The Poetry Of.
Harold Lorin..............................................
Sisyphus
All in all it isn't bad,
The rock, the hill, the heavy days,
The grand expansive overarch of time,
It has been good for me.
For a metanym, I am in excellent condition.
Pushing the rock has hardened me and
The trembling hesitance that ends the day
Has made me philosophical and sage.
Each evening when the rumbling starts I stand above
The long view of the bay, the grove, the temple,
I am within the promise of the rosy-fingered eve.
And out beyond, I see the ancient wine-dark sea.
I am behind the rolling rock, among the playful goats,
Along the path we long have tread together
I have the cooling evening breeze as I descend,
Like all men toward the evening and the end of day.
And in the morning we will start again.
Climbing after breakfast from the radiant field,
Warmed by the Sun whose path is like our own.
We will ascend, the rock and I, once more, together
On the rising path within the buttercup and clover.
It is all, after all, in how you look at it.
Despite my epic reputation, my own life is not special
It lacks only an illusion of the chimera of a dream.
Where the goats do not climb, beyond our farthest point,
The heather blooms, the hill lies bright beneath the sky.
The rock is now my instrument. It is itself the reason.
There is nowhere else for us to be.
There is no edge over which we can be pushed.
Orpheus
He came out of the ground with his sorrow
And whispered the name �Eurydice.�
It was enough for us.
He was, after all, the Mystery.
We had no idea that her descent
Could be other than part of His story.
We had not followed upward toward the glimmer.
Nor felt the coming warmth, nor smelled the grass.
Nor seen him silhouetted in His sun.
Nor felt the sudden twisting downward.
Nor known the dark beyond our caring.
In the morning we hear him play.
The sun comes up. It is enough.
We do not miss her dance beneath the wide shy moon
Above the sea and hills beyond us.
We do not wonder what she might say
Of the signs at the center or creation.
Of what was hoped for us.
Of what had been intended.
Father
Gentle Joseph. Practical, skeptical.
Not believing all the stories.
Incredulous of angels,
Anyway married her and raised the child.
Went with him to the Temple.
Taught him a trade he'd barely use.
Loved him. Waited for grandchildren.
Was sometimes impatient, often disappointed.
The son never seemed to settle into things.
He had odd friends. Strange preoccupations.
Lacked concentration for the work.
Often spoiled a piece, splintered wood, made bad joins.
And one morning left the shop to find his cross.
Joseph. standing in the empty room
Looked at the bench, put an adz away,
Inhaled the mingled smells of wood and time,
Shrugged, and like all fathers
Hoped only for the best.
