The agony of Laocoön

Treachery and disaster
A warning unheeded
“Trust not the Horse”
“Beware the Greeks bearing gifts”
A hurled spear
Sways no opinions
Only angers the petty gods
Athena rages from on high
Shaking the very pillars of the Earth
Steals Laocoon’s vision
Yes, it’s desperate measures
“Burn the horse, burn the horse
And you will see what I cannot”

But the Goddess was with the Greeks that day
“Feel my wrath and pay with your life,
And the lives of your sons”

Stinging venom, teeth like knives
The serpents rose from the sea
Agony and suffering, muscles straining
Contorted in pain, Laocoon has no redeemer

Header Image: Detail from The Procession of the Trojan Horse in Troy by Domenico Tiepolo (1773), inspired by Virgil’s Aeneid

Louie St. Louis

Louie St. Louis was a rogue of a man
With slick moves and great style
Smelled of smoke and red wine

Liked to dance with the ladies
Till the wee hours of the night
Made outrageous promises, all of them lies

Lure them back to his rooms
With sweet words and soft kisses
But a dance with the Devil was the fate of these Misses

Inspired by a bit of street art from Amsterdam 

An Irish Airman Forsees His Death – W.B. Yeats

William Butler Yeats, an Irishman, a poet and one of the foremost figures of Twentieth Century Literature, served as an Irish senator for two terms, founded The Abbey Theatre and served as its chief during its formative years. In 1923 he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature as the first Irishman so honored, for “inspired poetry, which in a highly artistic form gives expression to the spirit of a whole nation.” He died in France in 1939 and was buried in Roquebrune-Cap-Martin. In 1948, his body was removed to Drumcliff in County Sligo. The epitaph on his grave stone is taken from one of his final poems:

“Cast a cold Eye
On Life, on Death.
Horsemen, pass by!”

During The Great War, when men still had visions of glory, Yeats composed this poem…

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tummult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.