John Berryman, poem 175

Old King Cole was a merry old soul and a merry old soul was Henry
He called for his butts & he called for his bowl
& he called for his fiddlers three
in vain. Blank prose took hold of Henry's soul
considering all the deaths & considering.
There is a little life upstairs

playing her nursery rhymes to be considered
also. And there is a tall life in the car
to be considered.
And there is the life of Henry's characters
to be thought on, established from afar.
Henry has much to do.

Take a deep breath then, sigh, relax, continue.
This world is a solemn place, with room for tennis.
Everybody's mouth
is somewhere else, I know, somebody's anus.
I speak a mystery, only to you.
Here's all my blood in pawn.

-John Berryman, poem 175, The Dream Songs

June Metamorphoses

When these pebbles become flesh
When they reach, lust, and bless
The foaming waters at their knees
When these veins with their agony
Become tributes only to a lost story
The height of being ends at heaven
The flute and violin praise our passion
The ears are blocked in pride's fashion
This is to not know the origins of our waters
The man made of marble and straw
Whose face and hands feel time's gnaw
Wades to his waist in blackened seas
His wife in the garden makes paper dolls
To dance and stand in their waiting halls
They will fight for breath in love's trepid channels

Were they denied were they crippled and silent
Did they move with their dry tongues impotent
To the recesses and curves of the shy and strong

6/6/12

I swear by all the rivers
Of deepest Hell my best is done to conquer
Human ill; the best is not enough; taint
Must be cut from flesh as with a cleansing
Knife the body cured. I am protector
Of nymphs, fauns, satyrs, and small gods who wander
The village street, down lanes, up shaded hills;
Since we have found no home for them in heaven,
The lands they live in must be cleared of evil,
Where Lycaon, known for his will against me,
Walks like a beast and hides his traps in forests.

~ Ovid, the Metamorphoses

Secret Admirer

On Lungarno Acciaioli

I see
A woman sits with both legs dangling
Over the wall, her back
To the street. It is obvious
That she is either more brave or
Has more faith in humanity
Than I do.

I glance up to see her taking
A picture of me with my
Book of Bukowski open

I look back down to the street.
What I had thought earlier
Was a lizard turns out to be
A feather blown by the traffic.

Again, I look up and she is gone
I realize my eyes wont stay open,
and the wine's
Effect is passing.

My vision is lost down the street

P. Conners Jr.
Florence. May 22, 2012

Confessional

A woman on the street
In Florence
Taking signatures for
A petition
To help end drugs and aids
Made a pass at me
While telling me how
Famous Pittsburgh is,

And that I do not
Look American.
I guess I did catch some sun
That day.

Anyway, she looked me up
And down.

I
Accepted her offer to learn
A little Italian,
But remained clueless as to what
        and what it was
That any of this really meant.
        anyway,

After some negotiation we reached our terms.
So naturally,
I
            gave her a twenty and
Ran straight
Inside San Gaetano
Dodging carelessly down the
Bus lane

-p. Conners Jr.
Florence, May 22, 2012

Victims

I'm wearing beige Khakis, a maroon T, Red Vans, with an orange Hoody tied around my waist While a woman with Cropped black hair Walks under me In a white T announcing No More Fashion Victims. I wonder where in Florence I have ended up. And how long have I been sitting on This wall? A man rows his thin Boat down the Arno backwards. My back and ass hurt. It's time to find A balcony And more wine. Possibly a taxi?

p. Conners Jr.
Florence, May 22, 2012

A White Crane

I saw her swooping
In while I sat on the
Ledge on top of the wall
Before the Arno river, sparkling
In midday.
She fell into the water
Soundless and soft
Stayed still for a
Minute then into the
Reeds I lost her.
I returned to Bukowski
He told me
To get used to it.
The crane was seen for
A moment again before
Sailing off under
Arched bridges of
Heavy stone.
I've felt
Shame and accomplishment
Before.

-p. Conners Jr, Florence
May, 22 2012