Myths are how we, as humans, made sense of the world. When we didn't understand something, we came up with a story for it. That's why I think storytelling and writing is so powerful. Just by making something intriguing turn into something common, we've advanced so far as a civilization. Stories, myths, and writing helps us make sense of the world. In some cases, it can even help us make sense of emotions that we feel. Some emotions that we can't understand ourselves. There are some feelings that we cannot describe with a single word. I try to describe such feelings with poetry instead.
I ask you not to enjoy these three four-lettered titles, but to instead feel them. Do they bring forth familiar emotions? Familiar thoughts, familiar faces, maybe? In any case, I accredit the ancient Greeks for the donation of their wise words and a plethora of myths which are the basis for these three poems.
Lyre
Of course Orpheus went after her.
It’s never too late to apologize because
it won’t kill you when you’re done.
Eurydice’s body is cold and her lips
are too pale to kiss.
Then Orpheus left her there and went.
It’s cold, dark where she is now.
We wait too long to admit when we’re wrong
and now Orpheus confronts Death.
He sings a song for him, a nameless one,
and Death sheds a single iron tear. It’s almost too late
to see Eurydice again.
Late, late, late,
and her body is rotting away up there.
Orpheus needs to act quick.
There’s a white shroud covering Eurydice
and her face can’t be seen.
Why did you hide in your room? Open the door
so Orpheus can take her hand
and guide her back home.
He can’t look at her until they’re back home.
Home is lonely and the air is cold
because I told you to close the door on your way out.
It swings ajar and the clouds are gray.
He climbs, Orpheus, and his fingers are bleeding
but he can’t let go of her.
Eurydice cries in pain. Eurydice shivers
and Orpheus can feel it. So he turns
to look at his love, to hold her.
It’s safe where I am and I’m safe with you.
Why don’t you come here so I can hold you?
But now Eurydice is gone, leaving behind nothing
but a white shroud drenched in tears.
I never said I was sorry and neither did you.
But Orpheus, he went back home empty
handed with a shroud over his shoulder.
Finally, you showed me your face,
and Orpheus missed Eurydice.
He plays a song for her, hiding himself
in a tear-soaked shroud.
Sit next to me. Stay silent, no need to say
sorry. Don’t look at my eyes, but please, listen
closely for a moment. Can you hear that?
I can; it’s the rhythm of Orpheus’ song, his nimble, bleeding fingers
plucking his lyre, blending with the beat of my heart.
It’s safe where we are.
Hill
Poor Sisyphus, he’s not strong
enough to push the boulder to the top of the hill.
He’s trying but it’s never enough.
Stare at him, the boulder keeps rolling down.
He’s just so weak. I am trying
To be stronger.
It’s a lost cause, laugh at Sisyphus because
I’m trying so hard to succeed.
That boulder is going to crush him,
that boulder is going to kill him.
But he can’t stop trying, I know I can’t
stop trying.
There’s blood spilling
down Sisyphus’ face
but he’s incapable of stopping.
Poor Sisyphus, he can’t stop trying
to get that boulder up there
and it keeps letting me down.
Stare at Sisyphus,
do you think you could
show me some mercy?
Maybe he should try
to smooth the edges of the boulder
so it rolls better.
He can’t, Sisyphus can’t do anything
to change the boulder.
He’s doomed, I have to push forever
but he’ll never die, he’ll never stop,
he’ll just push through
up the hill and back down.
His palms are scraped up, his nose is red
and he can’t breathe
through it so he opens his mouth.
But instead of a breath, Sisyphus lets out
a scream, a breathless shout,
inhuman and full of agony.
There's silence somewhere.
Maybe, maybe one day he can
finally push the boulder up,
maybe I can be free
in the place where there is nothing
but silence and calm.
Sisyphus, hopeful, brave.
Moist-eyed Sisyphus, boulder in between
his hands, Sisyphus climbing to the top.
Sisyphus, so tired and strong.
Rock
How could Prometheus live
With himself; he was warm
and they were down there, shivering.
It was warm on Olympus
when the hearth was lit.
It’s cold down there, he shouldn’t be
down there, they are mortal.
They are cold, Prometheus is warm
but he wants to see
what the humans would think of warmth.
A perfect world, except there burned
fire. There was a hearth.
Cradled in Prometheus’ large hands, humans
saw fire. He placed it in their homes,
and the air became warm.
He hoped the humans would think
he was good
for giving them fire
but they just stopped shivering.
They warmed
their hands and feet, their mouths were frozen shut.
Prometheus, distraught, thought he could
cradle the flames and take them back
to Olympus, but the humans
shoved him and told him to go
back to where it was warm.
But it was warm here,
why should he go back?
It would always be cold
where the humans were, fire is light
but never warmth.
Prometheus wept that warm night,
his fingertips are cold because the fire
isn’t in his hands
when he goes back to Olympus.
He’s sent to the mountain, to a tall rock
chained, by the humans’
villages, so they can all see
Prometheus’ fate, and he can see theirs.
His fate? Eternal torment,
the humans called it punishment,
for Prometheus is a thief, an outcast.
Their fate? Light
in their homes even after dark,
fire at their fingertips, they called it gift.
They called it their blessing.
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