Prometheus Apprehended

Older sister to After Vevey

Lac Léman, Easter morning. Rain. Sun. A light amber brume

over these fairy-tale blue waters -- the way back mirror --

memories of merrier, more rose-colored days, and nights

we’d spent quibbling about Chaplin, how much he’d inspired

the littlest hobo, all but forgotten. Having run out

of reasons, words to carry on the charade, a change

of seasons appeared the easiest, most practical

solution for fixing what ailed us. If Hell was where

you wished me … then here seemed near enough, as good a place

as any to begin the stumble up Calvary’s merciless mountain.

 

These tight-lipped, buttoned-down secret-keepers,

impeccably schooled in the ways of avoidance,

what made men opt for flight in lieu of a last roll-up

before their resolute walk out at dawn, required no incentive

to keep a suitable distance between themselves and

the leper. Since love, like death and taxes, was a matter

best left to the accountants, their inquiries rarely crossed

beyond the simplest of terms -- Mastercard, or Visa -- pointing

in the general direction of the ferry -- where ticket in hand,

Charon briskly waved the damned onboard.

 

                                    II

 

Once upon a time, I imagined the rose,

the most versatile of blossoms, a balm

for every occasion, no matter how great or

small the transgression. When the mule kicked,

broke stride and ran wild upriver. Whenever

the eagle had screeched and clawed its tether.

Every time I left the tea steeping in a bucket of brine,

Aphrodite’s ruddy bairn unfailingly appeared like

a magic salve to soothe whatever ache tormented the heart.

So love, I thought, quite invincible, impervious to

the everyday disorders, sticks and stones petty jealousies,

required nothing more than this momentary spell,

a quick romp about the florist’s aisle. Only,

now it seems, there’s this other side to a rose,

something near malignant, almost malicious,

clearly more venomous than I ever imagined.

Artemis, riled and rancorous towards the unmindful

Lover’s arrogance, has tipped the most adaptable of blooms

with a scorn more lethal than Scorpio’s murderous sting.

Ardor, I see, can indeed grow weary and lethal,

when given enough reasons to turn cold and bitter.

 

                                    III

 

What keeps a man from going overboard

once he’s jettisoned the encumbrance of his faith?

Perhaps, the heart of a good woman -- but then

what reason has she to believe he won’t break faith with her?

What brings him to the edge of tears, laughter -- 

becomes his provocation to rise from the lethargy of life --

resolve to carry on living day to day, year

to year without giving in to his restless resentments?

 

All I’d taken for the gospels, keys to unlock

Paradiso’s gates, was gibberish. Ancient

binary codes to my imprisonment. Knowledge.

Erudition. Scholarship. Paper masques. A mind’s way

to keep me from discovering the truth --

the unmistakable assurance of an unmarriable state.   

 

Having drawn water from the well, the shallowness

of my table was soon obvious. Whatever abundance

you had imagined, the reality of my Devil’s rock

was an arid soil that wouldn’t sustain happiness east of Eden.

No matter how hard you cried, I possessed more clever

antonyms for love than you ever conceived.     

 

                                    IV

 

By the time Charon rowed us back ashore,

I’d come to accept the infernal judgement

of your painful conclusion, for what it was --

my peculiar inability to create certain sounds.

I knew fury, righteous indignation.

I could mimic tenderness, sympathy

(whenever my needs weighed heavy enough)

but never compromise. Sadly, I lacked that

intuitive understanding. Any respect for

the fragile nature of what I’d stolen.

 

When that firefly I’d trapped inside the bottle

paled against the incandescent light

of my insatiable demands, I never thought

for a moment -- how much brighter her natural smile --

how easier on the eyes a page seemed

whenever you were hovering around me.

 

Like the little hobo I had no clue

of where to turn -- once the world stopped laughing.

Though now, having returned to this cursed rock,

it’s not Zeus that haunts my endless nights.

Stealing fire, I’ve learned, is a child’s game.

Passion is a far hotter hell to endure.   

Ken e Bujold

Reviews

[Ern M. Yoshimoto]

By the time Charon rowed us back ashore... this stanza took my breath away. this, and the whole poem, is a great ode to the lessons learned too late.

[W. Barrett Munn]

The master showing how it’s done.