I didn’t have a classical education. There is a whole aspect to mythology that
goes beyond the Greek gods. The internet defines mythology as “a collection of such stories that is a
vital feature of every culture. Various origins for myths have been proposed,
ranging from personification of nature, personification of natural phenomena to
truthful or hyperbolic accounts of historical events, to explanations of
existing ritual.” My knowledge of mythology
has been gleaned from watching TV programmes like “Zena, Princess Warrior”,
“Hercules, the Legendary Journeys” and, much more recently, the BBC series
“Atlantis”. It would not be my chosen
topic if I applied for Mastermind.
I managed to find a Carol Anne Duffy poem – her take on
Medusa, and a poem about Eurydice by Sue Hubbard. It wasn’t Sue’s poem that enthused me but the
story about it being written in an underground pass. It had become a familiar landmark. I dare say that people walking through the
underground pass regularly could recite it not because they had learnt it by
heart, but through taking in the words unconsciously just walking by them. Did the poem get into Trip Advisor or Planet
Earth as a must-see landmark in London? Whatever, a clean-up operation saw it
painted over. Following complaints there
might be plans to put it back up.
The various themes that the Poetry Appreciation Group
comes up with has encouraged me to hunt down poems. Once upon a time I was a poet-dunce. I could write poetry but reading was not my
forte. Since joining the group I have
become familiar with poets – even made friends with a few. There are gems out there,
“Icarus” by Edward Field is my latest favourite. In the
original story Icarus flew too close to the sun, the wax on his wings melted
and he plummeted into the sea and drowned.
But, suggests Mr Field, what if he didn’t drown but simply swam off and
landed on some distant shore? Read the whole poem about Mr Hick and what he
does. The final stanzas are heart breaking.
And nightly Icarus
probes his wound
And daily in his
workshop, curtains carefully drawn,
Constructs small
wings and tries to fly
To the lighting
fixture on the ceiling:
Fails every time
and hates himself for trying.
He had thought
himself a hero, had acted heroically,
And dreamt of his
fall, the tragic fall of the hero;
But now rides
commuter trains,
Serves on various
committees,
And wishes he had
drowned.
There are times when I think I have led a very ordinary,
mediocre life. I think I haven’t done
anything heroic. But that isn’t true. I don’t know what percentage of the
population live ordinary lives and don’t really have adventures. I’m not one of them. Sometimes I forget the extraordinary things I
have done.
Icarus, in the poem, spends his time trying to replicate
his heroic flight, but finds it impossible.
There isn’t really a next thing for him.
He is stuck in a memory of an extraordinary experience and there isn’t
anything to top it. He has nowhere to go in terms of adventures. Life in a
house, with a garden, saying “Hello” to neighbours is a poor substitute for
what he had.
Icarus challenges me to really think about some of the
things I try to do, or choose not to do. How much of my past successes, or past
failures, dictate the way I live my life?
Then I remind myself that it isn’t my success as if I did
anything extraordinary by myself – but God’s success. And failures are there not to nail my feet to
the ground and make me think I am incapable of having adventures. They cause me to lean on God and learn from
Him and launch myself into the next step.
I’m looking for something more than small wings and a lighting
fixture on the ceiling to fly to.
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