Remember the time you were
CarlJung in your office,
and a woman came to you, wearing 
a faraway look; a soft, directed gaze,
often upward, eyes focussed beyond the wall,
smile aimed at someone
you knew you would not see if you looked, 
but you did, once, nervously,
and saw perhaps no one
and she said, Carl Jung, you are the
Christ.

Remember how you looked away,
and felt a wild ambition, then said
No, I am CarlJung, and not the Christ;
not any Christ
at all, and a boa constrictor
leaped from her head
to yours, and you jumped, then calmed,
and the boa constrictor
curled itself about you
and she made a light to shine
upon You,
and you were God.

Remember how you struggled
to make Godhood go away, against
all reason, since you felt it; knew it,
made it something yours as well as
hers, and then temptation pressed and you
began to make a little tribe, with you
at Head, as Archetect, and forced the boa down,
away and down...swallowed and gone...
it never did evacuate;
Remember.

Remember what the people said
about your strangeness and your distance
and belief in the Collective
(Aryan) Unconscious Mind,
which led you parlous close
to Adolf Hitler, and you bucked
it just in time
for nineteen thirty-six;
you would not have been
at Nuremberg,
but you would have thought
you should:
Remember.

And remember how, when Sigmund laughed,
you thought he was a dirty little Jew
and were glad he would not be
in your religion,
and you left, weeping
with nostalgic sentiment and relief:
Remember.

And remember how I do not know
whether I remember this
or dream that I have
remembered it remembering me.

Retro me,
O Serpent spare;
Remember
on your own.

©  Copyright, 2000; Malcolm Beckett