Did you miss poems about Sisyphus?
Yes, the guy forever rolling the stone uphill. One of the reasons the myth of Sisyphus is so enduring (says me) is that it parallels our understanding that sometimes things have consequences that can’t be changed. No matter what we do, how sorry we might (eventually, if not at first) be for our actions, the consequences can’t be changed.
We’re stuck with the results. And the results of others’ actions as well. We may be angry or upset about the things we can’t change . Another day, we may be more accepting. But the dish is broken, the house is burned, the kids and grandkids grow up and move away.
Of course, the consequences we are most upset about are the ones we think we could have prevented, or that we think we still might be able to change. Sisyphus would be one of those people who are too stubborn to give up belief in his ability to control or change the world. While at the same time being too smart not to realize he has no control over the situation.
No choice but to plug away at the task he’s been given.
This week’s poem is a villanelle, an originally French form that has come over into English with some popularity. It is a nineteen-line form that requires both the repeat of certain rhymes and the repeat of certain lines. It is a tight structure that feels as if it is circling around its subject. But you can read more about the structure of a villanelle, along with a famous Dylan Thomas villanelle here.
With no more preamble, here’s this week’s poem:
Sisyphus’ Song
Each day recalls the last, a clone:
forgotten minutes, vanished into air.
At the end, all that’s left is stone,
up or down its course, its narrow zone.
Some result to show would be fair,
yet each day recalls the last, a clone.
No one stops to hear complaint, or moan,
nor plea nor bargain; there’s not a care.
At the end, all that’s left is stone
and echoing voices. You hear your own.
No home is refuge, no cave, no lair.
Each day recalls the last, a clone
under cloudless skies, exposed, shown
for all to consider, to stare
at your end, where all that’s left is stone
and creaking effort sunk in bone.
What’s too much to bear?
Each day recalls the last, a clone.
At the end, all that’s left is stone.
If you enjoyed Sisyphus’ Song
You’ll find more of my poems on this blog or in the collection Stars Crawl Out From Their Caves, which is available in both ebook and print.
Missed a poem of the week? Links to prior weeks are on this page.