Ithaca

The following prose is a collaboration with Constantine P. Cavafy, a Greek poet who wrote "Ithaca" in 1911. Though I prefer the French version, I have turned an English translation of his poem by Rae Dalven into a prose that sounds much like a first-person response to his second-person work. 

I chose this poem because my dad read it to me when I was younger, encouraged me to memorize it, and I fell in love with it. The content of the original poem is such a simple, philosophical recommendation to how to approach life, and the fact that it is centered on Homer's Odyssey only adds to my joy, as I love Greek mythology.

Ithaca

When I start on my journey to Ithaca, at first I pray that the road is long, full of adventure, full of knowledge. Of course, I fear the Lestrygonians and the Cyclopes and the angry Poseidon, but I try to set that fear aside. I’ve been told that I will never meet such as these on my path, if my thoughts remain lofty, if a fine emotional detachment touches my body and my spirit. I know that I will never meet the Lestrygonians, the Cyclopes and the fierce Poseidon, if I do not carry them within my soul, if my soul does not raise them up before me. 

But it does. My pour soul which does not know. And so I suffer of their visions. Again. And again. And again. I raise them up before me so often that living is now like being surrounded by a cloud of my fears, fears that almost never go away.

Then I no longer pray that the road is long – not wanting it to end, for hope always keep me on the journey, but hoping that my torments will be brief and that soon there will be no chance of them reoccurring. 

But I do pray that the summer mornings are many, that I will enter ports seen for the first time with such pleasure, with such joy! It really is that small hope that propels me, scouring the horizon for the glance of light that is to swallow the darkness that surrounds me. But when I am not thinking such foolish thoughts, I know that I am alone, without the currency of passion.

How does one without money stop at Phoenician markets, and purchase fine merchandise, mother-of-pearl and corals, amber and ebony, and pleasurable perfumes of all kinds? How can I dare to even consider buying as many pleasurable perfumes as I can; visit hosts of Egyptian cities, to learn and learn from those who have knowledge?

Even with this sullen knowledge, Ithaca is always fixed in my mind. To arrive there is my ultimate goal. But I can’t help but hurry the voyage along. I’m told that it is better to let it last for long years; and even to anchor at the isle when I am old, rich with all that I have gained on the way, not expecting that Ithaca will offer me riches. They must have thought I was of the light-hearted kind, wise enough to know how to pretend to effortlessly harvest the riches of Ithaca while breaking my back with hard work, principles, and morality.

I wish that Ithaca had given me the beautiful voyage, as many who seek the easy way out do. Without her I would never have taken the road. But I’m so afraid that soon she will have nothing more to give to me. Most times I find her poor, though I am to believe that Ithaca has not defrauded me. With the great wisdom I should have gained, with so much experience, I surely would have understood by then what Ithaca means.

Works Cited 

Cavafy, Constantine P. "Ithaca." The Canon. Athens: Hermes Publishing, 2004