Sometimes men get so hung up on a particular definition of “success” that they fail to realize the good they’re doing just by being themselves. J.D. Smith reminds us of this important lesson in a poem that deftly engages the mythic.
—
Anti-Midas
After Kay Ryan
Whatever he touched
would turn to dry dirt
or, worse,
a ferment of leaf mold,
great slops of mud,
silt and clay
interspersed with turds,
the rest sand and loam.
He shrank from throne and country
and died convinced of his defeat,
leaving the people to their fields,
which for once yielded
enough to eat.
***
First published in Qarrtsiluni
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Photo by Jan ver der Crabben /Flickr