The sand that trails from the fist
of this chill February wind
collects in slant cones and wedges,
wreaths the foot of the memorial plinth,
drifts up the drives of hotels;
a soft wind-sifted plume
combs through the crocus
and sidles slyly into town.
I watch him sweep his pile,
try to imagine him happy,
but his cheeks are pinched with cold
and his mouth masked by a scarf.
The wind plucks at his yellow jacket,
tugs at his trousers.
He reaches for a shovel,
his wind-bleared eyes
blind to the flats of sand beyond the dunes,
to the grey sheen of the distant sea;
blind to the dull metal of the sky
and the snow-pecked Cumbrian fells;
blind to the absurd imps that stream
from the peak of his pile
that tease away, over his boot
and back along the promenade.
Sisyphus at St Anne’s
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BenJohnson
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I like it you have captured the drudgery of a job that will never end, great title for this piece too.
The word fist caught me in the first line, at first it didn't strike true, but reflecting on it I guess you mean a fistful of sand and the sand trickling out of it as it would in an actual fist.
A also thought on first reading that there was a lot he was blind to without telling us what he could see, again on re-reading the first stanza on things he was blind to sets us up nicely for his (seeming) unawareness of the grains of sand escaping his pile.
I fear for my critique abilities, like so much else on here I just find this excellent.
I like the counterpoint of your thoughts against what you can see.I watch him sweep his pile,
try to imagine him happy,
but his cheeks are pinched with cold
and his mouth masked by a scarf.
The word fist caught me in the first line, at first it didn't strike true, but reflecting on it I guess you mean a fistful of sand and the sand trickling out of it as it would in an actual fist.
A also thought on first reading that there was a lot he was blind to without telling us what he could see, again on re-reading the first stanza on things he was blind to sets us up nicely for his (seeming) unawareness of the grains of sand escaping his pile.
I fear for my critique abilities, like so much else on here I just find this excellent.
Sorry amergin, but while I relish some of the language (especially 'slant cones and wedges'), I find the overall piece unspectacular, and I don't think it lives up to its aesthetic polish.
The thing for me is that you haven't really done anything useful with the myth. You've applied it to a modern example (a leaf sweeper by any chance?), but it's quite a literal application. To me, there isn't anything new in your use of Sisyphus; you've basically paraphrased the myth. And there's no real surprise in the use of it because you've sign-posted it so clearly in the title. Maybe if you left the myth more implied, tried to go beyond the myth (does the myth satisfactorily summarise this scene?), or attempted to give your own take on the myth (is there anything that doesn't sit comfortably with the writer?), then this would succeed much more. But for now, apologies, it doesn't for me.
If you're interested, here's an example of 'doing the myth' by a very contemporary poet (it works for me not only because Szirtes mixes and matches his myths in the poem, but because the poem is so savagely contemporary but in a magic realism kind of way):
Sisyphus
When Sisyphus enters the hotel
he drops his bags. He rings the bell.
This is, he checks, Pensione Hell?
Charon emerges through a door.
It is all that and something more,
What can we do for the signor?
Sisyphus glances at the stairs.
You could relieve me of my cares
by taking my baggage. Your affairs
are strictly your own. I assume
you'll want the very topmost room.
Here are the keys. It's like a tomb
up there and Sisyphus sleeps alone,
or would if he could. He's stretched out prone
and wide awake. He hears the stone
muttering in its metal box
sealed in the biggest case. He blocks
his ears. The bed he lies on gently rocks.
Hotel life. Baggage. Minibar.
TV. Remote control. They are
migrating souls who've travelled far
to get to places such as these
as if they cured some vague disease
but were themselves diseased. The keys
are weighing down his pockets. Night
comes on suddenly like a flashlight
or mysterious loss of appetite.
The bedside phone. The trouser press
in the cupboard. Emptiness
in drawers and bins. Last known address.
The stone rolls out along the bed
and comes to rest beside his head.
He thinks, therefore he must be, dead.
The bill arrives some six months later.
The room yawns open as a crater.
The stone comes down the elevator.
Hope you don't mind me popping another poem up here, but I thought it'd be useful to see.
Dave
The thing for me is that you haven't really done anything useful with the myth. You've applied it to a modern example (a leaf sweeper by any chance?), but it's quite a literal application. To me, there isn't anything new in your use of Sisyphus; you've basically paraphrased the myth. And there's no real surprise in the use of it because you've sign-posted it so clearly in the title. Maybe if you left the myth more implied, tried to go beyond the myth (does the myth satisfactorily summarise this scene?), or attempted to give your own take on the myth (is there anything that doesn't sit comfortably with the writer?), then this would succeed much more. But for now, apologies, it doesn't for me.
If you're interested, here's an example of 'doing the myth' by a very contemporary poet (it works for me not only because Szirtes mixes and matches his myths in the poem, but because the poem is so savagely contemporary but in a magic realism kind of way):
Sisyphus
When Sisyphus enters the hotel
he drops his bags. He rings the bell.
This is, he checks, Pensione Hell?
Charon emerges through a door.
It is all that and something more,
What can we do for the signor?
Sisyphus glances at the stairs.
You could relieve me of my cares
by taking my baggage. Your affairs
are strictly your own. I assume
you'll want the very topmost room.
Here are the keys. It's like a tomb
up there and Sisyphus sleeps alone,
or would if he could. He's stretched out prone
and wide awake. He hears the stone
muttering in its metal box
sealed in the biggest case. He blocks
his ears. The bed he lies on gently rocks.
Hotel life. Baggage. Minibar.
TV. Remote control. They are
migrating souls who've travelled far
to get to places such as these
as if they cured some vague disease
but were themselves diseased. The keys
are weighing down his pockets. Night
comes on suddenly like a flashlight
or mysterious loss of appetite.
The bedside phone. The trouser press
in the cupboard. Emptiness
in drawers and bins. Last known address.
The stone rolls out along the bed
and comes to rest beside his head.
He thinks, therefore he must be, dead.
The bill arrives some six months later.
The room yawns open as a crater.
The stone comes down the elevator.
Hope you don't mind me popping another poem up here, but I thought it'd be useful to see.
Dave
Thank you both for your time and reading. Dave, I was referring more to the Camus essay than the myth itself. I saw this man sweeping sand (a punishment at St Anne's rather than a job) as a perfect example of the absurdity of modern life as defined in the essay ' The Myth of Sisyphus'. Two quotes to make my point:
"The workman of today works every day in his life at the same tasks, and this fate is no less absurd. But it is tragic only at the rare moments when it becomes conscious."
My sweeper seems not conscious of the world around him, blind not only to the beauty around him but to the absurdity of his task under the conditions prevailing at the time.
"The struggle itself...is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy."
I tried but could not tell from his face which was wrapped in a scarf whether he was or not. Still I tried.
I am grateful for your comments and for your time. I am sorry you were not as moved as I was at the time. Arthur
"The workman of today works every day in his life at the same tasks, and this fate is no less absurd. But it is tragic only at the rare moments when it becomes conscious."
My sweeper seems not conscious of the world around him, blind not only to the beauty around him but to the absurdity of his task under the conditions prevailing at the time.
"The struggle itself...is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy."
I tried but could not tell from his face which was wrapped in a scarf whether he was or not. Still I tried.
I am grateful for your comments and for your time. I am sorry you were not as moved as I was at the time. Arthur
I thought the poem worked well certainly at the beginning. I wasn't too convinced by the emphasis on his blindness to whatever at the end. You could possibly lose the penultimate stanza or condense somewhat at this point but for me the layer of myth sucessfully emphasised the hopeless task he had been set and the element of mock-heroism made me smile. I enjoyed your poem very much.
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Sharra
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I'm not as mythologically well read as some others, I had to google Sisyphus 
In a way though for me the link to the myth was uneccesarily 'poetic', I really liked the image of the man shovelling sand and thought it stood on its own merit without the overt mythology.
I thought the first 2 stanzas were great, I loved the use of language and the sand and wind images. For me though there was a change in tone in S3 and 4, the language was much plainer, it felt more down to earth - and I'm not sure it worked after the lovely language before. It also felt a little cliched 'pinched with cold' and 'wind plucks' etc.
I also wonder if the poet needs to be so obviously there. It's clear from your post that you had one of those moments of recognition to spark the poem, but I'm not sure it works with your voice there in the way it is. I wondered why does the poet 'imagine him happy'? It distracted me from the image of the man and felt like you were intruding on the old man's world. I would like to see these 2 stanzas with a similar feel to the others
I liked the stanza break between S4 and 5 and thought the return to the previous kind of language was lovely. I especially liked 'dull metal' and 'absurd imps'.
A great image and worth working on some more I think
In a way though for me the link to the myth was uneccesarily 'poetic', I really liked the image of the man shovelling sand and thought it stood on its own merit without the overt mythology.
I thought the first 2 stanzas were great, I loved the use of language and the sand and wind images. For me though there was a change in tone in S3 and 4, the language was much plainer, it felt more down to earth - and I'm not sure it worked after the lovely language before. It also felt a little cliched 'pinched with cold' and 'wind plucks' etc.
I also wonder if the poet needs to be so obviously there. It's clear from your post that you had one of those moments of recognition to spark the poem, but I'm not sure it works with your voice there in the way it is. I wondered why does the poet 'imagine him happy'? It distracted me from the image of the man and felt like you were intruding on the old man's world. I would like to see these 2 stanzas with a similar feel to the others
I liked the stanza break between S4 and 5 and thought the return to the previous kind of language was lovely. I especially liked 'dull metal' and 'absurd imps'.
A great image and worth working on some more I think
It is at the edge of the
petal that love waits
petal that love waits
Hello Sharra. Thanks for the read and for the time taken to comment.
I have explained in an earlier post on this thread that the poem has used the Camus essay on the Myth rather than the Myth itself. Camus argues that the absurdity of modern life is only absurd when we are conscious of it then the victory is in the struggle. It is Camus who asks us to see that: "The struggle itself...is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy."
I do not see my sweeper as conscious of the absurdity of sweeping sand on St Anne's promenade in February, he is not conscious of anything but the task, he is' blind' to all. And I do not see him as happy either and I cannot imagine him so. I am in the poem because I am aware of the essay, the absurdity of his task and the beautiful context and it is from that that the poem derives.
Thanks again I am glad you liked the writing. Arthur
I have explained in an earlier post on this thread that the poem has used the Camus essay on the Myth rather than the Myth itself. Camus argues that the absurdity of modern life is only absurd when we are conscious of it then the victory is in the struggle. It is Camus who asks us to see that: "The struggle itself...is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy."
I do not see my sweeper as conscious of the absurdity of sweeping sand on St Anne's promenade in February, he is not conscious of anything but the task, he is' blind' to all. And I do not see him as happy either and I cannot imagine him so. I am in the poem because I am aware of the essay, the absurdity of his task and the beautiful context and it is from that that the poem derives.
Thanks again I am glad you liked the writing. Arthur
I'll leave Sisyphus to the experts, Arthur, although I must say that the Camus essay is a bit intrusive here. (I read it before commenting.)
Anyway, I like the most of it but think 'wind plucked' and 'dull metal' are a little overworked.
The 'but' at S3 L3 suggests that cold cheeks and a scarf covered mouth have robbed the poet of his imagination whereas the main body of the poem would counter that observation to good effect.
Jimmy
Anyway, I like the most of it but think 'wind plucked' and 'dull metal' are a little overworked.
The 'but' at S3 L3 suggests that cold cheeks and a scarf covered mouth have robbed the poet of his imagination whereas the main body of the poem would counter that observation to good effect.
Jimmy