Metamorphosis III (Escher)

#129

Birds, insects, and lizards live in cages
Whose bars and locks melt over the ages.
Their forms meld in imperceptible stages.
Their names disappear from taxonomic pages.
We know that nothing without time changes,
That duration inexorably deranges
Our genes, ideas, stars, and mountain ranges,
That metamorphoses aren't equal exchanges.
And then there's growing old, which nothing assuages.
We spend a life making babies and wages,
Then nothings such as mirrors enrage us,
And no comfort comes from priests or sages,
But this: not all is rust. Yes, everything ages,
A puissance that releases us from our cages.

The Bad Doctors (James Ensor)

#128

Three Scrips for Bad Doctors

Mr. Ill was given a potent pill
(And a bill), and though it didn't quite kill
Him, it induced the drafting of his will.
Doc Diploma diagnosed lymphoma
Upon sniffing whiffs of Ill's aroma.
Dr. Pain declared the patient insane:
"Shock therapy will teach him to complain!"

We assume eight years of school and residency
Is rich justification for complacency.
We trust there's nothing more to learn after all that.
Give those you can't diagnose a scrip, a kindly pat.
Has it occurred to you to do more research, stat?

The doctors (and a butcher) have almost killed the tapeworm.
Death stands by to assist physicians, the most welcome germ.

Pandora (John William Waterhouse)

#127

The Gods made her, the first woman, adding
A quality that Each held dear, which she
Never understood, not knowing her mind.
They found her indifference maddening,
So, out of spite, They also made her free,
And invented for her a double bind.
They made her alone, but full of desire
For something she could not identify;
A thing made of smooth pliant clay and mire,
She dreamed of caressing, not knowing why.
Taking pity, the Gods granted a rebirth,
An object to resolve her paradox.
Pandora did not loose Evil on earth,
But eagerly freed mankind from its box.

River Under the Trees (Gauguin)

#126

On low descending stairs, the river steps
Past pebbles and deadfall, seeking the end.
The trees watch -- silent, impassive adepts --
Unmindful of what lies beyond the bend.
I've tossed the fly a hundred thousand times
This afternoon and have not raised a trout,
Though I see them, shadows beneath the pines,
Elusive as a vaguely recalled doubt.
A pileated woodpecker alights
On a dead tree, plants himself, and, ripping
At an oblong hole, flings wood left and right -- 
All those scrambling ants he is sipping.
I leave the river before he's flown off,
My creel empty, my mind rasped and rough.

Witches' Sabbath (Goya)

#125

The Magus wears a garland of doll's eye,
Leaves, bare of fruit, on his horns -- the berries
Were for the withering of children's fears,
Though too often the tiny babies die.
A terrified young witch mother carries
Her lovechild into a circle of sneers,
Desperate to fondle the Goat's hoof,
In spite of a starveling's left-handed proof.
The witches gather with a wanton will.
Though none has yet to cast a spell with skill,
They believe coupling with the Magician
Will make them charm like a politician.
With moonset, the end of the Sabbath looms -- 
A gibbet of dead babes and gravid wombs.

The Healing of a Madman (Vittore Carpaccio)

#124

A madness in us all is a thwarted desire to see.
A painter cannot see beyond his frame and nor can we.
The Rialto Bridge is closed for now to the taller ships,
And men step gingerly across her pedestrian planks.
The pot-like chimneys equal in number the gathered swells,
Tradesmen and pols awaiting the news, that they may worship.
A miracle will soon be performed and they must give thanks,
Though in such proximity they sweat, and the canal smells.
Above, Querini touches the madman with a splinter
Said to come from the Holy Cross, attempting to enter
The man's darkened mind and let in the soft lights of Venice.
Failing, he kisses the beggar's eyes, an act of penance.
The weeping madman stoops and strokes the glittering vestments.

The Baleful Head (Edward Burne-Jones)

#123

In the apple orchard's clear, octagonal well,
The hero reveals the Gorgon's head to his prize.
He's killed the sea serpent before it ate the nude
Beauty her frightened father had offered to sell
To appease a god angered by arrogant lies.
But why show his bride-to-be what's vicious and lewd?
Medusa made man or woman adulterers.
Enchanted by her shameless, urgent moans,
Her mad green eyes and wild, seductive leers,
Their surging blood turned them to stone.
(They died dreaming of her enchanted caresses,
Not because they abhorred her serpentine tresses.)
Perseus seems eager for her to see the head --
A pledge of fidelity, or to inspire dread?