Best Ixion Poems
—Tale of a wanderer who goes with a piece of myth—
The wanderer drifting in the wilderness searching for a long absent
darling leans against the moonlight at times. Wet with dew, is there any chance; you will one day, lay your exhausted body on a cold bed to slumber? But instead of a sweet dream: you will hang on a sharp edged axe; while crying and moaning, hunted by a nightmare. You will, then, wake up in a cold sweat, swept by surging waves.
Then: as a bright star appears in the sky; along with
the gleam of daybreak; light driving moonlight away;
the crystallized water drops; the star brought in the window,
will become the deadly poison of a viper and bite into your flesh,
in the blink of an eye.
It’s neither Eden nor Eurydice’s heel. It’s the calamity
upon yourself. You didn’t decline, but laid your weary body,
one night, on the bed offered by Procrustes. Bleeding from the ankles, both feet chopped off by Procrustes’ axe, with no way to turn your misfortune or to blame but yourself.
Although it’s blood, it’s really not blood,
they are a line of brood of vipers forming like
a stream advancing to the woods of the delta searching for
an underground tunnel; a dirge, the tongue-less Philomela’s
piercing shriek. It’s Philomela’s agonizing shudder, disgusted
from the conception of the seed of death.
Itys’ head on a tray: reflecting in the daybreak glow; will ask.
“Why are you lodged in such a terrible inn of all inns? Though
I won’t ask you, but still, want to know
why are you. The fool Tereus? Did you do such terrible thing?
Though you have a virtuous beautiful wife at home,
why then, o thoughtless wanderer, did you walk on a path
just like Tereus’? As a consequence: you must cry; beating your breast; listening to the sound of lyre; that even stops to roll the wheel of fire; for a while, with its mournful tune.”
1. Eurydice 2. Procrustes 3. Philomela 4. Itys
5. Tereus 6. Ixion 7. Orpheus’ lyre
No favourites does lacklustre death play
With equal fervour the doors
Of paupers and kings he strikes
Whether high or low
He does not care
At his summons
All must follow
To where their worldly status
Matters not
Only Tantalus,Sisyphus,Ixion
And their likes
Fear what lies below
Along with parricides and traitors
Those who thought themselves
Above divine law
Will find sentences condign
Eternally repetitive
As for the rest
Mere wraiths most will become
Pining
For what they have left behind
For some few
Consolation comes
With the brightness
Of the Blessed Isles,
Sweet Elysium
Does time past germinate in lost stories
its tendrils stir and drill through tender soil,
and breaks the cold clay of deep memories
but reseeds us by impossible toil.
It's Ixion strapped to the poetic wheel
spinning our tales eternally around
but never can words our fates truly seal
until inspiration’s loud thunders sound.
I feel like Sisyphus most ev’ryday.
A constant struggle carrying my load.
A punishment that never goes away
To push my rock down here in Death’s abode
How well I know just how Tantalus feels:
To grasp at dreams forever out of reach.
And knowing that admitting this reveals
I’ll never learn the lessons life will teach.
And Ixion, the least known of the three,
Spinning on his burning wheel forever,
At times I do believe that he is me.
And when might it all end? I say never…
Often I imagine brotherhood with
These men of ancient fantasy and myth…