to read your re-written version!

Sandra Green

April 17, 2020 at 12:10 PM

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
Robert Frost, 1923

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

* * *
Rewritten Version 2020

Whose ‘Hood this is I think I know,
So many neighbors missing though;
There’s none to mind me stopping here
Alas, there’s nowhere else to go.

My trusty dog must think it queer
To pass when there’s a dog run near
‘Tween Central Park and Avenue
The darkest season of the year.

She toots a bark, puts on her brakes
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the blare
Of sirens rushing everywhere.

The park’s a lovely, peaceful space,
But I have many meals to make,
And time to bide until we’re safe,
And time to bide until we’re safe.

Debora Worth

Author

April 17, 2020 at 2:24 PM

Sandra, I love your version. Maybe titled “Stopping by Woods on a COVID Evening”? C’mon, the rest of you, rise to the challenge! It’s time for us all to fly different creative juices….

April 17, 2020 at 2:25 PM

Actually, that should be “Stopping by ‘Hoods on a COVID Evening”.

Justine Duhr

April 18, 2020 at 9:05 PM

Sick
Shel Siverstein

“I cannot go to school today,”
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
“I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I’m going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I’ve counted sixteen chicken pox
And there’s one more—that’s seventeen,
And don’t you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut—my eyes are blue—
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I’m sure that my left leg is broke—
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button’s caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle’s sprained,
My ‘pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb.
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow’s bent, my spine ain’t straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is—what?
What’s that? What’s that you say?
You say today is. . . Saturday?
G’bye, I’m going out to play!”

***

Sick, 2020

We cannot go outside today,
We’ve quarantined without delay.
We have a virus like the flu,
We really don’t know what to do.
We cough and wheeze and gasp and choke,
Our hospitals are good as broke.
We wear our gloves and don our masks,
We must to do the simplest tasks.
It is a fearful thing to shop,
When oh when will this all stop?
We wait at home, shelter inside,
There seems to be no place to hide.
These tiny germs that go unseen,
Someone please wake us from this dream!
Some pray for help from up above,
Some far away from those we love.
We miss each other so darn much,
Our faces that we don’t dare touch.
How hard it is to watch the news,
We sink into the deepest blues.
We all have ways we try to cope,
Our strategies for finding hope.
Some cry or sleep or knit or paint,
Some carry on without complaint.
We read a book or cook a meal,
And tell ourselves this isn’t real.
A thing like this we never thought:
This brand new sickness we’ve all caught.
So often now we wash our hands,
Can’t claim that we have any pla—what?
What’s that? What’s that you say?
You say that it’s almost… May?
We are so close, yet so far away.