The Odyssei

 
Another bottom-shelf Odysseus thinking
having a lofty goal is all that matters,
that Ithaca is just the one place,
that the destination is everything.

Those Odyssei merit to feed the crabs,
or to rot on the shoreline in the sun,
kelp in their matted hair and beards.

The fool will get lost indeed, and drown
– manly him and his ignorant ideals –
he will only find gods and monsters,
marred plans and fleeting riches,
unmemorable deserted islands,
– not the Penelope his guts are yearning for,
the Ithaca of Ithacas, the journey of journeys.

Those tacky, fragile amphoras of Odyssei
praise the wine, the flagon, the cellar,
forget the vineyard, the soil, the sun,
that Penelope handpicked the grapes.

This Odysseus remembers her proud beauty,
everyone’s envy, her shimmering garment,
he trusts in the olive tree’s roots in his bed,
in his aura to ensure none replace him
– forgets Penelope is the weaver, the teller,
has ousted many of those brash Odyssei,
elects who will rule and who will fall.

In this Ithaca, as in all other Ithacas,
many an Odysseus ended up a beggar,
ignored, unsung, wishing he remembered
how Penelope smelt of tangerine,
how she used to own the night,
herself an Ithaca without a map,
the reason, bearing, quest, and deed.