A Catholic Condemns Parnassus

Sylvia favored swamp gases
and Wilde, men’s asses.

Robert Frost had a cold wife,
it was like screwing a pocket knife.

Denise Levertov climbed Black Mountain,
but was raped by hillbillies on Wolverton Mountain.

Delmore Schwartz hounded New York
as simple-minded as Peter Tork.

Anne Sexton told her cocker spaniel
that John Ashbery once cold-cocked a Spaniard.

Incidentally, there goes gigantic Charles Olson
with Hoover’s lover Tolson.

What poet from Harper’s Ferry
praised women if they had a cherry?

I know a poet from the Mid-West
who jumped from the Golden Gate without a vest.

They found his car in Tennessee
parked next to a jar of pity pee.

Wallace Stevens denied knowing anything
except why the caged birds sing.

Oh, God, the further back we go
the closer we get to Edgar Poe.

So, let’s go back to the future instead
and put our heads down on Sylvia’s bed.

See what she saw, feel what she felt
when by a kitchen appliance she knelt.

St. Peter met her on the appointed date
and scolded her towards the burning gate.

She charred her writing hand on the handle
when out stepped Jarrell, Randle.

Come on in, Sylvia, you’ll find that everybody is here,
every poet and poetess you hold dear.

Sit on the lava, sit on the coal,
it’s gonna get hotter before it gets old.

Don’t be shy, say the others, open your eyes.
As you can see, nobody bad ever dies.