Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns
and the Sungod wiped from sight the day of their return.
That year spun out by the gods when he should reach his home,
far away at the feast the Sea-Lord sat and took his pleasure.
Compound their pains beyond their proper share.
So Hermes warned, with all the good will in the world,
off on a wave-washed island rising at the center of the seas.
Of hearth-smoke drifting up from his own land,
he gives the immortal gods who rule the vaulting skies?
Drives him far off course from native land.
Let us dispatch the guide and giant-killer Hermes
there to learn of his dear father’s journey home.
And lit on Ithaca, standing tall at Odysseus’ gates,
setting them out in place, still other servants
and straight to the porch he went, mortified
a sturdy pillar, there were row on row of spears,
a maid brought water soon in a graceful golden pitcher
and took their seats on low and high-backed chairs.
They forced the man to sing. A rippling prelude --