I've seen the cyclops'
orgy of electric madness
as he gobbled men
like popcorn —
only the protection
of the Wise Man
gave me passage
off that island,
and again the blue skies
and white curl of waves
scudding upon
my small boat's prow,
the tiller in my steady hand,
my weary eye upon the sea.
Yet still Poseidon
would not let me be,
but sent me between Scylla
and Charybdis' whirling eye,
flung madly from
my course once more
and cast up naked on
another unknown beach.
Lethe bound me then
with chains of sleep.
This time an angel
in the guise of man
found my obscure bed somehow
and led me on a starry night
again to the wide sea.
Ah, how I weary
of journeys and of shipwrecks,
and seeming plaything to the gods
when in truth
it's my own hubris
that renders me so weak.
This island anchoring
my feet today
I do not know
the name of.
For untold years
I've wandered
its circumference,
gazing out to sea,
scanning the sky
for rescuers,
meanwhile weaving
threads of possibility
upon the loom of thought,
though plans refuse to form.
And still I dream of Ithaca...
Max Reif
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/04new-a-song-of-odysseus/
