A Bedpan for Icarus?

Red Wolf Journal recently asked writers to create a poem “borrowed” in theme or language from a famous poem. I’m delighted that they chose my poem”Bedpan for Icarus” which was inspired by W.H. Auden’s work “Musée des Beaux Arts“.

You might recognize the opening lines. But the rest of the work is my own take on his theme. Auden’s poem means a lot to me because I kept reciting it in my head as my mother was dying. In the interest of full disclosure, I will admit that she passed away long before Dancing With The Stars existed. (She would not have been a fan!)

Read the poem here: http://redwolfjournal.com or below:

A Bedpan for Icarus

About suffering they were never wrong.

The Old Masters. How well they understood

its human position, how it takes place

when someone else is just scarfing down a burrito,

or adjusting their earbuds.

When my mother lay dying, her heart skipping beats,

her pulse losing rhythm,the nurses stood in the hallway,

outside her room, chatting normally,

taking bets on “Dancing With the Stars”,

ordering Mexican food for dinner.

Mother could have been Icarus, falling

from the sky, Icarus needing a bedpan.

I shook my fist at the nurses through the hospital curtain.

And yet, I should have known, we all turn away, quite leisurely,

from disaster, just as Breughel drew.

We run our eyes down the screen,

clicking even as the typhoon hits

the mosque is bombed, the small child drowns in the Rio Grande.

We hear the splash. We gulp and shake our heads, maybe

 mutter a prayer, And then, quite calmly, we move on.

Red Wolf Journal also recently accepted another one of my “borrowed” poems. Grounded:Seventh Day” was inspired by Wallace Steven’s famous “Sunday Morning.

You can read the poem in this link: http://Redwolfjournal.com or below:

Grounded: Seventh Day

Complacencies of the sweatpants,

and a late latte, and those really good blood

oranges from Trader Joe’s.

Stretched out on the couch, pecking at the tablet

like a cockatoo, in the holy hush

of NPR, with the news shrunk and week-end withered,

and then, later, after the laundry’s done, a few

hours along the river, barely a jog,

the day like wide water

without sound, not even church bells or a call to prayer,

disinterested in sacrifice or sepulcher,

just grounded on the soft moist earth

holding the entire bickering planet in the Light.