Isn't Life

The man-headed calves
Came out of their caves,

Isn't life tragic enough?

Medusa frowned in her
Jeweled and gold rimmed mirror,

Isn't life mysterious enough?

Hercules was transformed instantly
by the gentle touch of Midas,

Isn't life abundant enough?

I curl inside myself as
A shield above a family mantle,

Isn't life comedy enough?

-Patrick Conners Jr

Like some heavy thing in deep water
~Dante, Paradiso III.123

You

You,
time is short
you would probably
                Say that
you usually do,
you.

They say we shouldn't
waste our lives
and give incredible advice
on shopping, etiquette,
fine dining.

Have a date with yourself
and show up late
but come up with the
most unbelievable
fantastic excuse
something you wish was true.

You know its christmas
soon
and everyone is trying to find the perfect
gift to say how much they love you
I hope, for you,
someone has the courage
to give you just those words
instead.

-Patrick Conners Jr

James Wright - Autumn Begins in Martins Ferry, Ohio

In the Shreve High football stadium,
I think of Polacks nursing long beers in Tiltonsville,
And gray faces of Negroes in the blast furnace at Benwood,
And the ruptured night watchman of Wheeling Steel,
Dreaming of heroes.

All the proud fathers are ashamed to go home.
Their women cluck like starved pullets,
Dying for love.

Therefore,
Their sons grow suicidally beautiful
At the beginning of October,
And gallop terribly against each other's bodies.

-James Wright
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15590

The Cross II: Poland Was Pink

The great rulers
                                of kings,
                the crown
                                of thorns,
                crafted
by wood
                from
                                His Cross.

Last Friday
                the World
was conquered!,
a great day
                                in history.
                                Thank Christ!.

Then the man left the
Church
Seeing
                only

                                Colors.

-Patrick Conners Jr

http://inspiredfortune.blogspot.com/2011/12/outline-of-history.html

The Cross I.

Standing before the
Cross for hours and
Breathing the very breath of our salvation.

A man in agony crawls
Through the portal;
The wide doors swallow
His wounds.

The transfiguration
Written on his face
Glows like holy scripture.
Tears, like holy water,
Wet his lips.

He approaches his own
Face erected upon the
Rough wood of the cross.

-Patrick Conners Jr

http://inspiredfortune.blogspot.com/2011/12/christ-i.html

Lady Lazarus - Sylvia Plath

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it-----

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?-------

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The Peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot ------
The big strip tease.
Gentleman , ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart---
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair on my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
Sylvia Plath, Lady Lazarus

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=esBLxyTFDxE