SISYPHUS

SISYPHUS is a magazine that focuses on contemporary issues surrounding art, culture, and language.

Poetry

If a Tree Falls in a Forest and No One

by

 

Would it have mattered if, as children, we’d been taught
            to attend to the vanishing? If we’d practiced
hearing the migrating songbirds churring above us
            each autumn, or the waning buzz of insect wings
in the meadow as summer lifted away? If we’d risen
            at dawn for the synchronized hatch of a thousand
mayflies, or listened to catch the squeals of bats
            in the evening fields, or an elephant’s low-pitched
mourning for one of its own? What if we’d tuned
            our ears to the various strains of silence
back when they signaled nothing more dire
            than a shift of season?

                                                I read this week
that a billion song birds die each year in the U.S. alone
            head-butting a hard, glass sky in a rush
to drive off their own reflections. A billion.
            How vast a caesura. Why have I never noticed
the hush we wake to on New Year’s Day with
            another year and a billion birds missing?      
If a single tree fell—to lightning or ice-storm, to blight,
            to flame, or to trucks come to clear-cut the lots
for the new subdivisions—would anyone hear it?
            What if we’d learned how to gauge the pitch
of the wind-hum or hear new gaps in the hush
            of an evening rain? How long have I been
hard enough of heart to accept the fact of birds
            crashing headlong against the glass
of my sunroom? Or so hard of hearing I miss
            the crash of a forest falling?

The Daily News

by

This poem was written during the Supreme Court confirmation hearings for Brett Kavanaugh, a time when the country felt deeply broken. Now, that appears to be a permanent condition.

All day I drove north through the smoke
the turkey vultures rising from the trees
circling, forming into loose black clouds
flowing past me, south, away
 
All day on the radio, talk of truth and lies
anger and tears, what was said, by whom
and why, all the different kinds of fear
all the roles being played, like in a game
 
Everything must be consumed, the rotten
and the dead, that is what the vultures
and the radio tell us, there being no choice
but to attend to every foul offering
 
Hands at 10 and 2, facing America
and the littered road, I cannot
bring anything to an end, the drive
the vultures the radio the smoke
 
Somewhere ahead is the ocean
Salt, deep, cold, disinterested
My hope is to reach there before
night falls, before it is too dark to see

Guilt Litany

by

Have mercy, Lord
            on the old and ill,
clothed in what came, this day,
to hand, their buttons misaligned,
            their Velcro’d shoes;
on the fragile ones awaiting word—
the hospice call, eviction,
            a uniform at the door,
the biopsy, the ultrasound;
on men and women off their meds
            and on their own;
the restless in the wards, asleep
those without shelter, asleep
            in doorways or
            wandering the dark
pastures of the mind,
the exhausted, the embittered,
            the unloved;
            on the brutalized
children of brutalizing times;
on kids who cut themselves
            to watch the blood
well up that they might cry
for something they can see;
            on families in the camps—
their lack of firewood, the likelihood
of rape; on asylum seekers
            stopped at borders laced
with concertina wire, dogs,
surveillance drones; or trudging
            hostile borderlands,
holding their breath in the dark
until our headlights pass; 
            on those imprisoned for
misdeeds, missteps, mistakenness,
who trust their futures to our justice;
            on the poor we have
too rarely with us; and on the useless
well-to-do who read their newsfeeds,
            sign petitions, write
their litanies—lest they, lest I, believe
this paltry plea to be enough,
            have mercy, Lord.

Never Steal from Wolves

by

“Never Steal from Wolves” recalls a solo encounter with a pack of wolves in Central Washington State. I question the morality of my initial sense of ownership over the scene itself, recognize the limits of my human body, and realize a soul-deep sense of veneration for our wild kin.

There is no neatly-folded laundry
in the undressing of the wild dead,
the opening of soft under parts,
the cracking of femur to release marrow, nor
the toothy shaving of flesh from bone.
 
There are no ashes cast in the wind,
no embalmed easing of final agony,
no flowers, no headstones, no will.
 
The headless vertebrae curves
poised to hoist antlers.
The ribs are trimmed unevenly
by determined gnawing
ragged edges embracing a lung-less hollow.
 
I stand in the aura of decay
in the presence of the fed and the fed upon. 
I know I am not alone.
Raised hackles make no sound.
The forest shades out their watchful eyes. 
 
Still I want a souvenir,
proof I stood in their presence,
walked where the wolf walked. 
 
I begin to depart,
long jawbone hooked over my forearm.
I feel the deepest gripping,
the static of fear.
 
Not your elk. Not your kill. 
 
I set it down—head low,
I leave much quicker than I arrive.

We Want Another Planet

by

In my wildest dreams, I cannot imagine a more strange and beautiful world than the one we once had. So, that is the one I imagine.

 

Blue like ours, and green
Full of islands and mountains
Many trees, and also grass
Even, in places, deserts
And as for animals
Our imagination can do no better
Than elephants and giraffes
Owls and tigers and snakes
Squid, sharks, and whales
What we want, I am trying to say
Is this planet, just this
But without us, simply to see
What was, what could have been
If our hands never grasped
If our voices never drowned the wind

Postponement  

by

I wrote the first four lines of this poem some thirty years ago. I’ve been trying to write the rest of it ever since. After a living in many different places, getting to know countless people, and having all sorts of adventures and misadventures, I hope I’ve finally found out what I was trying to say all along.

 

Jade tree with big knuckles
and thick polished leaves
 
go tell the California ivy I can’t
pay back the sadness I borrowed
 
until the L.A. River flows
as ample and hubristic as the Nile
 
until monoxide fumes outdo
the lilac in crazed sweetness
 
until the San Andreas Fault yelps
out its climactic subterranean scat
 
shattering glass steeples of commerce 
into bright shards of kindness
 
no        not until your January
buds blink themselves into
 
a tsunami of pink blossoms.

de Trop

by

“de Trop” is a response to suicide and brings into question the role of others in the demise of the deceased. This poem reveals inevitable feelings of guilt, shock, and the questioning of the final act.

You imagined the freedom of your exit
in the shower, alone in bed, in small isolations
where no amount of love could tether you.
It was well rehearsed. 
 
            Come back.
 
Your sister’s kids are growing up.  The height chart
on the wall measures the distance. Four inches
since you dropped from the branch.
Time grows in lengths of limbs like miles. 
 
I’ll never know more about your mother,
only that she starved you all the way to the library.
You checked out all the wild plant books,
because that’s all there was to eat.
 
You’ll never have to tell me again about
your father’s haunting in your childhood room
This is the farthest from you he will ever be.
Is it far enough?
 
I miss your incessant smoking, I long to listen to your cough.
Because I need to know the name of the weeds that grow
from cracks in my walkway,  I keep forgetting all the names.
I don’t have anyone to ask.
 
I want you to paint me again, with death looming behind you
flowers bursting from my head in impending decomposition,
mushroom skin.  Make me fertile dirt again,
I am less afraid.
 
           Come back.
 
I’ll burn the words I said when I said you were too much—
swap their fine, white ash for yours. Come back so I can
take the rope away or cut you down in time. Rub your neck and say
There, there. It’s only rope-burn, not goodbye.

The object/which does not exist

by

                Zbigniew Herbert

Take away the pen
now there’s just
thought where once
ink and metal
a tool
to write nothing
 
There is no hand
to hold the pen
there are no words
to materialize
and say ‘I want’ or
‘look’ or ‘come to me’
 
All the time in the world
takes refuge
in the object which
doesn’t exist
 
How many poems
float in
lost memory
the voice that doesn’t
say ‘it doesn’t matter’
 
There’s an empty space
in the object
that doesn’t exist
throw into it
what you want
to get rid of
especially the stuff
that can’t be seen
the most difficult
to obliterate
 
your fear of strangers
your fear of love
your fear of desire
with its glitter
and greed and
blindness

 


 

The Blessing

by

They stride into our world,
legs sheathed in Levis,
 
baseball caps, shades of pastel,
adorning heads.
 
Their movement, unlike ours,
effortless, we who stand
 
on distended feet
at day’s end, lowering
 
congealed frames
into plastic seats
 
inside the bus that will haul us
to obscure apartments,
 
retreat from a public
that we peruse,
 
smile at, or abruptly
curse.
 
Yet, we  bless
these beings, knowing
 
we shall submit,
contemplating those who will gently lift
 
the present into a world
we shall never see.

Mockingbirds

by

 

    Today I see the Myrtle tree, the lone Myrtle tree,
         the vibrant Myrtle tree, and Mockingbirds losing
               feathers, making sounds from a branch like the cardinal,
          not tomorrow, but today.
 
In the wind I hear the trees, the boastfulness of the trees,
     the hiss like a snake; they say I too belong here, should
          root here, should be angry today, but not tomorrow.
 
    Gray Squirrel outlines the eaves of the house,
       grass is aglow with native flowers,
           today, but not tomorrow Summer is ablaze,
             gulls float above Lake Pontchartrain, Mars is an orange speck
           in the night sky!
 
Not tomorrow, but today, with smog in
    California and New York City, factories          
          surrounding Beijing, with forests falling in Malaysia
             and Indonesia, and waves of plastic, bottles, bags
      washing ashore on the Cocos.
 
    With the oily waters of the Mississippi, roadkill,
         destroyed habitats and broken ecosystems of the South,
                today, not tomorrow, but today, out the back patio
                      mockingbirds chase each other—
                 through the hollies!

 

Everything That’s Old

by

 

Jets are the new motorhomes
chemtrails are the new clouds
the unknown dead on an island
are the calm before a storm
robots are the new immigrants
Roundup is the new hoe
Colbert is the new Cronkite
smoke is the new sky
drought is the new summer
cars are heart disease
dust is lawn
downtown is the new homeless
Amazon, the new mall
retired is the new nomad
needles are the new rusty nails
plastic, the new lead
viral, the new headline
posting is the new protest
the horizon of the western ocean
is the new ghost of Godzilla
the Cold War is the new Cold War
fire heading down a suburban street
is wind
anxiety is the new air
the Earth’s crust is the weak eggshell
of a songbird.

 

Originally published in Rattle 

Spiders

by

Spiders

 

I’m wasting time
just looking at a spider—
it helps me to look at them.
This one, poised in its web, up
side down, below the lamp, black
legs tapered to a point
self-contained as a cocked hammer
seems ready to wait through eternity
for its prey. Sometimes, though
one waits so long, it dies
hanging in its own web.
 
Idly glancing over
I see through them
realize they’re gone, legs folded
little umbrellas closed
for the evening— a bit hideous
how silently they
evaporate, in the corner
of the bathroom window
where they took all
their chances.
 
The window sill
is the Altar of What Has Fallen,
littered with specs of spider crap, a wing
floating a rainbow, a bent thread, a leg
a nano knot in it
that’s a marvelous knee
discarded in the serene dust.
 
I read that no matter where you are
you’re within twelve feet of a spider
even on Mt. Everest
where the Himalayan Jumping Spider lives.
Eight eyes orbit its head
giving it 360 degree vision. Supposedly nothing
lives up there but this spider. It eats insects
that have been blown off course
drifted too high, like transmigrated souls
who rose on stolen wings in previous lives.
These incomplete beings are destined
to become food for the spider 
that survives in a layer of warmth
hovering on rocks of the world’s highest mountain
thin as our atmosphere relative to the globe.
No bird soars too high, Blake reminds us
if the bird soars with his own wings.
 
But just look into the face
of one of those little jumping ones around here
wolf spiders, I think they’re called,
with four eyes, the beautiful orange
black and white face
takes you back a bit—
beware. It sees you
with such fearless and unhesitating intelligence
you realize it
could take you
 
like in high school
when you might be caught absent-mindedly
staring at some kid, not even seeing him
a tough kid, and suddenly he says
“What’re you lookin’ at.”
 
That snaps you out of it
you look away
slightly bewildered, even embarrassed, wondering
What were you looking at?
 
The jolt of fear helps. Absent-minded looking
isn’t seeing. Still, there is something to it:
a man at the railing of a ship, lost in unseeing
facing the sea
feeling the wind
feeling his face
knows something of the limbic zones
we travel.
 
The seen proves the unseen
as Whitman says. And the unseen
the seen, in its turn.
 
What are we doing
when we waste time?
 
Spiders don’t waste time.
They construct their webs
and wait.
 
If I died in this chair
they’d use my body
for tie-down points.
 
It’s good to waste time like this.
It’s humanizing.
And being human is a refuge
for a while.
 
The more we relinquish our humanity
the more spiders will die
hanging in their own webs, waiting
for insects that no longer exist.
 

Terrapin Was

by

Luke Wallin

Back in my hunting days, bobcats caught turtles and

brought them out of the swamp, up onto the raised bed of the 

wood-train railroad, to eat them. They’d leave the shells 

between the rails. Trains passed over, redneck poachers and 

country boys walking the line passed them by. Coyotes deigned 

to pick them up for play. Months later, bleached a sacred white 

by the sun, Mr. Luke would come along and grab them up. 

My yankee friend Mr. Tom and I would compete to 

find the best ones, up on the tracks or down in the woods.

 

This one I scratched up out of my mind, no photo or model,

just marks on the iPad which coulda been a star system, 

coulda been a candle, but which became for me a meaning trail, 

old time symbol for Indians and boys, those millions of years 

surviving, tales of my grandfather’s logging camp where Bob Red, 

half Chickasaw half Black cook made turtle soup for the men. Not just the past. 

This turtle speaks to me from the future, its afterlife as a shell, shimmering 

with power. A voodoo thing, a boy’s treasure, a glory vouched safe in eternity, 

accomplishment out of the primeval gas of intergalactic star formation, and 

shout out to me, hey old man, back there still living, you ain’t touched nothing yet.

 

 

War Voice: Project Construction

by

Through this maze of skeletal, slapped-up houses
runs a ribbon of sidewalk laid out this morning,
a gleaming wetness, a smell still bakery fresh,
an orphic door just now shut, reverberating, wrong.
Red wing blackbirds skim a field
where already the blocks have been surveyed,
where next week the bulldozers begin,
where next month the wives of soldiers will move in.
I smell the quick, vanishing protest of broken stalks,
I watch the look of a newly formed “O,”
the one round lip whitening with sap.
Giving way and giving way to man’s designs
the green world survives by horrible acquiescence,
and with elegant vanishing ink
each blackbird’s low flight inscribes the tangled manuscript.
Because there is no sound in this, the hammering
drone of cargo planes does not exist.
How can you fight this thistle and milkweed, soldier,
this stuff which fucks the very air around you,
which opens for the wind
and flaunts it in your face,
sends guards on duty into spasms of sneezing?
Bulldoze the whole patch out,
burn the dried-up piles of spindly dead
and watch your new sidewalks, how soon the first
                                                          cracks come.

Amherst, MA

by

Suspended in Amherst, once colonial, now suburban,
English strains flowing through the typography
of a purloined continent, homeland of displacement,
 
I, confined, yet drifting on main street,
aging face in a youthful band, pass a quarter
to a placeless man, and so
 
converse with Daniel, his buttoned jacket a probable
hand-me-down, gaining leave to turn
my camera upon his once white, now dark-browned face,
 
here among scattered strangers
seeking kindness, a people, with and without,
a nation awaiting a purifying dispensation.

Middle of the Night

by

 

calls are never welcome.
in a foreign language, the phone

wakes you from a dream
you can’t remember

but maybe it was green,
contained an inland sea.

now on the other end of the line
an old voice makes noise

of tears and distance, history
too far to cross and you

have no alphabet to count
this news, though in truth

news like this waits always half-
winged in its backbrain cave. you

watch the dark sky beyond this
window, and say what you can.

 

The Catbird Seat

by

It doesn’t matter where we were,
where we were going or
who we even are. It only matters that 
 
we rode inside on heated seats with safety
features reminding us to wear seatbelts,
airbags ready to deploy
should the call come for protection.
 
Windows kept clean 
so I can I look to my right
at forsythia frothing in yellow,
lupine shading violets.
 
Crepe myrtles drape ditches of daylilies,
demarcation between farmhouse and field.
Not enslaved to a radio DJ, playing what I choose
from my mortgage payment smartphone.
 
Advantaged eyes wander left, witness a murder
of crows, a battle, beak-sharpened formation
attacking with ferocity and fear
tangible in the chaos. The one in center
 
with a garter snake dangling  
from his mouth, seven others determined
to take it still alive and or kill, to conquer.
Look away is all it takes
 
to make it not so, an easy drift
back to Lucinda Williams’ Abandoned
and lilacs busting into bloom.

Appointment with Inner Self

by

At the center of thought, a small
fading light wrapped in this
 
wall of body. Who are you, rendered
so slowly out of myself? The river
 
carries its own bones, holds nothing
longer than its length. The bones
 
sing their song, blood caresses my veins. I
want to find that place that doesn’t
 
know itself where you and I meet after
this brief engagement. Even if
 
I’m a lifetime late, I’ll
meet you there.
 

How Long?

by

            At the end of this day there remains what remained yesterday
            and what will remain tomorrow: the insatiable, unquantifiable
            longing to be both the same and other.
                                                The Book of Disquiet
                                                Fernando Pessoa
 
 
Storms tore down a city’s worth of leaves last night,
and now I’m up to my shins in a litter of green corpses.
 
A hundred thousand of them, more, ripped untimely
from their branches. I shuffle through the layers of them,
 
vivid with the wasted stuff of photosynthesis,
still primed to drink the sun.
 
How long before they know in their cells it’s over?
 
 
I’ve read that lab rats dropped in cylinders of water
will tread only briefly, then simply give it up, go under.   
 
But feed those rats on yogurt, they’ll paddle to exhaustion,
their resignation overruled by resident bacteria
 
refusing to jump ship: a legion of stubborn otherness.
 
 
All this year, I’ve lived entangled in the vying mandates
of this world. My mother says she’s ready now to go.
 
Am I wrong, then, if my heart insists not yet, not yet—
opposing my need to her willingness? These days,
 
hospice counsels us to hold a loved one’s lifeless hand
until the last cell cools.
 
Hearing this, I hurt for past abandonments, 
hands released too soon to the ministry of creatures 
 
whose own directive is to break flesh back
to its elements—
 
none of which was ever love.

 
The world feels alien this morning, the shine of the living
piled lifeless at my feet like suppliants:
 
I have not lived well in the presence of my dead.
Today, it seems an insufficiency of love
 
to hold a hand for anything less than forever.
 
 
But once, there was another measure—
six pomegranate seeds, after which no quantity
 
of love could make the slightest difference: it was
a simpler age. Three times, I’ve gone on with it, my life,
 
and now, again. Daily, I hold my mother’s hand,
knowing too much, too little. My life, like hers,
 
an otherness. However long.

 

The Sum of Your Life

by

Down the street, at the edge of things you know, lie
possibilities you won’t explore, loves unused, friendships
 
unstarted, invitations failed. In the golden light,
years pass, with ghosts of would-be lives
 
superimposed on would-be paths,
like colored filters. What you are and what
 
you aspire to, what you’ve done or tried, all the love
you longed to share with someone who
 
didn’t notice. That day that could have blossomed,
but you were late. What didn’t happen is
 
a part of you.