who would cross a vast and untold body of water
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gladly? With no man’s town nearby, no one to offer
the Gods a hecatomb, well-picked, the holiest victims.
But none of the Gods—no one—can baffle or run from
the mind and will of Zeus who carries the great shield.
“He says you’re holding a man more wretched than all those
other men who warred at the city of Priam
for nine years then looted his house in the tenth year.
They left for home but somehow offended Athene,
who sent them a ruinous gale. The seas were a great height,
all the rest of his loyal war-friends were drowned there.
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But wind and wave drove the man to your island.
Now you’re ordered to send him away in a hurry.
It’s not his doom to die so far from his loved ones:
no, his portion remains to look on his loved ones,
to go to his high-roofed house in the land of his fathers.”
A Killing Jealousy
He spoke that way and goddess-like, shining Kalupso
chilled when she spoke, her words with a feathery swiftness:
“You Gods are cruel and faster than others at envy,
the way you begrudge a Goddess for openly sleeping
here with a man and making a lover her husband.
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♦ So when rose-fingered Dawn chose her Orion,
all you Gods with your easy living begrudged her.
Orion was killed by Artemis, pure on her gold throne:
Orion died in Ortugie, pierced by her gentle
arrows. When lovely braided Demeter surrendered
her heart to Iasion, making love on that farmland
plowed out three times, Zeus knew it before long
and hurled a glaring thunderbolt, killing him outright.
Odysseus Will Be Free
“So Gods begrudge me if a man is beside me.
I saved him myself when he came here, straddling a keel-board
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alone. Zeus with his glaring lightning and thunder
had blasted his race-fast prow in the midst of the wine-dark
sea where all his brave war-friends were dead men.
Wind and wave carried the man to my island.
I loved and fed him myself, I told him I’d make him
deathless too: all his days he would not age.
But now, because no God can baffle or run from
the mind and will of Zeus who carries the great shield,
the man may go, if that God presses and prods me,
over the restless sea. I cannot give him a send-off.
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I don’t have the oars, a vessel or crewmen
to send him over the broad back of the salt sea.
I’ll gladly counsel him, though, hiding nothing
to help him arrive unharmed in the land of his fathers.”
A Last Warning
The Guide answered her now, the Splendor of Argos:
“Send him away then. Beware of Zeus and his anger:
don’t make the God enraged, hard on you later.”
The strong Splendor of Argos left when he’d spoken.
So the honored Nymph went out to her great-heart
Odysseus now that she’d heard that message from strong Zeus.
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She found him sitting, crying there on the seashore as ever,
his eyes not drying. A lifetime’s sweetness had flowed off:
♦ he wept for the way back home. The Nymph was a pleasure
no longer, he slept with her nights because he was forced to
in hollow caves, unwilling, although the Goddess was willing.
Every day however he sat on rocks by the seashore
and wept, his heart wasted by anguish and moaning.
He stared at the restless water, letting the tears fall.
A Hope for Return Home
She spoke when she came up close, bright as a Goddess.
“Poor man, stop mourning here. Don’t let your whole life
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waste for it’s time: I’ll send you away with a good heart.
Come on then. Chop some long logs with a bronze ax
and make a broad-beamed raft. Put on a half-deck
high enough to carry you over the hazy
sea. I’ll lay in food myself, water and red wine
suiting your spirits, enough to keep you from hunger.
I’ll give you clothes and send you a following sea-wind
to help you arrive unharmed in the land of your fathers—
if Gods will it, ruling broadly in heaven—
they’re far stronger than I am, planning or doing.”
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Can a Goddess Lie?
She spoke that way but long-suffering, godlike Odysseus
chilled as he spoke, the words with a feathery swiftness:
“You’re planning otherwise, Goddess—hardly a send-off.
You tell me to cross great gulfs of sea on a plain raft?
It’s hard and fearsome, even for balanced and sailing
ships enjoying a breeze from Zeus while trying to cross it.
So I won’t board a raft if you are against me,
Goddess, not unless you powerfully swear that
you’re not planning some other hardship or sorrow.”
Swearing by the Stux River
He spoke that way and goddess-like, shining Kalupso
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touched his hand and smiled. She spoke to him outright:
“You rascal for sure, you’re never a fool or without wits,
ready to make a speech like that to a Goddess.
So let Earth look on and the wide Heaven above us,
♦ yes and the tumbling Stux’s water—the greatest
oath for the blissful Gods, the oath which they fear most:
I won’t plan some other hardship or sorrow.
I’ll think and explain for you as though for my own self:
I’ll make your plans as though they came to my own need.
Surely my mind is not unfair—iron is hardly
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throughout this heart in my breast! I surely can pity.”
Dining in the Nymph’s Cave
The shining Goddess spoke that way and she led him
swiftly. The man walked in the Goddess’s footsteps.
They went to her hollow cove, Goddess and mortal.
♦ He sat in the chair that Hermes had just now
food and drink taken by men who are death-bound.
After she sat down facing the godlike Odysseus,
handmaids brought her nectar and laid out ambrosia.
Their hands went out to the good things lying before them.
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Dying and Undying Women
After they’d taken pleasure in eating and drinking,
Kalupso started to ask him, goddess-like, shining:
“Zeus-bred son of Laertes, my wily Odysseus!
You want to go home to the well-loved land of your fathers
now and so quickly? Well, be happy for all that.
Yet if you knew in your heart you’re doomed to be laden
with painful struggle before you reach the land of your fathers,
you’d stay right here at my side and care for this household.
You’d be deathless, for all your wanting to gaze at
your wife, a woman you long for all of your days here.
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I claim to be surely nothing less than that woman,
neither in height nor shape. In fact it is not wise,
the dead striving in shape or grace with the deathless.”
Longing for the Woman Who Will Die
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of his own plans, Odysseus answered by saying,
“Queenly Goddess, don’t be angry: all that you tell me
I know well. My thought-full Penelopeia,
beside you, is not so tall or striking to look at.
The lady will die; you are undying and ageless.
Even so I go on longing all of my days here
to sail back home, to see that homecoming daylight.
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If Gods on the wine-dark sea again should attack me
I’ll bear it: the heart in my chest has suffered and hardened.
I’ve gone through plenty already, plenty of struggle
at sea and in war. This pain can be added to that pain.”
The Last Lovemaking
He said so much, the sun went down, darkness was coming.
The two of them walked to the inmost nook of the hollow
cave and loved with pleasure, staying close to each other.
To the End of the Island
When newborn Dawn arrived with her rose-fingered daylight,
promptly Odysseus dressed in a tunic and mantle.
The Nymph adorned herself in the whitest of long robes,
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a graceful and fine weave. She tied a beautiful golden
sash at her waist and set a veil over her forehead.
Planning a send-off there for great-hearted Odysseus,
she gave him a large ax that fitted his hands well.
Both of its bronze edges were sharp and a splendid
olive-wood handle joined tight at the ax-head.
She gave him a polished adze and, making their way out,
led him to tall stands of trees at the end of the island—
alder and black poplar, fir making for heaven,
dry for a long time, seasoned and ready to float light.
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After she showed him growths where trees were the tallest,
Kalupso went back home, bright as a Goddess.
Hard Working with Wood
♦ Now he cut down trees. He worked at a fast pace,
felling twenty in all. He trimmed them with ax-blows,
scraped them with care and cut them straight to a string-line.
Meanwhile goddess-like, shining Kalupso brought him an auger.
He bored and fitted all the planks to each other,
using wooden nails and slabs for the joining.
The way a man skilled in carpentry rounds out
the broad keel of a ship designed as a freighter,
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Odysseus worked on the wide raft in the same way.
He set down deck-planks, closely fitted with braces,
and made some long strakes. So ended the raft-work.
Sail and Line
Now he set in a mast and fitted a yardarm.
He made a steer-oar, too, in order to sail straight.
He worked in shoots of willow throughout as a caulking
to keep out water. He piled in plenty of dunnage.
Meanwhile goddess-like, shining Kalupso had brought him
cloth for a sail: he carefully worked it and trimmed it.
He fastened braces, halyards and sheets on the new raft.
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He drew it all on rollers down to the bright sea,
having done with the whole task on the fourth day.
Good-By to the Goddess
Shining Kalupso sent him away from her island the fifth day.
After she bathed and dressed him in fine-scented clothing,
the Goddess laid in dark wine in a tight skin,
another larger sack of water and one more
bag with plenty of meat that suited his spirits.
She sent him off with a wind, gentle and balmy.
Sailing to Phaiakia
Cheered by the breeze, godlike Odysseus bellied the sail out.
He sat and kept his craft on course with the steer-oar
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smartly. He let no sleep fall on his eyelids
♦ that night, watching the Pleiades, late-setting Bootes,
the Great Bear—they also call it the Wagon,
circling high in its place and watching Orion—
the only sign that takes no bath in the Ocean.
Because he was told by goddess-like, shining Kalupso
to keep that sign to port while crossing the great sea,
he sailed for seven and ten more days on those waters.
Shadowy mountains began to loom on the eighteenth
day, the closest part of Phaiakian land to his own raft.
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It looked like a bossed shield on the haze-covered water.
The Anger of the Sea
But now the Earth-Shaker, back from Ethiopian country,
♦ saw him a long way off from the Solumoi Mountains.
He watched him sail at sea. His heart more angry,
the God shook his head and spoke to his spirit:
“Look at this! Gods have made new plans for Odysseus
surely during my stay in Ethiopian country.
He’s close to Phaiakia now. What will his lot be?
To break from his fetters, the great sorrow that bound him?