and without turning guessed it was the long-lived man.
A fierce spite wrung his lips—somehow he knew that only
this cunning man still lived, that Rocky was now dead.
He turned his eyes and saw a ghostly shadow fall 360
on the burnt, tumbled rubble and mount the scattered stones,
but no tall cap or lion’s skull encased its head—
its hair seemed like long wings that beat the fluttering air.
As it approached and stood still by the castle gate
a choked cry split gaunt Granite’s breast in two, 365
for curly beard and hair and mustache waved pure white,
and two grooves, like sword cuts, were gouged on its dark brow.
It held a stout staff tied with a long pointed stone
and lashed with fury on a heavy column made of earth
that like a man stood upright by the creneled wall. 370
It struck and struck again, biting its bloody lips;
Granite longed to cry out, but fearing the wild eyes
and the white ghostly hair, looked on with speechless dread.
The column peeled and tilted, its soil slowly crumbled,
and as the lone man like a famished jackal growled, 375
a bronze shield suddenly gleamed as a man’s slender corpse
came slowly into view, burnt to a pitch-black cinder,
its shield upon its shoulder, holding its spear erect,
biting the sea-conch still between its tight-clenched teeth.
Granite drew back, then groaned and fell in a dead faint; 380
yet the lone man heard nothing and rushed to clasp the corpse,
but as he stretched his hands, the cinderous body fell
in heaps of bones and ashes at the white ghost’s feet.
Then the much-suffering man drew back and clutched his throat,
his bloodshot eyes bulged from their sockets, dull and glazed, 385
as though he gave the world his last farewell, but then
with his right foot he suddenly kicked the sooty bones
down the black chasm, and with his burnt feet swiftly smoothed
a wide arena about the ruined ground and stood
proudly erect, flapping his naked arms like wings. 390
For a long time he gazed on the sun’s East, then turned,
gazed West, and groaning turned once more, gazed North and South,
the while his head remained the hub of four wild winds.
He sat down cross-legged on the clay, then crossed
his hands, and his white hair like dandelion fluff 395
was plucked and swept in silence in the sun and wind.
Granite took courage, swiftly crossed the sooty mud,
but as he reached the white-haired mind, he stooped and yearned
to shout the choked cry in his heart: “Great Captain, rise!
The earth is good, don’t leave her now, take up your arms, 400
become your people’s guide once more and cleave new roads!”
These words surged up and hung on Granite’s trembling lips
but his voice choked in his tight throat, he staggered back,
for the lone man turned slowly, speared him with dark eyes
as his mind marched beyond all sorrow, joy, or love 405
—desolate, lone, without a god—and followed there
deep secret cries that passed beyond even hope or freedom.
Granite drew back in silence; as he crossed the ruins
his blood beat in his brows as though his heart had burst;
he took the road to knead his troop once more like yeast 410
and raise a new town somewhere that the seed of man might live.
Untamed Odysseus raised his head on high and hung
above the chasm and sank into the terror of thought.
The contours of his brain glittered like mountain peaks,
the whole earth shone, the darkness like a spool unwound, 415
his eyes sank inward, his white head swayed sluggishly,
his soul cut cleanly from the worm, became all silk,
and slowly wove its fine cocoon in the empty air.
As the fierce sun grew dim, his memory grew sweet,
leopards passed by like sighs, and the world’s holy myth 420
like an enchanted prince was drowned in the swift stream.
The inner rose burst into bloom and sucked his heart,
his mind grew light, and the starved flesh turned into spirit;
light formed a scorching ring about him, the woods shook,
as in the center, moveless, hopeless, the archer crouched; 425
the woods wrapped round him like green flesh, his mind flung leaves;
when dewdrops gleamed on boughs, Odysseus also gleamed,
for his whole body in the dewdrops swam and glowed.
Ants scurried in thick swarms with insects, eggs, and seed,
and he too strove and fetched and hid his treasures deep; 430
he watched snakes coil and sun themselves on stones and knew
the sleep of poisonous snakes was holy as a child’s;
he fondled grass as though it were a loved one’s hair,
his snake-mind gently slid and coiled on warming stones,
and in that nestling sweetness he heard words of love: 435
“A white black-headed worm deep in the forest bores
through a sweet apple, and I crouch on stones and wail
because a white black-headed worm gnaws at my brain.
In damp tree-hollows coupling scorpions, newly wed,
keep motionless, nor eat nor drink, dizzy with lust; 440
the males watch death approaching in the females’ eyes,
the females watch small scorpions playing in male eyes,
and ah, deep down, both in their male and female orbs
I watch my own face fill with death and deathlessness.”
He pressed his ear to earth and heard the small seeds toil 445
flat on their backs, fighting the soil courageously,
thrusting through stifling stones, groaning for life and freedom.
“I, too, am a small seed! I strive to lift the earth!
I hear the roots of trees grope mutely in the dark
like long blind worms that softly suck, I hear my veins 450
spill on the ground and suckle softly too, I hear
the birds of air, I hear the insects of the earth
opening their wings in close embrace, and my head gapes
that all might enter, warm their eggs, and hatch them soon.
Now the great forest sups and clacks its tongue with greed, 455
varied sweet fruit perch on its palate, slowly melt,
and on its bitter lips bees drip their pure wild honey.”
Far off a pomegranate softly burst and flung its fruit
and the archer’s breast was filled with pomegranate seed.
His nostrils quivered as he smelled deeply in woods 460
fragrance of rotted leaves, waters, and steaming soil,
white hidden jasmine sprays that blossomed in dark wells,
until the great ascetic’s eyes brimmed full of tears
and his brains smelled of laurel, thyme, and golden furze,
his fingers dripped with the thick musk of too much love. 465
Though motionless, he grabbed with greed at the whole grove,
his body cooled, his palms were filled with herbs and plants,
and round his neck a spiraling ivy slowly curled.
His flowing feet like rivers ran, his chest flung grass,
and like hushed pools of jet-black water his eyes gleamed 470
behind the morning-glory blooms that twined his beard.
He turned his head right, and the forest, too, turned right,
he turned his head left, and the forest, too, turned left,
he yelled “I!” in his heart, and
the whole forest quivered.
For the first time he felt he lived and had a soul. 475
Odysseus brimmed with waters, trees, fruit, beasts, and snakes
and all trees, waters, beasts and fruit brimmed with Odysseus.
As days and nights plucked off their hours like daisy petals,
Odysseus questioned all like a great lover in pain
and then rejoiced in their reply, in the great “Yes!” 480
One morning as his body glowed rose-red in sun,
and all his senses, his five bronze-etched weapons, shone,
he fondled his lean sides, his loins, his armored head,
and his hide shuddered to recall all it had borne
and joyed in—suns, rain, sea-drift, women, wounds—until 485
he suddenly felt a tender love for his maligned,
most faithful body, raised his hands and blessed it wholly,
beginning with its black and much-experienced eyes:
“O eyes, sheer magic crystals, the mind’s fiery tears,
O sun-washed flowers of the soil’s most high desire, 490
you saw and yet escaped all gaudy partridge snares
earth offers, slowly fondled all rich colors, joyed
in all the games which the bright spider webs of flesh
spin on the earth with skill; you saw strange seas and men,
fluttered like butterflies on all earth’s varied blooms 495
and slowly sipped their honey, sucked their poisoned drops.
Now like an eaglet you perch high on the mind’s crags
till earth seems much too narrow, outer wealth too poor,
and you turn back to inner jungles, O orbed flame!
My dear unslaked, unsated eyes, may you be blessed! 500
And you, shells of a secret beach, cast on the sands
of our resounding world by mystic swirling storms,
O ears, O serpent spirals, caves of the rattler’s peal
of many copper bells, remember how you reared
upright like savage flame to hear what the world rang! 505
Ah, sweet, sweet sounds reposing to the wagtail flesh,
battle cries, wails of slaughter, and in holy dawn
the cool and dizzy twittering on the topmost boughs!
When we remained alone and all sounds huddled low,
O, how you trembled, downy ears, and heard the hush 510
as of wings’ distant rustling or a bowstring’s twang,
and stretched along the earth full length to hear far off
the slow and stealthy footsteps of your great foe, Death.
My dear unslaked, unsated shells, may you be blessed!
And you, O flowering wound, carnation-curled and crisp, 515
O crimson lips that kissed—and still the kiss remains—
intoxicating honey, fuzzy peach and mellow wine,
how much I love you that with myriad veins and thin
transparent skin kissed all the world full on the mouth.
How ardently in all this world you tasted fruit, 520
dark bread and meat, the five-times dizzying wine, and cast
them down your funneling entrails to become pure spirit!
Then pallid woman rose and in great hunger pressed
her strong and lickerish lips on yours till both your mouths
became one honeyed fruit—you ate and longed for more! 525
My dear unslaked, unsated lips, may you be blessed!
And you, my rabbit, sniffing at the ghostly air,
coming and going, sleepless, silent, at your master’s door,
taking your choice of smells, betraying the foul stench—
thank you for such great pleasure in this odorous world. 530
Ah, heavy-scented flowers I’ve smelled, brine of the sea,
earth’s breathing after rain, the sour scent of sweat
from the deep armpits of friends who row in sun together,
and the sweet milky fragrance of a woman’s breasts!
Neither the ears nor eyes, not even the full lips, 535
can pierce the heart of mystery with such nakedness.
Smell, you’re a thick memory—when you wake, dear God,
you plunge down silently and plunder the head’s castle.
To you the world’s a lump of musk to sniff and probe!
My dear unslaked, unsated nose, may you be blessed! 540
Blind mother, with your fingertips’ unnumbered eyes,
O deaf, mute nurse, who grope your grandson, the rough world,
I stoop and shudder when I feel your greedy hands
fumbling my feet and chest slowly both day and night,
squeezing against my throat until you reach my brain! 545
Before eyes, ears, or nose were born, or the head bloomed,
you crawled on damp creation with your myriad feet
and touched all things your body’s length, merged with the soul,
while all things yet unborn seethed in your brimming belly!
The flesh filled with your gifts so that for centuries 550
nude feet rejoiced to walk on the coarse sands or climb
the plunging mountain crags or tender meadow lawns.
And when I plunged deep in the sea or the sun’s blaze,
how my dark body bloomed in all its million pores!
What do I want with the mind’s hollow satisfactions, 555
why should I seek gods in the clouds, grandsons on earth?
O thick wide net that spreads throughout the sensual skin,
O baited fishing line with your unnumbered hooks,
keep well, plunge in the sea, we need no other joy!
Mother, you know I love you, for I’m not pure soul 560
but filled with sucking pores like you, with flesh, like you.
My dear unslaked, unsated touch, may you be blessed!”
When the mind-battler had finished blessing his five senses
he sank in the deep joy of silence, and his eyes
turned inward like smooth mammoth boulders in the ocean’s depths. 565
As in the evening’s buoyant breeze there lightly sails
the jasmine’s stifling and seductive scent, so does
the fragrance of sweet holiness come winging by.
It flies past harbor waters, spreads along the plains
where the old plowman breathes it till his whole life steams 570
like stagnant pools of leeches, and he sadly sighs,
forgets to unyoke his oxen, drops his plow at once
and slowly takes the road to follow the sweet scent.
A pallid woman stood and leant against her door,
turned her face southward, sniffed, and her mind seethed: 575
“A great ascetic must have come, for the woods smell
with heavy musk like a strong rutting beast in spring:
I’ll fill my bucket to the brim with milk and honey,
a goodly gift, then kneel before that mystic lion
and be made worthy of his grace to bear a son.” 580
The scent spread on the waves and struck a fisherman:
“How the deceiving earth smells, lads, God curse her hide!
A fragrance strikes as of musk-deer or a maid’s thighs;
a great ascetic has come and changed the taste of air!
Row quick, let’s come in time to exchange our merchandise— 585
he’ll give us blessings, we a pan of mullet fried;
it’s best to keep on the good side of hidden demons.”
Thus spoke the cunning fisher as his oars flung foam.
An orphan girl sat silent in her desolate yard,
shucking gold ears of corn, but her mind drifted far 590
to her dead parents’ bodies not yet decomposed,
and her sad bosom tingled, by the grave’s soil spattered.
She suddenly raised her head, and her wide nostrils flared:
dear God, how the
aroused air smelled of her betrothed!
Her apron brimming with the flaming seeds of corn, 595
the young girl rose, half opened the door, and like a hound
sniffed in the air for traces of the strong erotic deer.
Thus many souls set out, bearing their votive gifts,
and the alluring lone man sat on stone, unmoving;
soft moss crept up his feet, grass sprang from his green sides, 600
and his white hair and beard gleamed like snow-covered shrubs.
A slender cypress tree, the mighty athlete struck.
deep roots in earth and ate up mountains, rose to heights
in the empty air with no branch, flower, fruit, or shade.
Only the five swords of his flesh swayed in the hush 605
and clashed in disembodied strife and stubbornness
to push at length beyond their fate and burst in wings.
One night an erring nightingale perched on his head,
and as with throat raised high it warbled its sweet song
the windswept man could bear no more and softly wept, 610
for, ah, a small bird’s caroling unwound his heart;
and as he listened to the bird sing to the wind
his sentry mind forgot and left its gate wide open
so that Telemachus, well nourished, sweet, appeared
and clasped his own dear child, and thus began to scold: 615
“When, Father, will your heart grow sweet and satisfied?
Man’s feet were first created but to walk the earth,
his hands to pull the oarblades or to grasp the hoe;
God did not make men wings, Father, to cut the air;
but you strive to surpass man’s holy measurement 620
and turn your hands and feet to wings till the earth flares
and fades like lightning bolts in your inhuman brain.
At times like scorpions you spout flames in burning hearths,
at times you freeze up like a winter snake, but never
rejoice in the serene and sacred warmth of man.” 625
As his son scolded, in his wretched crown there rose
his world’s far memories like huge dappled butterflies;
the somber brain-filled elders of his island came,
and all his musk-grapes, his ripe figs, his straight-prowed ships,
his dulcet flute held by his mountain shepherd lad, 630
till his brains filled with women’s laughter and female clogs.
The great ascetic watched his longing’s flimsy veil
wave lightly above his head in streams of varied hue
while like the spider’s subtle web his memories stitched
the air, then gleamed and beckoned like alluring sirens. 635
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