Sisyphus

sisyphusjpg

It was there, the mountain.
Like all heroes and poets,
he knew it was an impossible task;

the slow surmounting of the past,
the vein struggle against history,
the repetitions of repetitions,

endless cycles of the same;
that difference came through deceit,
through cunning and craft,

rather than some miracle of mind or talent;
genius was not some gift out of time,
but rather the temerity of the dammed

and the lucky, the one’s who persisted
against the merciless cracks in reality,
bringing gusto where the world despising

all kept to its illusive dance of traces,
those overt openings to the world unseen;
while he instead looked on in sensual glory,

silently gathering that power to succeed
where others had failed, gone over and under.
The hold on him of this task to repeat, begin again;

retry the same circuit, but differently;
open himself to ridicule, to fate, necessity;
a particular bent, an angle (some called it

a ‘conduct of life’, an ethos, a slant into things):
this alone gave him – if not hope, then fervor,
a laughter deeper than time, a quickening

to earliness; knowing that with each pass
the subtle art of inventiveness, the grooves
that marked the hill with continuity,

would sooner, than later, slide away, expose
a world beneath the mountains dark tracks;
a swerve into newness that the others had overlooked,

despised, misrecognized; responding differently
than those precursors of the mountain sublime,
he’d step cleanly through the roof of the world.


– Steven Craig Hickman ©2015 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.

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