When a psy­cho­an­a­lyst became a painter after sur­viv­ing a stroke, her long­time patient, dis­tin­guished and beloved poet Mol­ly Pea­cock, took up a unique task. The Ana­lyst is a new, vis­cer­al, twen­ty-first cen­tu­ry ​“in memo­ri­am” of ambigu­ous loss in which Pea­cock bril­liant­ly tells the sto­ry of a decades-long patient-ther­a­pist rela­tion­ship that now revers­es and con­tin­ues to evolve. Pea­cock invig­o­rates the notion of poet­ry as word-paint­ing: A tapes­try of images, from a red enam­eled steam­er on a black stove to Tibetan monks fun­nel­ing glow­ing sand into a paint­ing, cre­ate the back­drop for her quest to define identity.

From ​“In Our Unex­pect­ed Future”: 

…for frocks out­last pil­lars. But feel­ings
out­live frocks. The imma­te­r­i­al storms through,
a force beyond years (a mere four since you
were near­ly felled). It isn’t what hap­pened that lasts.
Not art, either, but the savory core. What’s felt.

Vis­it­ing Scribe: Mol­ly Peacock

“I’m an Irish Molly”

Brush­es You Exchanged for Words

The Courage Inside Encouragement

Pick­ing Up the Brush. I Mean the Mop. I Mean the Brush