"ithaca" poems
Mellow season rain slipping by the thunderstorm
oh you have come, unknown visitor,
unrecognized. Lone rose that bloomed in rain,
drenched always in tears, this morning
shaded beams of light and the song of birds
welcoming the respite bend past you.
This is the sea leading to Ithaca. Here I stand
on the shores of the land that was my home.
Who left with hundreds, alone I return like a thief.
The gentle hand that passed last from my sight
out of the multitudes that waved us bye,
A hundred whispers of chants and hymns
from shadows that rise from the corners where
I found refuge from pain in these years:
Whom do those fingers choose, honour-bound
whom I left alone those twenty years ago?
Years that rush like a river streaming past gorges.
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 3:22 AM UTC
There were once men, playing a lying game.
They had no heart, they knew no shame.
Like Sirens, what their songs told,
were stories of flesh on beds of gold.
Merely this, is what their songs were about,
for wine and flesh they lusted sparing doubt.
For all their bubbles, fizzle, show and gleam,
true love for them was but a funny little dream.
Some, it is true, had the voices of blue suede kings.
Yet, danced on rubble, coughing smoke, 'n' kissing rings.
Thankfully, their lyrics were quite naturally cold,
faintly sparkling true hearts, despite their gold.
No songs can, in the spirit, ever remain,
or one's path meaningfully ingrain,
unless dotted by a hearty blood stain.
Still, some blind and sleepy were enticed,
those who dropped their heart, who'd lost their *****
Much like a robber, who rests his gun in a heist.
Others, scrambled to plug their ears
wishing to avoid both song 'n' tears.
They knew not, that when fighting fear,
'tis not enough to keep it from getting near.
Simply stuffing their ears with wax,
failed to fade the hottest new tracks,
cause tanks groove on these tracks.
As tanks, they pop 'n' roll till you die.
Therefore... relax, pick your time, and lie,
not to your conscience, but on the ground,
so they pass over you, leaving you safe 'n' sound.
"You cannot fear what you haven't tried."
Remember, Odysseus wasn't deaf, only tied.
He, chose to fight and listen to the Sirens' songs,
using threads of logic, to keep from snapping their thongs.
Tightroping on wrong, he but fell to the song.
He wailed and spat, yet, somehow grabbed the gong.
And after a short but needed rest, after this soul defining test,
he did not lament the virgins lost, but carried on with his quest.
He, knew the lying men and their calls were real,
but to forms he didn't kneel, nor aimed to cut a deal.
He, stuck to his dreams doing his best to warn and tell the rest,
that though Sirens charm, they harm. "'Tis Ithaca who gives zest.'"
So, next time you see the chanting men of lies,
and their enchanting plastic bunnies in bow ties,
know that rhyme and shine may polish coal,
but listening to your heart should be the goal.
*"With a twist of logic to correct your steer,
you will run through fear, and forever, keep it rear."*
Dec 7, 2011
Dec 7, 2011 at 4:27 PM UTC
Distant clouds lining the endless horizon hurtling back in waves,
rugged trees on the blue-barren shore, courtyard of this palace-
prison: the world shrinks, receding softly like
the last light of the evening sun:
Neither Odysseus King of Ithaca, nor a captive prisoner of
my own deeds, now, the world drops from me, in this
deep night I really am no-man, now, I am merely
the awareness of nothingness.
New worlds emerge: where I ride flying elephants, a hero I am
who won without recourse to a decoy horse, where Achilles
lives and Laodamia grieves not, where I rejoice
at my home the year after we won:
Fair Queen, worlds as real as my prism-world at dawn, where
the sea-nymph reigns; Many pasts converge and onward
to many futures from this present-point, I am really
ever just the silent witness.
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 9:53 PM UTC
Over and back,
the long waves crawl
and track the sand with foam;
night darkens, and the sea
takes on that desperate tone
of dark that wives put on
when all their love is done.
Over and back,
the tangled thread falls slack,
over and up and on;
over and all is sewn;
now while I bind the end,
I wish some fiery friend
would sweep impetuously
these fingers from the loom.
My weary thoughts
play traitor to my soul,
just as the toil is over;
swift while the woof is whole,
turn now, my spirit, swift,
and tear the pattern there,
the flowers so deftly wrought,
the borders of sea blue,
the sea-blue coast of home.
The web was over-fair,
that web of pictures there,
enchantments that I thought
he had, that I had lost;
weaving his happiness
within the stitching frame,
weaving his fire and frame,
I thought my work was done,
I prayed that only one
of those that I had spurned
might stoop and conquer this
long waiting with a kiss.
But each time that I see
my work so beautifully
inwoven and would keep
the picture and the whole,
Athene steels my soul.
Slanting across my brain,
I see as shafts of rain
his chariot and his shafts,
I see the arrows fall,
I see the lord who moves
like Hector lord of love,
I see him matched with fair
bright rivals, and I see
those lesser rivals flee.
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The ocean's wave rolls
and beats repeatedly
carving a way into the soul
of this precipice
foaming at the mouth
no, wait....
that's just your tongue
coated in a miasma of
a siren song
you ******* liar
sunbathing on my pyre
the whole town now congregates around
with devil-red
containers of gasoline
while your devil-red
lips act the fire
Only the clever witches
survived the trials
the whole town now dances around
feasting on the lotus petals
that root in the palm of your hand
look at them move
locked in each others hands
chanting
"This will bring peace"
while they nod and agree
"Pour more gasoline"
escapes between those sharp teeth
happiness is a moveable feast
at least your eating
like a queen
go ahead and **** the marrow
out of these innocent bones
tomorrow I will be gone
once I thought of you as Ithaca
now realize that these
are Troy's stones
it's time to sail back home.
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Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 10:03 AM UTC
The sea was sapphire coloured, and the sky
Burned like a heated opal through the air;
We hoisted sail; the wind was blowing fair
For the blue lands that to the eastward lie.
From the steep prow I marked with quickening eye
Zakynthos, every olive grove and creek,
Ithaca’s cliff, Lycaon’s snowy peak,
And all the flower-strewn hills of Arcady.
The flapping of the sail against the mast,
The ripple of the water on the side,
The ripple of girls’ laughter at the stern,
The only sounds:—when ‘gan the West to burn,
And a red sun upon the seas to ride,
I stood upon the soil of Greece at last!
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Floating on restless waters, tonight,
broken moons breathe in waving clouds;
Time is a colander, through which
life escapes, never to return; Yet tonight
the beanstalk remains tangled;
I sat watching swans in the moonlight
where the canal and stream met;
Rock the boat! Peace is a botheration.
Could the road that diverged loop
back to the fork? Walking backwards,
tonight, leaves and assorted bits of paper
fly forward; After the off-licenses close,
someone's dashing for the last bus
before dawn, running in reverse; three
hooded figures lost in the cemetery,
walking backwards; The moon
weeps tears of mist, that
ripple spreading inward in the puddles
after the rain; There's a weeping firefly
crawling in the sink; Or the kitchen-lamp?
Bubbles die to the siren-song of crickets.
Is there is an Ithaca fabled?
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 3:17 PM UTC
-- Wish You Were Here -- standard postcard greeting
-- Poems aren't postcards to send home -- Anne Sexton
Dear friends, dear friends at home, resent
No pagan rite nor chance event
We've failed to photograph for you
With technicolor flair in the true
Late Tourist Style. Be satisfied
You're there, not here in Circe's herd
Or dodging stones some Giant's hurled
Or fending Triton's tempest blasts
Or lashed, like me, to a shattered mast
As tempting taunts roll down the tide.
When night winds grind the wheel of sleep
Consider Cyclops, counting sheep;
When home-fires cool, just think of us
Attending smokes more perilous!
Home-bound friends, be notified:
This holiday's a Trojan Horse.
The wine's gone bad. The weather's worse.
So mark our fates by this palsied hand:
*Have sacrificed most every man.
Now homeward-bound. Still terrified.*
Sep 10, 2011
Sep 10, 2011 at 5:47 PM UTC
"Dear Austin Heath:
Thank you for sending “Poems by Austin Heath.” Your work received careful consideration here.
We’ve decided this manuscript isn’t right for us, but we wish you luck placing it elsewhere.
Kind regards,
The Editors”
Dear editors;
I’ve carefully considered your disposal of my material
and found it troubles me not. Whether you accept these
confessions or not, they’re still hand written on the liver
of every drinker from Cleveland to Ithaca and back.
Thanks for nothing,
Austin Heath.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 9:57 PM UTC
I wanna run to you in an airport
Like they do in 90s romance movies
Because I miss you and
I’ve been away from home for two years
I want to sit on the beach and explain the landscape that
You know better than I do
In the language it was originally loved in, that
You never bothered to learn
Why would you?
You dip your feet shallowly
Into the water instead of dunking yourself
Like I do, down up down up down
Because you’ll be back tomorrow
And I’ll spend fractions of me
Waiting for a call or a text
For 20 bucks to send you
To breathe plumeria-scented air
From the oil on the skin of your neck
For a picture of the freckles on the webbing
between your index and thumb, and the ring
That I bought you before I left so that in the pictures
you post with your white boyfriend
I’m there on your finger
So when he’s teaching you the ‘local’ lifestyle
I’m there on your finger
So when you island hop for a surfing class
You keep me on your finger, where I can feel the waves.
I want to come home but I can’t, not before
I buy you a new ring, out here
in the empty expanse of a Where’s Waldo puzzle
It has to be
Something expensive, something durable
That won’t tarnish in the island
humidity, something that your
San-Francisco friends will ooh and ahh at
Because I want to see you wearing it when I get home.
I’ve been away from home for fifteen years
I return in my dreams, but the soil
doesn’t feel right, and the love isn’t how
my mother’s father’s father described it
At the beach, lots of people swim, but no one else
Keeps their head under and lets the water breathe life into their hair.
Lets the water into their mouth, chokes, then does it again.
But I like the way you
Dipped your feet in when you watched me
Leave, on a boat chasing Troy
Venus my northern star
As I enter the storm
My boat floats through the violence,
against Poseidon’s abundant will
because my sail made up of duct-taped exam scores
And half-organized sermons
Is mightier than any of his sons
I’ve been away since 700 BCE
But you’ll still know me when I come home
Dec 19, 2024
Dec 19, 2024 at 1:03 AM UTC
So many
empty days,
lost faces,
frozen dreams
empty beds;
soon:
spring breezes,
the asphalt seas,
another voyage
in search of
Argos,
Ithaca,
Penelope,
peace.
- mce
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 3:57 PM UTC
The day of
her affair
And Poldy
-in love-
allowing it
A father invites a son
into the kitchen,
talking before
he walks
him
out
Reentering
the house at night
filled with evidence
of Boylan
Crumbs brushed
off the bed
-ten years
since-
Feet at the head
and head at the
foot, a behind
kiss to Gea-tellus
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 12:42 PM UTC
previously
i would of said
love was the purpose
there was a heart to this universe
and it circulated
meaning
to every extremity
but now i wake
to toil
silver and gold pockets
finally a son to profit
my father was right
we're all just a number
and we cant add up to
lofty goals
or life plans
you're not a doctor.
i'm not a police man.
dream
no more my sweet
those are shores
we'll never meet
ithaca
is no more
and never was
and i'm not the kind of king to be waiting on
a prince, a pauper, a peon
i'm only a man in an argument with God
but its a problem
that is often
never solved
life is getting
what you dont want
and making the best of disappointment
oh penelope
it may be 10 years
or twenty
but i'll make it back!
i swear i'm coming back!
with money in bags
and cloudy eyes
'how're you?'
'oh, you know me
i'm making
it by
and by'
'but you're not you
you're not you anymore'
and we'll both get by
not really happy
but, hey, thats life
maybe one day
i'll wreck upon your shore
and your suitors will meet me
and my sword
i can string a bow
and keep my word
all at once
oh penelope
wont you wait for me?
wont you unweave
this burial shroud?
because
i am not
no no no
i am not
dead
yet.
Jul 17, 2010
Jul 17, 2010 at 1:05 AM UTC
Rejoice, muses, for the traveler, descended from his namesake:
Odysseus, son of Archon. For he carries in him the spirit of his ancient father.
Time immortal has lost the tale of the ancient King of Ithaca,
Odysseus, son of Laertes. This explorer will travel the stars,
The vast Unknown shall know his name, and he will know it's spirit
As his ancestor traveled home from Ilias
His way inhibited by the gods
Meeting strangers along the twisted road.
Odysseus, son of Archon, rests upon his Captain's throne
Observing through the glass the void which called his name:
"Come, Traveler. Come, Adventurer. Come to me,
And all which is unknown will be known.
Come and see, Traveler, and I will set you free.
There are no endings here; no edges of the map.
There is only that which has always been, and will always be"
The Captain: alone in his ship. No crew would follow him, no crew was needed.
He was afraid. Odysseus knew his choice was made, and
He knew what lay ahead! He knew that he knew nothing.
A push was needed, and to his log he spoke:
"I embark today from home. This journey will take me far away;
Farther than any man before. I begin at mother Earth, and I go out and away.
Away from Mars, the crimson orb of furious war
Past Neptune, the super giant with its swirling eye.
All of this behind me, I will continue still.
I will follow the Unknown, to the vast beyond."
With that, the Traveler ****** forward the controls,
And in so doing, lost all reservation.
For seemingly innumerable days he did not stop,
Streaking away from home faster than light;
An arrow, which was not released but which leaped forth with joy.
Not fired away in anger, but shot into the stars, ablaze,
Seeking a place in which to bury its point.
A signal to all who saw or cared: man is coming.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 5:44 PM UTC
Once I feel a little comfort
I'll start blabbering about my dreams in progress
She's so supportive
thinks I'm a renaissance man
for all I find important
all the albums and paintings I've planned
Young da Vinci to a T
Little she know I don't dot my eyes
So I'm just sitting there
looking at a bland pole
with blurry vision
She's too great
so my childish totem's fade
cause all I want is you babe
Streaming binges on the couch
I sense the boredom bubbling up
So I start sifting through that rolodex
of perfect dates in my head
Walking through the naval museum
I still sense things are out of step
'cause a flawless Connery impression
just fell flat
I double down
beat the dead horse
of course, of course
So we sat down on the bench
across from the U.S.S. She don't give a ****
We talk about us
and I'm hit with a brick
"You used to wanna be a rock star
write books, teach college
and travel far
What ever happened to the "Will to Power"
you never used to shut up about
You're just content to be a hobbyist simp
that talks big and likes to hold my hand
I fear I'm holding you back
You've gotten so lazy since we met"
I wipe the brick from my face
and explain that my mind
is the only chains
that stopped me from doing those things
I was never even happy with those lofty dreams
She got me outta a dark place
and I'm content with just
strumming chords on my front porch
and exploring Western New York
So long as it's with someone more gorges than Ithaca
And you'll be my Penelope
She says she doesn't deserve me
but as she stares at Lake Erie
I know she means that I'm not the man she hoped I was
I used to rap about snatching power and holding gold
while beating myself like an opus dei catholic
just for being too lazy and not doing enough
I'm sorry you made me comfortable and happy enough
to live a modest life
(Oh good tidings of comfort and joy
comfort and joy)
Now I'm alone again
and it's opening day
Wreck myself with unachievable goals
just to reel them in
Get secure and balanced 'till
they'll throw me back into the mercury waves
I'm an ancient treasure in the making
don't excavate me.
Aug 16, 2020
Aug 16, 2020 at 6:55 PM UTC
I saw a grown-up tonight for the first time.
I had seen her before
Seen her born
after three days of trying
and wrapped
in a warm blanket with just her little face
poking out.
Seen the elation in her face
when she realized she had walked
from her mother
to me
for the first time without her toy shopping cart
in front of her
for support
Seen her first day nursery school
of kindergarten
of new schools in a new town
of High School
of College
Seen her stoically sitting in my mother's chair
in the living room of the house where I had grown up
saying goodbye
to her grandmother
for one last time
Seen her arrive home with a learner's permit
then with a driver's license
and later
leave the driveway
in grandma's green Subaru
her's now.
Seen her grow for 18 years
but tonight
sitting across the table
at a packed restaurant with lousy parking
in Ithaca New York
I saw and heard a grown-up
for the first time
and with that
the little girl
with the toy shopping cart
was gone.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 11:14 PM UTC
Seamus would talk about those,
"Sexually liberated Ithaca College girls."
I guess that's what I thought you were.
Cornell with it's ******* frat houses.
and ******* nasty frat parties.
We met in the basement of mine.
I was still hungover.
I don't blame you for thinking
I was just another frat boy.
I don't know for sure,
We were so far apart.
But I think we were both shocked,
That we had found real people.
Normal people.
Caring and sensitive.
Doing cute little romantic things.
Saying the right stuff,
And in between, saying the wrong stuff.
Letting the weird stuff spill out.
Then thinking maybe it wasn't so weird.
Maybe there was somebody amazing,
Hidden behind the person I made them out to be.
Maybe that wildness I saw.
It was't exotic.
It wasn't ***
It was familiar.
It was looking in a mirror.
It was a sunset at the farm,
And morning coffee with my family.
I knew it when I saw it.
But it took me a long time to know what I saw.
If I hadn't learned who I was.
If I hadn't looked in the mirror and
Understood,
Finally,
What I was seeing.
I wouldn't have understood
Why I wanted you so bad.
I want to hold your head in my hands.
See that fire in your eyes.
Relive the first time.
Every time.
See home,
From so far away.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 12:19 AM UTC
Buried the sleeping bags
(Bodies inside)
Ate concrete blocks
Drank tangled wires
Welcome to the Jungle
South of Ithaca.
Smashed bottles
Shattered illusions
Shoved tires
(Inside ground)
Welcome to the Jungle
South of Ithaca.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 11:37 PM UTC
For many seasons I awaited your return,
restless on the shore of a great sea,
hair blown wild by brackish winds,
my tapestry unwoven.
For many moons I searched the distant line
where Neptune's hand slices through the sky
beyond the eye's perception.
How frenzied my hands became,
sifting for mythical remains
of boat, of flesh, of washed bones.
From carved crib to wrecked vessel,
your realm was all but stolen,
Then lifted from night's shadow,
on a zephyr's breath, you came
to heal the fever of my sorrow,
my heart grown heavy with longing.
I recall that fateful day, how I wept
while you unfolded wondrous tales
as we lay in half-shade beneath our tree of life.
Between its leaves shines love -
the eternal light,
burning in the heart of Ithaca.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2014
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 8:01 AM UTC
my heart is a concerto
in which Ithaca was but a concrete cage of steely walls
compressed on my heart, and the fluttering concerto grew too much,
and my heart is too much
with my ribcage but a tiger's cage
and wanton cruelty, and living's ecstasy,
and I am always first to arrive and always last to leave--
(et petite souer, saivez-vous?
la nuit, la nuit, je baise la nuit!)
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 12:25 AM UTC
Your breath stings at the back of my neck like the
Brisk winter chill of snowy nights in Ithaca. I’m
Enthralled by the softness of your still naked body
Emitting heat upon the depths of my soul. The ice
Evaporates as we fall through the sky and my only
Chance for survival throbs through your essence and
Into mine. Complete me with your silence and keep me
Here running thick through your blood. Don’t let go
Until sunlight peers through the glass and a new day
Awakens our sleeping lust. Then forget me again
Till the timing is right as i wait in my fortress for
The kiss of your soul coming to greet me once more
I won’t let my heart believe that I’m simply your w*ore
For the princess inside me deserves so much more
Than your ice cold invitations welcoming me to war
I can never win, for I cannot let go
Whether we carry on as friends or foes,
You will always be my lover.
Apr 2, 2012
Apr 2, 2012 at 8:47 PM UTC
Pearl white floral treat
entwined in the vines of hair
sundress draped a frame petite
skin so smooth and fair
Calm oceans happily gaze
glass of wine we share
tropical blue I'll sail for days
lost in the waves serene care
Lift the glass to those lush lips
we'll share some little laughs
for the first time this seedy ship
doesn't mind posing photographs
Beacon of moonlight
how you so guide
a lost star back to night
where it will find its stride
My enchanting little carnation
oh how you so complete
this lost dull constellation
giving meaning to its heartbeat
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 2:38 PM UTC
The vacant space upon times ethereal shores
Has me asking if Odysseus has ever touched before ?
The waves lapping , swirling sands across my feet
Leaves me little gold that I might keep
The thistle and thorns woven into a crown to wear
Placed upon with such gentle care
The shores all rock and cliff so high
How can I just climb on by?
Moments are dark , the sea will free
Come follow to the ends with me
The Isle is small just temporal best
Back home from a ten year's quest
He wades the shores and falls to knees
She bends down to claim his ease
They embrace the winds of time
That binds them to the threads of mind
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 9:05 PM UTC
Where sunset copperplates the sea
With flecks of gold and Verdigris
And down below, the ghosts of ships do battle in the bay
Where in the morning, rising scents of sea salt and of sage
Drift up the hill on gifted wings to greet the kids that come of age
On dry stone walls in olive groves
Beneath the strident sun
Sharp shadows cast by old scrub oaks
Where once young shepherds flung their cloaks
Resist the timeless tug of war of brash Etesian winds
Where goats' bells bounce off whitewashed walls, with each staccato leap
And black-wrapped widows spin their webs to catch what precious dream-filled sleep
They might ‘neath watch of leaning, still
Centurions of stone
To soothe the white heat of the sun
We dived and left our limbs undone
In ocean coolness, born again - and flushed, we struck for shore
With towels held high above our heads
we tiptoed onto land
And broke from canvas rare delights to share upon the sand
The day we lunched on Ithaca
Two thousand orbits turned
Content, we hung in listless sleep
As painted ladies traced our shape
Until the lure of barefoot expeditions brought me round
I picked my steps with casual ease through shade of salt-dried driftwood trees
And swore I’d found the very glade where hung the Golden Fleece
I turned to share my thrill with you
But chose instead to spare your peace
Soon after came the faithful sound
Of bells that haul the Earth around
Each chime remarking loud and clear its moment’s fading grace
And deep within you as you slept, inaudible at first,
The beating of a second drum began to be rehearsed
The day we lunched on Ithaca
Life’s liquor quenched our thirst
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 3:41 PM UTC
I sit here in the cold and think of you
I think of winter
I think of that winter
Now this winter is slowly approaching
The closer it gets
The closer I am to you
Like Odysseus in his travels
I have been peregrinating
But now here in the cold I remain
I am not done with my journey
I have not yet returned to my Ithaca
I have not yet returned to my Penelope
I have only just come to an Ithaca
There is no Penelope here
Here it is cold like your hands on my chest that winter
Now this winter is slowly approaching
The closer it gets
The closer I am to you
Like Odysseus in his travels I have met many a muse
But none could compare to you
Their warm hands tried to warm my cold heart
But they tried in vain
Your cold hands on my chest that winter
Were the only hands that have triumphed
In that monumental task
Now this winter is slowly approaching
The closer it gets
The closer I am to you
Like Odysseus in his travels
I was lost for so long
I’m just trying to find a way home
I was once scared I may never return
And may never be back with you
The only way I could be
Was to think of us that winter
Now this winter is slowly approaching
The closer it gets
The closer I am to you
Like Odysseus in his travels
I have finally set a course for home
When this winter finally arrives
I’ll be back in my Ithaca
I’ll be back with my Penelope
With my muse finally at last
But this winter is slowly approaching
The closer it gets
The closer I am to you
I sit here in the cold and think of you
I just hope I can last
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 11:27 PM UTC