Poetry Thursdays is our initiative to highlight poetry and prose by medical students, with a new post every Thursday. If you are interested in contributing or would like to learn more, please contact our editors.
Contributing Writer
UCLA David Geffen School of Medicine
Harika Kottakota is a medical student at the UCLA David Geffen School of Medicine in Los Angeles, California, class of 2025. In 2020, she graduated from Stanford University with a Bachelors of Science in Biology with Interdisciplinary Honors in Science, Technology, and Society. She has published her poetry both online and in print, including Pager Publications (forthcoming 2024), Los Angeles Global Health Conference (April 2024), Pegasus Physician Writers Press (2022) and American Medical Women’s Association (2021). She enjoys hiking, watching movies, reading historical fiction, comedy shows and finding the best coffee spots in town. In the future, Harika plans to pursue a career in pediatric neurology.
– a spoken word piece dedicated to the generous donors and their families of the Donor Body Program at UCLA David Geffen School of Medicine The air grows heavy from bearing the weight of all our questions and our intentions to learn, to transform into the healers we’ve sworn to become. So often, I stand where the sun’s rays and fluorescent bulbs meld together. Where sounds renounce harmony – with papers rustling, and steel …
Waiting in the snow for the 43, Mind focused on the cold. The bitter wind, the bus kneeling Propelled me into the warm blue and yellow interior But the driver told me Wait, I let the elderly off first And I waited, Thanked her for her thoughtfulness, Shared the weather sentiment, And sat. My husband won’t turn up the heat at home, she said. But I’ve always been cold. I caught her eye …
My patient sleeps peacefully. I wake him guiltily. I don’t want my face to be the first he sees. We love you, Pop-Pop, the whiteboard reads. No code, the chart reads. Later the neurology attending hurriedly packs his case reflex hammer flying. My wife went into labor He says. I’ve got to get going. I sit, in the empty conference room, feeling something a little like joy, a little like loss. The presentation about gait …
As you search your closet / For your scrub cap, / Stethoscope, / And pants,
I am moving, yet I am going nowhere. I am going nowhere, yet I have come a long way. I do not count how many go by, but each spin demands that I keep moving. With every rotation, I take another step, another leap, one jump on this Earth. These cycles fly by, so much so that I can almost hear them as they whoosh over my head in an instant, making seconds go slow.
A bag full of dreams was all my mind possessed, / To leave my mark on the turbulent sands of time and be respected,
Finally, it’s been three months since // He and I were strangers with bad blood, / breathless in bed, / discussing the acts of giving and / receiving as indulgences, / mulling over our motivations and / the contraindications for / charity.
this weekend / I went to the sunflower patch / swinging arms with my mom and sister / starry eyed at the fields of bright gold yellow / nestled in the blue of the mountains around us.
In clinics bustling, time’s in demand, / We blend precision with a caring hand, / Not just cases or names on the roll call, / But, Patients’ stories, our familial call.
Sunshine, in the mornings, / spills. It / slips and slithers as it / tills.
Endless alarms, coffee to-go, Adidas tennis shoes toe to toe. / Password guesses, ID scans, room by room — endless lands.
Choice confounds a control / Whose jurisdiction knows no bounds
Contributing Writer
Mayo Clinic Alix School of Medicine
Maia Young is a third year medical student at Mayo Clinic Alix School of Medicine, who is spellbound by the intimacy, mechanisms, and excitement within the field of anesthesiology. She envisions a career translating her medical skills to settings across resource spectra and national borders. In the meantime, she listens closely, shares generously, communicates creatively, and loves deeply.
