Père Lachaise:
Four Sonnets in a Sequence–
A Visit to the Tomb of Frédéric Chopin;
A Visit to the Tomb
of Oscar Wilde;
A Visit to the Tomb
Abelard and Heloïse; A Message from the Grave
of Jim Morrison
A Visit to the Tomb of Frédéric Chopin
Perhaps the worst my life could mean was, “Love
Of arts and women were a bit too much
Alike.” A little souvenir—a glove,
Some melody trailed out at length—are such
Banalities as we can hope for when
Our candlelight performances are done.
Or maybe that is harsh. But then again,
What sort of consolation can be won
From hearing that Mallorcan tour guides tell
The tourists, “George Sand lived with Mozart here
Among these cloisters”? Now in this deaf cell,
Without her breasts or notes to touch, I fear
The flowers left by folk from some farm town
In Poland are . . . something of a let down.
A Visit to the Tomb
of Oscar Wilde
Perhaps the most my tomb implies is, “Love
Was never made of stone and so is strong.”
The genitals of granite carved above
Me on that angel did not last for long.
Some vandal hacked them off for love of hate.
Most people’s lives are far too real, are too
Like Gothic angels made from crippled weight
(Of circumstance and bills and cabbage stew).
We cannot hope to fly. But my
Endeavors were to shape the scenes and blend
Life’s mumbled facts in such a way that I
Would be director and the lead. The end
Was melodrama at its worst. The heart
Collaborates with weaker forms of art.
A Visit to the Tomb
Abelard and Heloïse
Perhaps the best that can be said is, “Love
Has withered to a possibility
Instead of fact.” Whereas there was a grove
Located in our past, it drooped to be
Lacuna-like, a barren landscape where,
Denied of hope, the orchard soon became
Pathetic as a gap of pages, prayer
Annihilated from Books of Hours (lame
Now), though the borders once encouraged leaf
Designs with fictive flowers and mythic beasts.
A convent disestablished by gashed grief,
Love lies in ruin and cynicism feasts,
Eating away devotion’s scattered stones.
Come prophesy, Ezekiel, to our bones.
A Message from the Grave
of Jim Morrison
Perhaps the boring facts in life are drugs.
At least that was my own experience.
I settled young to suckling at the dugs
Of Using Druggish Momma, had no sense
About how brilliant my mind was without
That shit, and so I popped the pills (bliss!), took
The snorts, and drank the drink. My lovely snout
(Ha Ha) is what death-dosed me. I mistook
Some heroin for cocaine, snuffed the lot,
And then my woman went out to let me
Die alone. My death came in expensive snot,
The door to my last serendipity.
..How wearisome, ho hum, dull. What a way
….To go. Let’s hear it for using. Hooray!