Volume 2

by

Michael R. Berman, M.D. 

Copyright 1994-1999  All Rights Reserved 

Evening's Song

I know the scents of evening's-light, 

The sweetness of its songs, 

And its taste of honeyed-dew 

That fills me as I watch it greet 

The fresh first light of dawn. 

I feel the silks of evening's-clouds 

Caress my weakened frame,

To the music of a symphony; 

Resounding, ringing, beating, singing 

Tearing at my pain. 

Beyond meadows, valleys, mountain-crests, 

River banks and streams,

I've known the joys of giving; 

Touching, caring, loving, 

For this is what I've dreamed.

As landscape's margins meld together 

As dusk seams itself with night, 

My body mends without it fearing:

...From the deepest darkness 

Comes the brightest light.

M.R. Berman January 23, 1995

 

A tribute to a colleague who is recovering from a bone marrow transplant as therapy for leukemia

 

  

The Covenant    

I am an artisan,

A painter of hues unfading 

To blend upon my pallet Infinite promise 

And emblazon on my soul 

A landscaped canvas

Stretched to infinity 

Between pillars of prayer. 

Neither stalked nor  

Conspired against am I. 

Only Fate has been my betrayer. 

And although the defenses 

Of my mortal flesh have weakened, 

The borders of my body 

And the cisterns of my soul 

Are strong, alive 

With pulses of blood

And liquors of hope. 

I will not lament  

Nor ask of this from you. 

I will not know defeat 

Or the wrath of any pain 

For I, like a solitary seedling 

That yearns to taste the falling rain, 

Know well that God's eyes alone 

Will shed but triumphant tears... 

...Upon my brow for me

And for my covenant of victory. 

M.R. Berman 1994 

 

Author's Note: After the defeat of her cancer, the patient for whom I wrote this poem conceived and delivered a healthy son ten years ago. Now she waits for heart transplantation surgery as her only hope for survival. This patient underwent her Heart transplant in December, 1995, and is currently recovering and doing well. 

 

 

Courtney

A wind rushes about me 

fueled by earth and sky 

to purify stagnant basins 

where thrives the praise 

of autumn's last remains, 

its gentle rain, 

its moonlit frost, 

the falling ocher leaves 

that cluster in brittle piles 

to blanket earthen roots 

whose petals now are lost... .

..and I, confined and desperate 

to smell the scent of pine 

adrift in winter's frigid winds 

in darkening December skies, 

about to touch the promise gleaned 

that now within me lies. 

 

M.R. Berman

October, 1994 

 

The anguish of many years of infertility and the near loss of this child from extreme prematurity inspired me to write this poem for my patient, about to deliver her daughter, Courtney. 

 

Longer Days 

Today, my senses are paralyzed 
In frozen chambers of dismay 
As in solitude I chant  
Silent notes of prayer.  

Like a leafless tree writhing,  
I long for blossoms  
At spring's first dawn 

When the brightest days 
Are longer than  
The darkest nights, 

When the breezes are warm,  
And the air is fresh  
With the scent of laurel, 

When climbs of roses  
Bring new hopes to bear 
And tears of time  
Drown my despair... 

...When oblivion is home  
To all my dismay. 

M.R. Berman 
February 7, 1995  

This poem was written for a patient who experienced abnormal bleeding from the onset of her long-planned pregnancy. Prental testing was carried out in an effort to establish the cause. A rare and fatal chromosome abnormality was discovered and she lost her pregnancy in her thirteenth week.  
 

Note: This patient completed her second pregnancy and delivered a healthy boy  
and is doing well. 

 

 

The New Year

As children lost and wandering
In a wood take steps in circles
In vain attempts to find their home,
So time appears again today
On his elliptic path through space,
Persistent in the annual search
For life's controlling foci-Death and Birth.
Roy G. Pearce, M.D. 

 

A Poem of Grief

The following poem by the wonderful poet Emily Dickenson is her solemn reflection on grief.  

With analytic eyes; 

I wonder if it weighs like mine, 

Or has an easier size.

I wonder if they bore it long, 

Or did it just begin?

I could not tell the date of mine, 

It feels so old a pain.

I wonder if it hurts to live, 

And if they have to try, 

And whether, could they choose between, 

They would not rather die.

I wonder if when years have piled-- 

Some thousands--on the cause 

Of early hurt, if such a lapse 

Could give them any pause

Or would they go on aching still 

Through centuries above, 

Enlightened to a larger pain 

By contrast with the love.

The grieved are many, 

I am told; The reason deeper lies,-- 

Death is but one and comes but once 

And only nails the eyes.

There's grief of want, and grief of cold,-- 

A sort they call 'despair,' 

There's banishment from native eyes, 

In sight of native air.

And though I may not guess the kind 

Correctly yet to me 

A piercing comfort it affords In passing Calvary,

To note the fashions of the cross 

Of those that stand alone

Still fascinated to presume

That some are like my own.

Emily Dickenson 

 

 

 

 

...Even The Stars Have Cried

In a room of silent tears

You gathered in your sorrow 
Hovered , hugged; 
Gazed bewildered; 
Asking "why I'll not live tomorrow?" 

In a room of silent tears; 
If I could, I'd cry; 
Out loud; To tell  
You of these moments 
Of why today I died. 

My lot was cast upon this hour…  
Which birth and death both share, 
Yet I understand the sense and reason: 
God calls; God loves; 
God cares. 

As I reside now in tranquillity 
As you grieve and say goodbye, 
Know you shed your tears 
With heaven's immortality, 
Yes, even the stars have cried. 
 
This  poem is written for a young couple who lost a pregnancy at 23 weeks. Their baby lived for 3 hours but was hopelessly premature weighing less than one pound at birth. This couple just cpmpleted a healthy full term pregnancy. 

Michael R. Berman, M.D. 
May 5, 1996 

 

 

"In my sad, quiet song"

In my sad, quiet song,

A melancholy air,  
I shall look deep and long  
At loss beyond compare,  
And with bitter tears,  
I'll pass my best years.  

Have the harsh fates ere now  
Let such a grief be felt,  
Has a more cruel blow  
Been by Dame Fortune dealt  
Than, O my heart and eyes!  
I see where his bier lies?  

In my springtime's gladness  
And flower of my young heart,  
I feel the deepest sadness  
Of the most grievous hurt.  
Nothing now my heart can fire  
But regret and desire.  

He who was my dearest  
Already is my plight.  
The day that shone the clearest  
For me is darkest night.  
There is nothing now so fine  
That I need make it mine.  

Deep in my eyes and heart  
A portrait has its place  
Which shows the world my hurt  
In the pallor of my face,  
Pale as when violets fade,  
True love's becoming shade.  

In my unwonted pain  
I can no more be still,  
Rising time and again  
To drive away my ill.  
All things good and bad  
Have lost the taste they had.  

And thus I always stay  
Whether in wood or meadow,  
Whether at dawn of day  
Or at the evening shadow.  
My heart feels ceaselessly  
Grief for his loss to me.  

Sometimes in such a place  
His image comes to me.  
The sweet smile on his face  
Up in a cloud I see.  
Then sudden in the mere  
I see his funeral bier.  

When I lie quietly  
Sleeping upon my couch,  
I hear him speak to me  
And I can feel his touch.  
In my duties each day  
He is near me alway.  

Nothing seems fine to me  
Unless he is therein.  
My heart will not agree  
Unless he is within.  
I lack all perfection  
In my cruel dejection.  

I shall cease my song now,  
My sad lament shall end  
Whose burden aye shall show  
True love can not pretend  
And, though we are apart,  
Grows no less in my heart.  

Mary, Queen of Scots, 1560  
In Bittersweet Within My Heart  
Translated and Edited by Robin Bell  
Chronicle Books, 1992, London, England  

This poem, from classic English literature, was written by Mary, Queen of Scots, at the age of seventeen, upon the death of her childhood friend and husband King Francis II. I have cited this poem for I feel it is a most poignant and beautiful poem of grieving.   

 

 

A BUD IN HEAVEN   

A Hygeia Registered User submitted the following comments and poems:

"This is a poem that my grandmother wrote long before I was born, she lost a baby to polio. My brother found it in a old trunk one day and gave it to me when my husband and I found out at term that our baby girl Jaden, born Dec, 18, 95. would not survive due to spina bifida and hydrocephly."  

A bud the gardener gave me, 

A fair and lovely child, 

He gave it to my keeping, 

To cherish undefiled.

  It lay upon my bossom, 

It was my hope and pride, 

Perhaps it was an idol, 

Which I must be denied. 

For just as it was opening 

To the glory of the day,

  Came down the heavenly gardener,

And took my bud away. 

Yet not in wrath he took her, 

A smile was on her face, 

As tenderly and kindly, 

He took her from her place. 

Fear not, I thought he whispered,

  Thy bud shall be restored. 

I take it but to plant it, 

In the garden of the Lord. 

He bade me not to sorrow, 

As those who helpless weep, 

For he who gave, has taken,

  And He who took can keep. 

So night and morn together, 

By the open gate of prayer, 

I go unto my darling 

And sit beside her there.   

 

 

 

On My First Son Ben Jonson 1573-1637

Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy! 

My sinne was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy, 

Seven yeeres thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay, 

Exacted by thy fate, on the just day. 

O, could I lose all Father, now. for why 

Will man lament the state he should envie? 

To have so soone scap'd world's and flesh's rage, 

And, if no other miserie, yet age? 

Rest in soft peace, and, ask'd, say here doth lye 

Ben jonson his best piece of poetrie: 

For whose sake, henceforth, all his vowes be such, 

As what he loves may never like too much.  

 

..My Heart Be Yours Forever

 

I make you both a promise In these my infant days, 

Half my heart be yours forever, 

The other for God- in praise. 

For he has blessed me with abundance, 

Granted more than I can give, 

Never will I feel dismay, ...Your love is why I live. 

When you hold me very close, 

Your pulse feels slow and sure 

Which calms the flutters of my heart 

And gives me hope that's pure. 

As my parents you are frightened 

That my tiny heart is frail 

That my body cannot endure assaults 

Fate to it assails. 

So I must tell you mother, father, 

I implore you...be assured 

Spirit transcends my adversities 

Horizons harbor my cure. 

Michael R. Berman, M.D. December, 1995

 
 

For a baby, sydney, born for a serious congenital heart defect and who survived and is thriving today.

Her mother just delivered a second healthy newborn.

 

 

The Cry of the Human

 

We tremble by the harmless bed

Of one loved and departed:

Our tears drop on the lips that said

Last night, 'be stronger-hearted!'

God,--to clasp those fingers close,

And yet to feel so lonely!--

To see alight upon such brows,

Which is the daylight only!

       Be pitiful, O God!

Elizabeth Barret Browning

 

 

The Passing Tides 

I loved the river: 

Enchanting.

I loved the wind: 

Caressing.

I loved the daylight: 

Soothing.

I loved the starlight:   

Haunting.

I loved my ‘dear ones’:   

Being.

I am now all I loved: 

Blessing. 

  

Written for a long time colleague who succumbed to the very disease he treated.

 

 

To the Child in My Heart 

 

Precious, tiny, sweet little one  
You will always be to me  
So perfect, pure, and innocent  
Just as you were meant to be.  

We dreamed of you and your life  
And all that it would be  
We waited and longed for you to come 
And join our family.  

We never had the chance to play,  
To laugh, to rock, to wiggle.  
We long to hold you, touch you now  
And listen to you giggle. 

I'll always be your mother.  
He'll always be your dad.  
You will always be our child,  
The child that we had.  

But now you're gone...but yet you're here. 
We'll sense you everywhere.  
You are our sorrow and our joy.  
There's love in every tear.  

Just know our love goes deep and strong.  
We'll forget you never-  
The child we had, but never had,  
And yet will have forever.  

Unknown 

 

 

Butterfly Breaths 
 
Every day awakens  
With kisses on your brow;   
With mist that veils the early light   
And hides the morning clouds.  
With butterfly breaths of longer days   
Where heard are fewer sighs,   
And echoes from a mountain's song,   
Dissolving plaintive cries.  
No longer will the seasons part   
The year; dividing into four.   
Now hours blend to days and weeks,   
Weeks to months, forever more.  
Every day awakens   
With visions of what's to be:   
Spheres full of joy and wonder,   
Timeless moments of Infinity.  

 

Michael R. Berman, M.D. May, 30, 1997   
This poem was written for a young girl, Ariel, who is undergoing therapy for cancer of the kidney.  

 

 

 

Startled and fascinated by the beauty and fragility 
          of your wings, I watch as you move 
                 so gently 
                        so quietly 
                               almost unexpectedly 
                                      through my world 
  And then I watch as you move on, 
          fluttering softly into the distance. 

  Pleading silently, I beg you, 
          please ... don't go. 
  I haven't yet had the time 
          to memorize 
                 to remember 
                        to understand 
          the uniqueness of the beauty that is yours. 

  I know I cannot hold you for long, 
          capturing you for my world. 

  But, rest gently with me 
          if only for a moment. 

  That I may treasure the memory 
          and the beauty of the gift that you are. 

"This poem was written in memory of a very special little boy, Lamar. I was his primary nurse and cared for Lamar during the two and one-half months thjat he was with us. He was born at 26 weeks to a drug-addcited mom. She visited him just once or twice and was not involved in his care. Because she chose to remain at a distance, I allowed myself to become very attached to Lamar and he became very special to me. He, in turn, was comforted by my voice and my touch. I held him as he died and he continues to hold a special place in my heart." Julia Bishop-Hahlo, R.N. Yale-New Haven Hospital Newborn Special Care Unit 

 

 

Soraque

(A Primitive Philipine Song)

Winds drift on ephemeral wings  
To watch the sun's veil lift.  
Distant, darkened skies crack clouds.  
Humans cry outloud.  

As I kneel to meet my death  
Mortal and frail, I fall  
With ravaged mind abused  
And hide in temples  

Of immortal winter sequestered  
From one life's end  
To the end of all and wait  
As infinity becomes my soul.  

M.R. Berman, M.D.   1994

 

Suri  

Earthen trails confuse in 

Lost loneliness of nightfall, 

Darkness that blinds 

My path is like shadows 

That fleet with the sun 

Rising and falling 

Appearing and disappearing. 

Yet in those aged fortressed forests 

Where loneliness and fear 

Bring profound blackness 

And where despair shivers 

Have I found my way

1994 

Michael R. Berman, M.D.  

 

 

For Oliver, Born of The Sun 

 

Our senses light ephmeral

Like a mist whose song is sung 

Upon the glory of the dawn, 

And then moments, 

Even hours later 

Stretches towards 

The silvered profiles 

Of slivered moons 

To watch as scars 

Crevice the substance 

Of your heart 

And mark its passage 

To our love;

...And now we dream 

As tiny angel breaths, 

Warm with endless promise, 

Melt to spawn 

Infinite acts of faith.

 

Michael R. Berman, M.D. 

August 16, 1997 

 

 

 

Return  
  
Return home  
Upon the long and winding road, 
Where etched is your pathos.  
You empowered the breeze  
To make shadows sway, 
Silent voices speak, 
And all grace rejoice. 

Return home 
Upon the long and winding road, 
Conjoined with faith, 
To dance among the boughs of spring. 

 

 

Obstare

 

I have stood here before

When birth deceived and

Surrendered to my hands

The very spirit and soul of humanity;

The essence of life, save life itself .

And I have touched before

The angle hair and silken skin;

A child lay bare, still and silent

In these outstretched hands

As my will cried out

To scream a breath of life

Into his pale lips

Now frozen in the mist

Of endless dreams.

Yet today I smile

As I have smiled before,

For from such drear

Comes a voice ;

A voice, so serene

That it transforms

The searing pain felt in

Our hearts into song;

Melting stones of sorrow

Into liquors of love,

Forever a memory

of our dear Child.

 

Michael R. Berman, M.D.

February 26, 1998

 

Obstare is the Latin root for Obstetrics

and means "to stand before"

 

Love Contained

for Andrew Ulrich and Joseph Mark

Music floats on streams

Of summer’s final breath

As rains of hope

Wash famine from my lips.

And now love contained

Within my marrow sleeps

And I am left to dream and wonder

While angst becomes my silent partner,

Dueling with the rain.

 

I love the music

Which floats on streams

Of summers final breath

And hear it even as

Sadness mutes its song.

For its rhythm is certain

As the pulse of my heart;

Its voice everlasting,

As my memory is long.

 

This poem was written for twin boys, Andrew and Joseph, who died before birth.  It was recited by their courageous parents at their sons' memorial service.

 

 

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