Atlas - Poem by Conor Dowd
holds the world aloft
and every time he moves
or even breathes
the land reverberates and seethes
in little agitations -
cliffs fall toward the sea
and oceans simmer and grow restless in their sleep.
He's made of rock and stone,
ossified like bone and petrified like stone.
his shoulders cradle Africa,
The Americas incline upon his back
and an open palm contains
he's older than the sun
and more ancient than the stars could ever be,
condemned to immortality.
The starlight often blinds him
but the night brings pure release
the mantle of the Earth beneath him
groans and grumbles as he shifts his weight.
But Atlas just remembers now -
his life is merely instinct,
only patterns that repeats themselves each day...
with none to take his place
this crucifix remains his calling and his curse.
Comments about Atlas by Conor Dowd
Edgar Allan Poe
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
- Still I RiseMaya Angelou
- The Road Not TakenRobert Frost
- If You Forget MePablo Neruda
- DreamsLangston Hughes
- Annabel LeeEdgar Allan Poe
- Stopping By Woods On A Snowy EveningRobert Frost
- IfRudyard Kipling
- Do Not Stand At My Grave And WeepMary Elizabeth Frye
- I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love YouPablo Neruda
- TelevisionRoald Dahl