Poetry
Photo by Siddhant Kumar on Unsplash
Atlas Shrugged
Atlas shrugged, farted, coughed
Scratched his crotch and squatted.
The ball rolled off his shoulders;
That was a relief. Comparatively speaking
He has no beef with living. Unlike
That guy Prometheus, his liver is intact;
He doesn’t have to grow it back every morning
Just to let some bird eat it, over and over.
He’s no Agamemnon either; he never
Killed anyone, especially a daughter
Never led an army or reveled in slaughter
And had to hire Apollo for his defense.
Which doesn’t mean he isn’t weary,
Couldn’t use a break from it all, all the
Shouting, all the nonsense; Zeus
Fathering a trans son-daughter, sprung
From his own head, for instance
Out of fear of some fortune teller.
And thank God he’s no Oedipus Rex.
The abuse, the gnashing of gritted teeth,
The unwanted, unasked-for sex, the rage
Guilt and assorted misbehavior are Greek to him.
No need, really for complaining about
His little ailments: a problem with his lower
Back; bad breath in the morning; gas; flat
Feet; knees that ache in certain places – he
Should see a doctor about that. Meanwhile
Life goes on. Be grateful is what he thinks.
At least he’s not in the traces like Sisyphus.
That poor chap, rolling his boulder uphill nowhere fast.
He, Atlas, gets to set his own burden down, now
And then. He’s free to speak on his own behalf,
Eat a golden apple once in a while,
Once in a while take a little nap.
Minotaur
Entombed as he is in the labyrinth of his mind
Without windows or door
His voice interpreted as grunt or howl
The days pass like permanent shadows
Bearing the weight of stone.
There is a hero in the story, of course;
There always is.
Like a matador he will prevail
Sidestep mortal danger as he must;
Otherwise what story would they tell?
Who would they say is the monster
Groaning in the dark
Who the hero, descending
Sightless passageways, sword in hand?
The Minotaur has no other home
Does not own his own story
Waits wordless for the world’s telling
His slaughter justified in legend.
In his death throws he will appeal
To the gods he assumes made him;
They will remain necessarily silent.
Ark
At the ramp’s foot the uniformed
Stand guard with their clipboards
“Two by two!” they shout
Remembering only too well how
Yesterday the ragged hordes cried
“Take me! Take me!” storming their
Way up the quivering gang plank
And had to be thrown out again;
How they ran in desperate circles
Around the boat moaning and pleading
“I have family waiting for me! They
Will take me in! Please!”
The uniforms know better.
“No, they won’t! On this vessel
You have no rank or special standing!
No room for your stories or personal effects.
Your relationships mean nothing here!”
The peacocks flounce and preen
In their own self-appointed queue.
“Form two lines!”
The guards rage, annoyed.
“Get back! No one is going anywhere!”
This is when the money appears.
“Give this to Mr. Noah! Please! He
Knows me! I worked for him!”
“Back in line or you’ll receive a beating!”
The uniform palms the bills; “So!”
Waves his stick around and shouts:
“Where are the aardvarks? Damn you, quick!
It’s starting to rain!”
Drops do indeed begin to fall
Like stones from the storm-mad sky
Disappearing into the clouds of dust
That rise from the abject plain
Only to collapse against the Ark’s
Rough-hewn hull planking.
“Hurry! What’s wrong with you!
We will give your places away!
You think we have nothing else to do?
Ducks now!” they bellow, consulting their list
The anxious crowd presses forward.
The uniforms look for the strong;
Those who can pull the oars
Or provide other services.
They yank them from the sucking throng
The chosen who will replenish the earth
Drag them onboard until the staves groan
And the Ark shivers.
At last the waters begin to rise,
Forming a moat around the stranded ship.
“Enough! That’s all we can take! No more!
Go home! The rest of you are on your own!”
The saved stare down from the railing
Wet with rain, avoid the wild
Eyes of the lost
Now hoof-deep, now up to their bellies, shoulders, necks
Their mouths stretched open
The dark surface closes over their wailing.
Groaning under its anxious load
The Ark shifts, begins to lift then drifts in the invisible current
Toward the future.
Still there is no one on the bridge
Noah, after all this time, if he is even present
Remains hidden.
Heads bob in the directionless river
Then disappear.
The ship obeys the flood
Does as it is bidden.