by Homer
He knew his doom would be headlong. We told him beforehand,
sending Hermes, the sharp-eyed Splendor of Argos.
‘Marry no wife,’ he was told, ‘and murder no husband:
Orestes will take revenge for Atreus’s offspring
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soon as he comes of age and longs for his own land.’
But Hermes, meaning well, failed to deter him;
now Aigisthos has paid in full for all of his evil.”
Kept on an Island
The glow-eyed Goddess Athene answered by saying,
“Father, son of Kronos, highest of rulers:
surely the man lies dead, and his death was the right one.
May all the rest of them die who act in the same way.
But now my heart is torn for artful Odysseus.
The man looks cursed: in pain and far from his people,
kept on a wave-ringed isle where the sea has its navel.
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The place is thickly wooded, the home of a Goddess,
the daughter of Atlas, who broods on ruin and fathoms
all of the ocean’s depths—he holds up the massive
columns himself which keep the earth from the heavens.
His daughter clings to that wretched, mournful Odysseus,
always cajoling, her words gently beguiling
to make him forget Ithaka. Meanwhile Odysseus,
longing to spot mere puffs of smoke from his homeland,
yearns to die. And your own heart is unfeeling,
for all that, Lord of Olumpos. Hasn’t Odysseus
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prayed by the Argive ships and offered you victims
on Troy’s wide shore? Why then, Zeus, are you angry?”
A Long Punishment
Stormcloud-gathering Zeus answered by saying,
“My child, what talk gets over the wall of your front teeth!
How could I forget your godlike Odysseus?
He’s wise beyond all men, beyond them in holy
gifts to the deathless Gods who rule broadly in heaven.
No, it’s Poseidon, the Earth-Upholder, always resentful
because Odysseus put out the eye of a Kuklops,
godlike Poluphemos, the hugest and strongest
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of all the Kuklops. Thoosa, the Nymph, was his mother,
the daughter of Phorkus, who rules the tireless waters:
the Nymph made love in a hollow cave with Poseidon.
Since then Poseidon, the Earth-Shaker—though he’s not murdered
Odysseus—keeps him away from the land of his fathers.
“Come on then, all of us here should ponder the question:
how will the man get home? Poseidon must let go
of anger. Since all the deathless Gods are against him,
he won’t be able to fight alone with the great Gods.”
A Double Plan
The glow-eyed Goddess Athene answered by saying,
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“Father, son of Kronos and highest of rulers:
indeed if all of the well-blessed Gods are delighted
that thought-full Odysseus now should go to his own house,
let Hermes, the Guide and Splendor of Argos, be swiftly
sent to Ogugie Island and say to Kalupso,
the lovely braided Nymph, our plan is unshaken:
it’s time for steadfast Odysseus now to return home.
“I’ll go myself to Ithaka promptly and stir up
the son. I’ll lodge bravery and strength in his spirit.
He’ll tell the long-haired Akhaian men to assemble;
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♦ he’ll warn the suitors, those who are always killing
his bunched-up sheep and curl-horned, hoof-dragging cattle.
I’ll send him to Sparte too, and deep-sanded Pulos,
for news of his father’s homecoming. Maybe he’ll find out
there and his own good name among men will be stronger.”
Down to Ithaka Fast
She stopped and tied at her feet the beautiful sandals
of long-lived gold that carried her over the water
and over the measureless land as fast as a wind-breath.
She took a rugged spear, sharp at the bronze point,
heavy and long, well made for downing ranks of heroic
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men who enraged her—this child of her powerful Father!
She left by leaping down from the heights of Olumpos.
Suitors at Play
She stood on Ithakan ground near Odysseus’s courtyard,
close to the outer gate. Holding the bronze spear
♦ she looked like a stranger, Mentes, lord of the Taphians.
She came on the proud suitors gambling with pebbles,
entertaining themselves in front of the doorway,
squatting on hides of bulls they’d slaughtered themselves there.
Heralds, a number of helpers moving around them,
mingled water and wine in bowls for the suitors.
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Others wiped off tables with hole-dotted sponges
and set them again. They piled on plenty of meat-cuts.
Welcoming a Guest
Godlike Telemakhos, surely the first one to see her,
had sat by a crowd of suitors, sad in his own heart.
He’d pictured a good man, his father: what if he came home
now and scattered the suitors through all of the palace,
gaining esteem again and the rule of his own house?
He mulled and sat among suitors but, spotting Athene,
he walked to the courtyard door in a hurry, embarrassed:
the stranger had stood there a while. Standing beside her,
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clasping her right hand, he accepted the bronze-pointed weapon
and spoke to his guest—the words had a feathery swiftness—
“Good health to you, stranger! Here you’ll surely be cared for.
Take some food then say whatever your needs are.”
Pallas Athene followed him after he’d spoken.
Soon as they stood inside the high-roofed building,
he placed the spear he’d carried close to a lofty
column inside a polished spear-rack where plenty
of steadfast Odysseus’s weapons also were standing.
He led her now to a chair covered with fine cloth
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and richly carved; under the chair was a footstool.
He took a motley chair nearby, apart from the other
suitors lest the stranger, annoyed by their uproar,
dislike her meal, for these men were all overbearing.
He hoped to ask her about his long-away father.
Bread, Meat, and a Good Wine
A maid brought them water. She poured from a pitcher
of stunning gold and they washed their hands in the silver
basin. She set out a polished table before them.
An honored housekeeper brought them bread and arranged it.
She laid out plenty of food, gracious and giving.
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A carver hoisted and set out salvers with all kinds
of meat. He set down golden goblets beside them.
A steward poured them wine, moving around them.
Dining, Poetry, and Dance
More brash suitors came in. Soon as they sat down,
taking the plain seats or chairs that were thronelike,
stewards covered their hands with water for washing,
housemaids piled up bread in baskets before them
and houseboys crowned the bowls of wine for their drinking.
Their hands went out to the good things lying before them.
After the craving for food and drink was behind them,
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the suitors’ thoughts moved on to other enjoyments,
dancing and song, which always go with a
good feast.
A steward handed the beautiful lyre to the poet,
Phemios. Often forced to sing for the suitors,
he started to play some chords, his voice engaging.
Trouble at Home
Now Telemakhos asked the glow-eyed Athene,
holding his head close to stop the others from hearing,
“Stranger, friend, will you be galled if I tell you
these men enjoy all this, the lyre and the singing,
for free? They devour a man’s goods without paying,
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a man whose white bones could be rotting now in a rainstorm,
lying on land or rolling in waves of the salt sea.
Yet if they saw him return to his Ithakan homeland,
all of them soon would pray more for some foot-speed
than any stores of gold or beautiful clothing.
But no, some harsh doom has killed him. I’d feel no
warmth or hope whatever man on the whole earth
told us he’d come: that homecoming day is a lost one.
Tall Tales and the Truth
“But come now, tell me something, answer me truly.
What man are you, where is your city, who are your parents?
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What kind of ship did you sail? How did your crewmen
bring you to Ithaka? Who do they claim to be sons of?
I doubt myself you came to our island by walking!
“Tell me a few more things, help me to know this,
whether you’re new here now or came as my Father’s
guest before. Plenty of good men came to our household
because my Father was so well known among all men.”
Goddess, King, and Sea Captain
The glow-eyed Goddess Athene answered by saying,
“I’ll tell you everything now; I’ll answer you truly.
I claim to be Mentes. I call Ankhialos Father,
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a wise man. I rule the Taphians, lovers of rowing.
I came here now aboard my ship with her crewmen,
sailing the wine-dark sea to a strange-sounding people,
bound for Temese’s copper. My brown cargo is iron.
The ship lies to by a farm, away from the city
in Rheithron harbor, below the woods of Mount Neion.
Let’s call each other friends: our Fathers were friendly
right from the start. Go and check with Laertes,
♦ the old war-chief. They say he comes to the city
no longer, but lives and mourns far off on his own land.
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His maid is an old woman who sets out his dinner
and wine after weariness claims all of his body,
climbing hard knolls in his wine-bearing orchard.
I came here now because they said that your father
was home. Instead the Gods are blocking his way back.
Alive and Home Soon
“For godlike Odysseus is not yet dead on some hard ground.
I’m sure he’s alive, somehow, maybe on broad seas,
maybe a foam-ringed island where dangerous tribesmen
hold him against his will and keep him from sailing.
In fact I’ll tell you myself, just as the deathless
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Gods thrust in my heart the way it will all end—
though I’m no seer, I don’t know much about bird-signs—
he won’t be away from the well-loved land of his fathers
for long even if iron shackles constrain him.
He’ll plot some way to come back. He’s widely resourceful.
A Beautiful and Doubtful Bloodline
“Come on now, tell me something, answer me truly:
are you, tall as you are, the child of Odysseus?
Your beautiful eyes and head strangely resemble
the man’s. We often met and spoke with each other
before he sailed to Troy, where others would sail off
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too in their hollow ships, the best of the Argives.
Since then I’ve seen no Odysseus, nor has he seen me.”
Telemakhos promptly gave her a sensible answer.
“So then, stranger, I’ll tell you myself what the truth is.
♦ My Mother tells me it’s so—how can I know it
myself?—no one is ever sure of his bloodline.
I’ve wished, in truth, that I were the son of a well-blessed
man overtaken by age, surrounded by good wealth.
But no, the sorriest man’s doom was my Father’s,
the man they say I was born to, now that you ask me.”
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Wrongs of the Suitors
The glow-eyed Goddess Athene answered by saying,
“Surely the Gods have not decreed that your bloodline
will always be nameless—not since Penelopeia has borne you!
Come on though, tell me something, answer me truly:
who are these crowding diners? Why do you need them?
Is it a feast? A wedding? It’s surely no picnic!
The men strike me as overproud and insulting,