Reviews for Textbook of administrative psychiatry

The average rating for Textbook of administrative psychiatry based on 2 reviews is 5 stars.

Review # 1 was written on 2010-12-04 00:00:00 Amanda Winborne "ROSA No coração delicadamente envolto Desta rosa branca, um olho paciente, O olho do amor, Sabe quem sou, e onde tenho estado Esta noite, e o que eu queria ter feito. Tenho estado a olhar esta rosa branca Durante horas, imaginando Cada tremor de cada pétala como um alento Que nos aquieta e alivia. «Olha esta rosa», dizia-te Se aqui estivesses: «é um sinal Do que é breve, e solitário E se enamora.» Mas como foste embora, vou chamá-la sabida: Um alento paciente, um olho, uma rosa Que abre tão sem custo, e cai sem vida." (Georgia O'Keeffe, "Abstraction White Rose")

Review # 2 was written on 2015-12-18 00:00:00 Jack Parler Sr Fifty Poems contains all thirty-three pieces from The Visit , with some revisions and in a slightly different order, and a further seventeen written after that first books appeared... Retreat A minute pulsation of blood-red Invades one corner of your wounded eye. You hear it throb In perfect harmony with our despair And I'm no comfort to you any more. * Friends 'At one time we wanted nothing more Than to wake up in each other's arms.' Old enemy, You want to live for ever And I don't Was the last pact we made On our last afternoon together. * In Dreams To live like this: One hand in yours, the other Murderously cold; one eye Pretending to watch over you, The other blind. We live in dreams: These sentimental afternoons, These silent vows, How we would starve without them. * Bedtime Story From your cautiously parked car We watch the lights go out Along this reputable cul-de-sac. Your garden furniture Sleeps in a haze of cultivated blossom And the two trees you have been working on All summer Doze beside your garden gate. 'So many families. So many friends.' In love at last, you can imagine them Pyjama'd and half-pissed Extinguishing another perfect day. * Poet 'Light fails; the world sucks on the winter dark And everywhere Huge cities are surrendering their ghosts . . .' The poet, listening for other lives Like his, begins again: 'And it is all Folly . . .' * Critique In Cornwall, from the shelter of your bungalow You found the sea 'compassionate' And then 'monotonous', Though never, in all fairness, 'Inconnue'. There was no hiding it. Your poems wouldn't do. We sat on for another hour or two, Old literary pals, You chewing on your J and B And me with you dud manuscripts Face downward on my knee. 'It's been a long time,' you said, 'I'll race you to the sea.' * Ghosts The scrubbed, magnificently decked coffin Skates, like a new ship, into the fiery deep. On dry land, The congregation rustles to its knees. From my corner pew I command an unobstructed view Of your departure. If you had been lying on your side I might have caught your unsuspecting eye. Out on the patio, at dusk, The floral tributes. I could almost swear That it was you I saw Sniffing the wreath-scented air And counting the bowed heads of your bereaved. * Rose In the delicately shrouded heart Of this white rose, a patient eye, The eye of love, Knows who i am, and where I've been Tonight, and what I wish I'd done. I have been watching this white rose For hours, imagining Each tremor of each petal to be like a breath That silences and soothes. 'Look at it,' I'd say to you If you were here: 'it is a sign Of what is belief, and lonely And in love.' But you had gone and so I'll call it wise: A patient breath, an eye, a rose That opens up too easily and dies. * Anniversary You have forgotten almost everything We promised never to let go. I even wonder if you know Why at the dead of night you went with me To face those blindly drifting gusts of snow, Why it had to be that route we took And not the other, why After all that's gone between us We still seem to be together. In this dreadeningly harsh weather It's a waste of breath trying to explain Over again. You walk ahead Unsteadily. I let you. A red coat Disappearing into snow; the green branch You were carrying abandoned: Separate lives Now distantly marooned. You're small, and smaller still With every move you make. In ten seconds we will hear it break. * Returning It isn't far. Come with me. There's a path We used to take. There is a stream, A thin ripple, really, of what stones Dislodged from a dilapidated boundary Between two now-forgotten fields; There is a tree, a muddily abandoned sprawl Off-balance - the one tall thing You could see from where I walked with her. What it all looks like now I wouldn't know, But come with me. It was an early dusk On that day too, and just as sickeningly cold, And when I called to her: 'It isn't far,' She said: 'You go.' Somewhere ahead of us I thought I could foresee A silence, a new path, A clean sweep of solitude, downhill. Dear friend, I wish you could have seen This place when it was at its best, When I was, But it isn't far. It isn't far. Come with me. * Remember This You won't remember this, but I will: A gradually tightening avenue of trees And where it locks What seems from here the most yearningly delicate Intrusion of white leaves May yet blacken the unclouded pool of sun That summons you. Keep going Even though I mean to stay; keep going Even though I can't any more imagine What I'll find most hard to bear On the way back from here, On the way home To where we first vowed we'd try again to say: You won't remember this. * New Year You are not with me, and for all I know You may not have survived. The weather's 'almost gone' You used to say And so it has. Lost child Look over there: this unprofitable Three dozen yards of land, still fortified Against non-residents, has had its day; The trees you couldn't climb, Fatigued, are clownishly spiked out On an expressionless, half-darkened wall of sky. Home far from home. So far as I can see, none of it, Nor of us, my love, minds much what's next to go: Another lapse of the delighted heart That's given up on you, Another pleasantness to wait for, and then wait again, Then wait; the infant lawns You weren't supposed to walk on, semi-swamps Of glitteringly drenched green. * Colours Yes, I suppose you taught us something. That bottle-green priest's dressing-gown, For instance, that they tried to tog you up in For your last overnight at the Infirmary. 'My Celtic shroud,' you called it And when no one laughed: 'Before morning Your dear daddy will be Ibrox blue.' * Familiars If you were to look up now you would see The moon, the bridge, the ambulance, The road back into town. The river weeds You crouch in seem a yard shorter, A shade more featherishly purple Than they were this time last year; The caverns of 'your bridge' Less brilliantly jet-black than I remember them. Even from up here, though, I can tell It's the same unfathomable prayer: If you were to look up now would you see Your moon-man swimming through the moonlit air? * Larkinesque Your solicitor and mine sit side by side In front of us, in Courtroom Number Three. It's cut and dried, They've told us, a sure-fire decree: No property disputes, no tug-of-love, No bitching about maintenance. Well done. All that remains Is for the Judge to 'wrap it up', and that's how come We sit here, also side by side (Although to each of us we are 'the other side'), And listen to Forbes-Robertson and Smythe, Our champions, relax. It turns out, natch, They went tot he same school, That neither of them ever thought The other had it in him to . . . and yet, Well, here they were, each peddling Divorces for a crust. Too bloody true. And did not each of them remember well Old Spotty Moses and his 'magic snake', Mott Harrison's appalling breath, Butch Akenside's Flamboyant, rather pushy suicide? Indeed. Where were they now? (Aside, That is to say, from Akenside.) Ah well, 'And you, old man, did you, well, take the plunge?' No bloody fear: Forbes-Robertson, it seems, Keeps Labradors, and Smythe keeps his relationships 'Strictly Socratic'. When you'd seen What they'd seen . . . and so on. Their rhythms were becoming Larkinesque And so would mine if I were made to do This kind of thing more often. As it is, The morning sun, far from 'unhindered', animates The hands i used to write about with 'lyric force'. Your hands Now clutching a slim volume of dead writs. * House Work How can I keep it steady? Don't you see The weakened plank, dead-centre? And I can't believe that you can fail to hear This slight but certain tremor underfoot When you steal in, so lovingly invisible, To polish my condemned, three-legged desk. * The Forties 'The self that has survived those trashy years', Its 'austere virtue' magically intact. Well then, He must have asked himself, is this The 'this is it'; that encapsulable Life I never thought to find And didn't seek: beginning at the middle So that in the end The damage is outlived by the repair? At forty-five I'm father of the house now and at dusk You'll see me take my 'evening stroll' Down to the dozing lily pond: From our rear deck, one hundred and eleven yards. And there I'll pause, half-sober, without pain And seem to listen; bu no longer 'listen out'. And at my back, Eight windows, a veranda, the neat plot For your (why not?) 'organic greens', The trellis that needs fixing, that I'll fix.