Jared Carter Poetry

Sphinx

It lives on, and with each new day, asks
the old questions, of strangers passing by,
or even of itself.  Often I have heard it
calling across the wastes, like a hot wind
that brings no relief, that sorts through
acres of sand, dust, shards, broken stones,
finding nothing.  Out of Egypt it came,
aeons ago, to stand at the crossroads
while travelers, in the distance, approach.

Oedipus spoke with it, though that exchange
is lost, and all manner of false stories
sprung up in later years.  Of all myths,
all tales, it is the most ancient and dim,
the most elemental.  Each time it appears,
like some presence that casts no shadow,
it is the wayfarer whose life has changed,
not the Sphinx, which is outside history,
and uncaring, like the oldest of sybils.

Each time you hear its muttered questions
they strike you in a different way, though
whether one goes on two legs, or four,
or three, is of little consequence now.
Rather, you must continue along the path
through rocky places, over drifted sands,
past steep ascents rising to the mountains.
The Sphinx at such moments walks beside you,
neither leading nor following, asking
or answering.  It has sojourned here before,
and watches to see which way you will turn.
from Chronicles [credits]
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