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

Marred Soul, Katie Yook

A prophet came to Marisol this morning. This morning, in the twelfth month, in the first day of the month, her mouth was opened and she was no more dumb. She probably wouldn’t have remembered that today was her anniversary if it wasn’t also her birthday. She lay in bed, eyes still puffy from her fight with Greg the night before. Marisol texted Greg’s roommate, inviting him to a party, and Greg spent the rest of the night yelling at her, according to thine envy which thou hast used out of thy hatred. Thus with your mouth ye have boasted against me.

Freshly twenty-one years old, staring at her phone, aware of what was supposed to happen. None of his sins that he hath committed shall be mentioned unto him. She thought phony lines she could say to Greg when she called him, but decided to send a lengthy text instead. Her voice wasn’t good at faking affection. She thought of lines from Ezekiel.

She would say, today marks the day—the first full year that I have enjoyed being yours. A new heart will I also give you, and a new spirit will I put within you.

 He would like that. Very metaphorical and poetic. Little did he know Ezekiel was a Biblical text about the end of the world, which was fitting, because today Marisol knew it was the end, for her. The mountains shall be thrown down, and the steep places shall fall, and every wall shall fall to the ground.

Marisol began the text, but backspaced it all. He can call me first, she thought, and threw the phone onto the bed. This feeling of resentment was not too new. Marisol had been feeling distant since about 2 months into the relationship, each succeeding day realizing another part of her life that had dissolved since she started dating him. Her dreams no longer belonged to herself. Her clothes no longer smelled like her scent. She hadn’t been able to enjoy the introspection of getting high alone and watching birds sing, or getting lost at the Met with headphones providing a soundtrack for her adventure. She couldn’t even remember the last time she painted, or contemplated life, or met someone knew.  Even her damn phone wallpaper was a photo of them. All her multitudes. She tried to be a good girlfriend by not talking to other guys, but since when is that a rule? Slain by the swords.

Marisol—ocean and sun, in Spanish.

Marisol—he marred her soul.

It’s not that she didn’t love him. She just loved herself more and resented anyone who took away her freedom. Her youth was being taken away by someone who didn’t deserve or appreciate it enough.

I will therefore spread out my net over thee and leave thee upon the land. When I put thee out, I will cover the sun with a cloud. All the bright lights of heaven will I make dark over thee.

She would start her life on a clean slate. Twenty-one, there was still time. Does thou pass in beauty? She thought as she looked in the mirror. She smoked a joint out of her bathroom window then ate a huge bowl of her favorite cereal. There was a tranquil atmosphere about her and her thoughts were extremely contemplative. After breakfast, she decided to take a walk along the river, alone. Instead of noticing Greg, and losing sight of everything else around her, Marisol would notice everything but Greg—the feeling of a warm breeze, the people walking by, the men giving her smiles, the seagulls dancing in the sky, the reason the sky is blue, whether North Korea would start a nuclear war, why chewing gum wasn’t allowed in middle school.

Her stream of ruminating thoughts was suddenly interrupted when her phone started ringing, which caused her body to jerk. “Greg my boo” came up and she immediately hunched over the railing and spilled out brown Reeses Puffs that matched the color of the Hudson. She quickly pressed a button to make the sound of ringing stop. She couldn’t talk to him, especially when she was high, especially the morning of their anniversary. She quickly thought of possible excuses. Baby I slept in, I was getting you a gift, I dropped my phone in the river, I was hitting up an old crush, I was plotting our break-up.

Her heart rate was slowing now and she sat down, staring at her phone, a sense of panic pushing down on her head. A text immediately followed. “Mar, where are you? Pick up!!! I have a surprise for you. Happy 1 year baby.” Tears started pouring down. It would be hard to let him go but at the same time, she was filled with excitement about life ahead.

Marisol knew what she wanted to do that night, on her twenty-first birthday, on her 1 year anniversary, finally legal to drink, finally legal to live. Go to her favorite rooftop lounge with Chelsea, sip gin and tonics and pretend she was best friends with beautiful strangers and vex the hearts of many people. Every man for his own life. Then shall they know that I am the lord. All of them slain, fallen by the sword. Her kings, and all her princes.

Greg texted again a couple hours later: Where are you? You weren’t at work… are you mad at me? I’m sorry for being a dick last night.

She decided it was time he deserved a response. She had Book of Ezekiel memorized since she was thirteen. Thou hast defiled my sanctuary with all thy detestable things, and with all thine abominations, therefore will I also diminish thee; neither shall mine eye spare, neither will I have any pity. And thou shalt know that I am the lord.

Works Cited

The Holy Bible, King James Version. New York: Oxford Edition: 1769; King James Bible

Online, 2008. http://www.kingjamesbibleonline.org/.