Interp of the Myth of Sisyphus for Poetryetc
Note: I wanted to write a poem about anything but this myth, but the muse wouldn't move.
The Myth of Sisyphus was originally written by God in Greek, after which other languages got in the way before it came to us in English. Many people have translated (which means "put in their own thoughts") the myth such as Didacterus, Moll Strumpet and Shaksp the actor as well as Shake-speare the writer who doesn't exist. I'll just, to save time, summarize the myth even though I've never read it: Sisyphus rolls a +really big+ rock up a hill, it rolls down and so on and so on until S gets exhausted, slips, and gets squashed by the rock. Other people, though, would variously interpret the myth, such as the following Poetryetc members:
Halvard Johnson has already put S.I.S.Y.P.H.U.S. on a word dartboard for future sonnets.
Bob Marcacci snaps the rock.
Anny Ballardini writes something about Italy that nobody understands.
Patrick McManus created a skinny poem ending with VB lifting the rock off his cat dish.
Sharon Brogan, overcome by smoke and wars, falls down (gracefully) while worrying about her unmade bed.
Mark Weiss is in the barrio and can't be bothered.
Kasper Salonen, between poetry-sneezes, notes the errors in S's operandi.
Candice Ward conflates everything with everything (mostly in really old English).
Robin Hamilton obfuscates in Celtic, Romani and Haggis, with the occasional lift of a URL---and is understood only by Dominus Fox and the Walker brothers, Martin and Christopher.
Joanna Boulter, obsessed with the shape of the rock, is writing a toccata on the evolution of mushrooms.
Roger Collett mutters "Forget the rock," and gets down to something useful.
Roger Day (not to be confused by Roger Collett who IS Roger Day during the day) leaves another town to get another degree.
Judy Prince thinks that S has a persistent problem with his balls.
The rock now sits, tastefully decorated, in Peter Cudmore's music room.
Peter (I'm not even going to get into that whole "two Peters" thing) Cicciarello visualizes the rock in a canal of rusty wordparts.
Doug Barbour encourages S on each ascent and every time the damned rock starts to fall downhill.
Ken Wolman thinks that S is (a) his father, or (b) a deceased opera singer.
Jon Corelis is still scribbling words on a cocktail napkin in a Greek restaurant in Oakland, CA.
Douglas Clark must consult one of his cats.
Andrew Burke has written four novels, umpteen plays, and eleveny-million poems (some about rock) everywhere but in his own neighbourhood.
Tad Richards is building a rock house in the middle of his stepfather's installation (talk about Sisyphusian!).
Stephen Vincent and Max Richards have put the rock on level ground and taken it for a walk.
Joe Green has dumped the rock into a Haleakala crater.
Fred Pollack thinks he's Sisyphus.
Joe Duemer has fled the country (ok, whatever country) with our archives.
David Bircumshaw is God and now writes in Latin rather than Greek.
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jbprince
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