St. Christopher Carrying the Christ Child (Hieronymus Bosch)

#41

Five years my father spent in WWII
Running a mobile army field hospital.
In New Guinea, he killed an enemy soldier
As he attacked a patient--as would you.
A devout Catholic, he prayed for safe arrival.
To the broad-backed patron of the traveler
He promised to name a child Christopher.
How many men have made a similar offer?
In '69, the Church proclaimed the saint
A myth and struck him from the Calendar,
Nullifying centuries of anxious supplication.
Bosch's work was never daubs of paint.
The universe weighs on every shoulder,
As we lurch towards our next destination.

PARADISE

#4

How many eyes have seen the sun?
In the beginning, there were only four
That, commanded by an invisible power,
Could see nothing not part of a One.
Yes, it was beautiful and safe, though strange.
So much, like the sun, meant to be liked,
But not touched, seductive but spiked --
That terrifying fountain and mountain range.
They should not grasp what they couldn't use
When creatures went by in ones, not twos.
After a leopard dragged off and ate its prey,
They began to think, to create. When the Lord
Appeared to explain the snake, they ran away.
What was said no painting could record.

(Panel One from Hieronymus Bosch's "Garden of Earthly Delights".)

To view the entire work on a single page, click here.

Dulle Griet

A creature of prentice alchemy,
slack-jawed butcher, zombie,
wrote the last Deuteronomy
in egg on the first door to Hell.
In breastplate and iron cap (bell
in a tree-tin and distant knell),
Meg schemed the death God would flee
from hated lizards' bite and miss
the jaws of soldier-swigging fish,
but not her blood-sword avarice.
The sick crone ran, her dream to marry
hot in pots and pans she'd carry.

"He is a spy,
a bloodlust fly
circling the sty
above the sky,"

she said as the egg ashes fell
on all red, fecund infidels.
Her barrel insect monster's hiss
excited her waistless bogey-
man's ass to speak; it said, "I
eat and fart and then I die!"
The hysterical diablerie
on the witch inflicted flies.
God's dancing pipers' fantasy,
with spiders from a harp to kill
those who eat apples but can't piss
a lake in payment of the toll,
blow them long and bloody kisses.
His winking, trapdoor-blinkered eyes,
opened wide as windows, see
Mad Meg flee; she desperately
would rather he watch the enemy.