By R. S. Thomas
Rolling his pain day after day
Up life’s hill? Was he a survival
Of a lost past, wearing the times’
Shabbier cast-off, refusing to change
His lean horse for the quick tractor?
Or was a wish to have him so
Responsible for his frayed shape?
Could I have said he was the scholar
Of the fields’ pages he turned more slowly
Season by season, or nature’s fool,
Born to blur with his moist eye
The clear passages of a book
You came to finger with deft touch?
In this poignant sonnet, Thomas analogizes Prytherch to Sisyphus, from the Greek “Myth of Sisyphus.” (Click the link for details).
Remember to submit your own choice of R. S. Thomas’s poem(s) for discussion in what will be a riveting session on September 24. See the SCHEDULE PAGE for submissions to-date.