Pallas Athena

 Like the mighty titan, Pallas, distracted

By Zeus’ thunderous clap,

You, my Athena,

With your blazing grey eyes,

Have left me slain.

 

Your playful spear,

So sharp, so brilliant,

Forged in Olympian fire,

And thrust in jest,

Met little resistance

As it slid through my heart.

 

There I fell,

To your cries of lament,

In the puddle of my life

Without a drop on your divine hands.

***

(Minneapolis, MN -- June, 2018)

Just like the previous poem, this is also a product reading the Iliad. I don't think these poems are terrible, but the tone and imagery just isn't in line with what's hot these days.

Artemis

 In the star-lit forest, my Artemis,

To the frenzied sound of the satyr’s flute,

You strike me down with your bow,

Goldenrod growing from the blood

Of the fallen beast.

Your crown is of the finest herbs,

Perfume of roses,

The full moon in your eyes,

Thrush’s lilac song in your laugh.

Those birds whose flight prophecy,

Sweet goddess,

That all those nights spent in your soft embrace,

Our bodies, shining before our fire,

Were nothing but the delirium

Of a poor lost fool,

Doomed to die under the foreboding oaks

Of your unforgiving kingdom.

***

(Minneapolis, MN -- June, 2018)

As I was preparing myself for my move back to Ecuador, I got into the habit of waking up, running, going to my construction job, and reading Greek tragedies/epic poetry in bed beneath a giant ceiling fan. This, combined with my previous dive into Gothic Romance, resulted in a bunch of poems like this that take place in a dark forest with a mythological creature.

Pirate (Loosely in the style of Ginsberg)

 I was born to be a pirate.

Just look at this glorious,

red beard.

 

I want to swashbuckle.

I want to learn what it means

to swashbuckle.

 

I have no clue

but it sounds like

a gay ol’ time.

 

I’ll set sail for Tangiers.

I hear Kerouac and Burroughs calling,

            pushing my clipper

with their divine wind.

 

I’ll let Whitman

with his grubby hat

shiver my timbers.

 

Take my foot.

Take my hand.

I can see Eldorado

in my eye patch.

 

My rum legs jiggle

like jell-o

as the scurvy

pulls my teeth.

 

Wenches love my gums

and Neal Cassady

loves those wenches,

 

a magnificent, stoned

stow away

passed out in a barrel

in the belly of my vessel.

 

We’ll plunder

and steal

and stab

and search for booty.

 

The booty was in

our hearts all along.

Right?                 

 

On the sea-sick tide

I’ll peel off my verse,

like burned skin

to the caw of my parrot

mocking Garcia Lorca

under the gypsy sun.

***

(Minneapolis, MN -- February, 2018)

This is the third and final one of my poems about Romantic tropes that wasn't complete garbage. Name dropping, slightly dirty jokes, and Tangiers, I had fun using some plays out of Ginsberg's book to write this reflection on life on the high seas. 

Pastoral

 The shepherd rests peacefully among his flock,

their white cloaks like the clouds of heaven

shining under the abundant stars of the night,

a bottle of rum spilled at his side,

thunderous snores keeping the wolves at bay.

 

His infant son, shrieking with colic,

is held by his haggard mother,

too exhausted to soothe him,

kept awake night after damned night

by this emblem of the last five minutes of intimacy

shared with her apathetic husband.

 

In the morning, the rolling hills will bring the tax man,

hills that make the road to market near impossible to traverse,

that bring the horses to the brink,

with bulging eyes, raspy snorts, and frothing nostrils,

hills that hide bandits,

golden hills,

not the color of wealth or glory

but of piss and drought.

 

He will give them one month to pay up

before sheriff comes to take their land.

 

The air carries the heavy scent of the shit of livestock

the hidden corpses of rats

rotting dreams.

 

The air lifts the jets overhead,

shining serpents blocking their cries

from the ears of god,

filled with perfumed businessmen

with clean fingernails

snoozing with their earplugs and neck pillows.

***

(Cuenca, Ecuador – November, 2018)

Another poem from my collection of cheesy, Romantic cliché poems, this one is a twist on the classic pastoral. Instead of glorifying that lifestyle, I wanted to imagine all of the pains and anxieties that come with living off the grid and living off the land.

 

Lighthouse Keeper

 The sea will be my wife

As I watch over her day and night.

The winds will tease my salty beard

While she loves, torments, tosses, kills,

Dazzles.

 

Following my light to safety,

I will guide pilgrims through the night,

Entrusting them with my wisdom

From the tower of solitude.

 

I will know the seasons from the stars' glistening reflection

Upon the ripples,

And I will measure time

By the coming of the tide,

On the rare occasions that the hour matters.

 

The surf bashing the stony shore

And its sullen spray will remain

For days, months, years,

Always the same

And I will stay here, alone and in peace.

 

In the ocean's wrath,

Lightning will be my guide

And thunder, my Truth,

As I write page after page

Of poetry that nobody will ever read.

***

(Minneapolis, MN -- February, 2018)

A while back, I thought it would be fun to do a series of cheesy, over-the-top poems based on Romantic clichés. This is one of those poems. Is this poem original? No. Is it written using modern line breaks and tone? No. Do I like this poem? Yes. That's why I'm putting it here.