Starby

I'm really interested in Freud and his theories so this is a poem that came to mind in a flash of inspiration. This is my weird sense of humour so be warned! I do actually agree with a lot of his theories, I'm not dissing them, it's just my humourous way.

A Conversation With Freud

At dinner, I said to Freud
it was good of him to come over
to leave his patients on the couch
for a good old heart to heart
over stuffing and roast lamb.
Freud replied he had to come
he knew subconsciously so.
I asked, man to man of course, what can I do?
My wife's out again, fifth time this week,
never know where, some bloke picks her up.
Tell me Freud, why does she do it?
Freud wiped his mouth on the neatly folded napkin.
My son, he said, we have to find the root, the cause of this hysteria.
It can only lie in early truama, some repressed memories from the oedpial stage,
somewhere, somehow, in her dysfunctional relationship with her father.
But Freud, I argued, she loved her father.
Aha, said Freud. That is the neurosis -
acting out unrequilted oedpial love, using men as love objects for her transference.
He added: her id and super-ego are in terrible conflict.
My admiration of his analysis increasing, I poured him the sherry.
What can we do Freud? I asked.
He scratched his scalp with a brief reflection.
She needs to bring to consciousness
this splitting of psyche, her wounded id.
Regressing to the point of fixation
would mend this transference neurosis.
Fixation? I questioned.
She is stuck at a point of infantile development, came the reply.
She needs to bring it to her consciousness
then she will no longer need
to act out repressed memories on other men.

At that point my wife returned
finding me staring into my empty glass.
Dear, she said, there's nothing in it.
Everything's in it, I replied.
If only I could've seen
the approaching neurosis.

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Even beautiful flowers have to grow through dirt

Edgewise

Very prosaic. I enjoyed the dialogue, though I am left questioning the poetic viability of the piece. On the one hand, you saw fit to post this in the poetry section, so you obviously consider it a poem. On the other hand, it reads like a story with line breaks. Nonetheless, like I said before, I enjoyed this.

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How can you expect a man who's warm to understand a man who's cold?
- Solzhenitsyn "Ivan Denisovich"

Starby

Thanks for your comments. It was intended as a narrative poem, hence its prosiac nature. I suppose it begs the question of what defines a poem, and what makes something not a poem. I don't think there's any clear boundaries on this.

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Even beautiful flowers have to grow through dirt