This
spring when you walk far from your old town,
the
blossoms will fall over your coiled nape,
and
the rosemary and leaves from the grape
vine,
will be crisp and tender underfoot.
May
you sail on still waters, from the Seine
to
Venice, where your mother gave you birth:
knowing
yourself at once, right from the first,
until
you find the ship with your own name.
Boarding,
to find the distant place you seek,
destination
you’ve journeyed from the start,
but
don’t neglect the proper journey there
and
all the things along the way you’ll need.
The
home hidden unknown in your soft heart,
is
isle of Ithaca, roving no more.
This
summer, as the light streams through the grape
vine,
where fruit hangs golden, wily goatherds
counsel
you—set out on Ithaca’s road.
When
your long fate is written and it’s rare,
no
one else will go with you. Asunder,
you
walk alone this idyllic thin path:
when
you have played resinous aftermath,
the
strings are violin, with the thunder
of
horses’ hooves, and the dust in your eyes.
Don’t
be the one the wild wolves chase behind,
don’t
let them hunt you or you are the prey.
It’s
Ithaca, in all its lovely sights,
that
you, all your life, are searching to find:
that
ivory-clothed bride will wed today.
Fall
in with the ancient vineyard bees’ hum,
our
lives, vanishing, like smoke before dawn,
and
combined, our efforts don’t leave us wan,
we
leave behind an emperor’s ransom.
Then
source the harvest by a godless clock,
when
our enemy is bitter late frost
among
the grape vines, we keep blithely on:
it
is Ithaca we seek and its lock.
With
the keys you’ll not be chasing phantoms;
you
were crucified a long time ago.
With
small forged spheres’ iron, have stamina;
you
don’t care if you live or the reasons.
Then
the wind will blow ceaselessly hollow,
and
you will almost forget Ithaca.
If,
by this candle’s light, your heart is warm,
then
this winter’s snow has not frozen you
from
the journey to Ithaca, and few
have
travelled where rovani is worth more
than
the destination, your final home.
Is
anything more satisfying than
a
reward for your work, labour you can
glad
eschew for where the wintered vines roam?
Home
is where the roasted apples wassail,
and
where the hearth is lit, black kettle sings.
What
clay road could lead you onward, surging
by
way of horse cart, warship, and vessel,
to
the isle in the Ionian Sea?
To
the isle where Odysseus is king?
The
pebbled path and trodden weed have lead
you,
to glittering cities vast and bright,
the
seas you crossed were thick with limpid salt,
and
graveyards in the dead of night glowed red.
Still
you continued, pressed on, in white cloth
with
pearlesque buttons to the linen ground,
sun
in morning light walked bravely through towns,
while
the brine met the land with a wide froth.
The
horses trod this way before, but now
at
their moonlit equestrian reigns sits
a
faery with light-struck wings in stardust,
or
cupid with twanging bow and arrow,
or
a deft angel who can waltz and spin,
with
end in sight: Ithaca’s corridors.
From
the ancient oracle wafts perfume,
the
wine cellars stacked from floor to ceiling,
the
library books of shelved majesty,
carpeted
garden where white lilies bloom.
You’ll
see with binoculars: clear vision’s
only
end is to sit down with silvered
hairs
shining on your reading head, mustered
courage,
to teach the young ’uns from wisdom.
Ithaca
is where the bronzed galleon
arrives
in a gust of wind, flagrant, fresh,
as
melodic score of black olive nears,
with
the sideways walk of pink crustacean;
at
long last you will take a weary breath
when
you arrive, licking the salt from tears.
You
will remember, when the years have passed,
not
Ithaca’s end, friends, but the travels—
through
the dark woods, your children unravelled,
en
route to sea lilies lodged in stone cracks.
Gardens
of Ithaca, with their kumquats,
violets,
crimson grapefruits spelling prose,
interspersed
with wild white Banksia rose,
jasmine,
ivy, scarlet pomegranates.
The
green cliffs over the sea wore their wealth
of
sea birds—the fine Egyptian vulture—
island
cypresses rose armoured, snow tipped.
The
place to arrive in still of night, stealth
on
journey—short as a dream, a flicker—
protecting
golden eagle’s flight from cliff.
Emily Isaacson
