Almost thirty years ago I figured that I was one of the highest paid poets in the US for one year. The way I figured it was that I won a prize for a poem that began with the lines “My baby’s raised by Sigmund Freud. /I get annoyed by the questions.” I divided the number of lines in my poem with the amount on the check and it was way more than what the New Yorker Magazine was paying for poetry that year. In the meantime, I completely forgot about the poem and, in fact, almost completely forgot it. So for Red Room I tried to reconstruct it but of course, thirty years does a lot to memory and experience. So here’s the formerly prize-winning poem as remembered:
My baby’s raised by Sigmund Freud.
I get annoyed by the questions.
In the deepest shadows of 2AM
A father’s doubts are chilling.
Was that a footfall in the night
Or a baby turning in his crib?
This night is dark and deep and holy
But so was last night and the night before and so will be all the nights to come.
Freud had ideas and I don’t trust them but Jung could arm wrestle the bastard
While all I can do is stay up and worry.
Holy fuck. Fuck that’s how I got here.
Freud is fucking with my baby’s head
And a father’s work is never done.
(c) Copyright 2012 Red Room. Material on this site is the property of contributing members of the Red Room Community. Please do not copy any part of this publication. Thank you.