Archive for the ‘Home’ Category

Just so you know, I wrote this for my Introduction to Literature students, as our semester ends, as a kind of “goodbye and good luck,” so it’s probably more pedagogical and/or sappy than what I might otherwise have written.

Here is “Ithaka” read by Sean Connery, with score by Vangelis. (Thanks, Patrick Blanchfield, for alerting me to this craziness):

The poem begins “As you set out for Ithaka,” and when it ends, when you have (possibly) reached your destination, “you will have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.” Two things seem to have happened along the way: a single Ithaka has become multiple “Ithakas,” and you have, or will have, come to understand what it means, or what they mean. Undoubtedly, these two things are linked. Probably, coming to understand what “Ithaka” means involves understanding that it is actually “Ithakas.” Possibly, when you understand “what these Ithakas mean,” you will understand that arriving at them is of the lowest order of importance, even if it has been your goal all along.

But to understand what “Ithaka” comes to mean by the end of the poem, or the end of the journey, we must know what “Ithaka” means at the beginning, or even before the beginning. Before this poem about Ithaka.

Ithaka – or Ithaca – is an island, an island we know about, first and most, from a poem. The first poem about Ithaka is, of course, the Odyssey. In its time, we think, the Odyssey was one of a number of long poems which we call the “epic cycle.” Several of these poems were known as nostoi. Nostos is the Greek word for return, or homecoming; the nostoi, then, were the poems about the homecomings of the Greek warriors, returning from the Trojan war. The Odyssey, the story of Odysseus’ homecoming, is the only one of these nostoi that survived. Odysseus’ home, which he spends nearly the entire poem trying to reach, is the island of Ithaka. It is not a large island, or a rich island. Rather, it is rocky, with a lot of goats. Still, whatever else it is, Ithaka is home. From nostos (homecoming) and algia (pain) we get the word “nostalgia” – the pain of longing for return, or homecoming. When we define nostalgia now, it is as a longing for some place or time in the past – the way things were – to which we cannot return. But Odysseus did come home, and that was the end of his story.

So, in the beginning, “Ithaka” meant “home” – home to Odysseus, where he could be, again (after twenty years) with his wife, his son, his father, sleep in his own bed. To get there, he had to make it past Laestrygonians (man-eating giants), the Cyclops (a one-eyed man-eating giant, son of Poseidon), the Sirens, Scylla (many-headed man-eating goddess), Charydis (giant man-eating whirlpool), and escape the clutches of two goddesses determined to marry him. On the way he lost all of his ships and shipmates. More than once he came close to Ithaka, only to be turned away by Poseidon, angry at Odysseus for blinding his son the Cyclops. So, yay for finally getting there, but not without a price.

Many people have wondered, since then, what it would actually have been like for Odysseus to be home after all that time. A lot changes in twenty years – people and places. After so long and so much, is it really possible to go home? It was a foregone conclusion that he would get to Ithaka – it was the will of Zeus that he should – but not at all guaranteed that it would feel like a homecoming. What does Ithaka mean to Odysseus, then? Home, family – maybe. The end of his story (according to Homer) – certainly.

But of all the people who’ve wondered how Odysseus, the wanderer, would deal with staying in one place for the rest of his life, some have asked: what would he have done if he didn’t go back to Ithaka? One of these wonderers was Dante Alighieri, who wrote a new ending to Odysseus’ story in the Inferno. When Dante meets Ulysses/Odysseus in hell, and desires to know what has brought him there, Ulysses answers (from out of the flame eternally consuming him) with a different tale than the one told in the Odyssey. This Odysseus never went back to Ithaka. Instead, he decided that his “longing…to gain experience of the world” was greater than his desire to return home. So he and his companions traveled, explored, and finally, when they were old and slow, came to the “gates of Hercules” – the end of the known world. As this point Odysseus addressed his fellow travelers:

‘O brothers,’ I said, ‘who through a hundred thousand dangers have reached the west, to this so brief vigil of our senses that remains to us, choose not to deny experience, following the sun, of the world that has no people. Consider your origin: you were not made to live as brutes, but to pursue virtue and knowledge.’

With this “little speech,” he convinces them to journey on, and they finally come within sight of the mountain of Purgatory (Dante’s geography was sketchy), but a whirlwind sinks their ship and they are sent to hell. Odysseus is, essentially, punished by Dante for wanting to know to much, burned forever by the fires of his curiosity.

Cavafy’s poem is a response to Homer and to Dante. In many ways, he has returned to the Homeric story, turning away from Dante’s vision (which is also, by the way, more or less Alfred Tennyson’s view in his poem, “Ulysses”). For Cavafy, Ithaka is, again, the place Odysseus, or Ulysses, or you, or we, are all trying to get to. Ithaka stands at the end of the journey – not Purgatory (which Dante’s Ulysses was trying to get to), not the Inferno (where he ended up), and not Paradise (where Dante spends his whole poem trying to get to). Still, much has been retained from the Dantean/Ulyssean voyage. “You” are advised to “gather stores of knowledge,” to become “wise” and “full of experience.” It will be better, you are told, if you prolong your voyage as much as possible, “so you are old by the time you reach the island.” With so much of the journey of Dante’s Ulysses clinging to Cavafy’s language, it is impossible not to identify, at least a little, Ulysses’ actual endpoint with the place you are “destined” to arrive at. In other words, something of Heaven clings to Ithaka – and also something of Hell. Ithaka/Heaven is the promised destination you hold out in front of yourself, to “keep your thoughts raised high,” to “stir your spirit and your body.” The obstacles you meet – man-eaters and angry gods – they will only get in your way if “you bring them along inside your soul,” if “your soul sets them up in front of you.” When you are old, when you’ve seen many things and had many pleasures, you may, finally, arrive at Ithaka. Will it be Paradise?

No, probably not. You may, in fact, find it poor. You may find that it has little to give you. Is it, then, Hell? Maybe – but only if you were expecting Heaven. Wherever you arrive, if it is not what you were expecting, can seem like Hell. College. After college. Having a job. Having a house. Marriage. Parenthood. Having a better job. Having a nicer house. And so on. We hold many destinations out in front of ourselves in order to keep moving forward, saying, “when I get there, I’ll be happy. When I get there, I’ll rest.” When we get there, often it’s not what we thought. But there’s always another destination further into the distance. All of them Ithakas. All of them, we tell ourselves, the last place. Ithaka is always the last place. The place where the story ends. The place of rest.

So what do all these Ithakas mean? I don’t know. I’m not there yet. I can only hope that my voyage will be a long one. And I wish the same for all of you.



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(I picked this picture out of all the others widely available online, because of the fabulous spectacles, and the precision of that collar.)

I am not feeling guilty about failing, from the very first, to write about a poem every day; my reason for not feeling guilty is that I actually stopped procrastinating last night and graded some %*#&ing papers. But I did read this poem yesterday, and then went ahead and read all of Cavafy’s poems included in the anthology, and then went online and found an archive and read a lot more – because he’s just incredible. And I didn’t know! I forgot what it feels like to discover a new poet that I love. It is, really, like falling in love. I’m falling hard for Constantine Cavafy. The online archive has multiple translations of most of his lyrics (multiple translations! swoon!), and also Greek texts for all of them, and consequently I’m also more excited about Greek than I have been in a long time. It’s not the kind of Greek I’m (still slightly) used to – i.e., not ancient – but I can puzzle through it somewhat handily with the translations alongside, and at least see more of the form, tell what the meter and rhyme scheme are, and just hear the words in my head. These words sound good in my head.

Here’s what I’m talking about, in the same translation (Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard) that is included in the Ecco Anthology: “The City”

And the Greek, for whoever cares: Η Πόλις

The first thing that struck me about this poem was the symmetry. Two eight line stanzas. Each stanza capable of being neatly divided in half grammatically. That’s the case in both the original and the Keeley/Sherrard translation. Each stanza almost capable of being neatly divided into fourths grammatically, but the last four lines of the first stanza get in the way of that. And beyond the numbers, it’s symmetrical in utterance as well. The first stanza begins with “You say: …”, followed by a quoted speech that takes up the rest of the stanza. The second stanza is a response to what was said, and echoes both its structure and phrasing. In the translation there’s no rhyme scheme, but in the Greek both stanzas are ABBCCDDA. And the Greek – the Greek. It’s so beautiful. Just read this to yourself (and forgive me if I transliterate it awkwardly):

Eipes: “Tha pago s’ alle ge, tha pago s’ alle thalassa.

It doesn’t look  beautiful, especially transliterated, so you have to read it out loud so you can hear it. Thalassa has to be the most euphonious of all words for the sea, in any language. Is anybody going to fight me about that? La mer is good too, and obviously easy to play with in poetry, but more for what other words it sounds like. Speaking of French, and “la gouffre amer,” “The City” reminds me a lot of Baudelaire, and not just any old Baudelaire, but what I like to consider my Baudelaire: “Le Voyage.” The traces of “Le Voyage” are all over “The City” – in the dialogic structure, in the flat pronouncement that “You won’t find a new country, you won’t find another shore.” Cavafy writes, “Wherever I turn, wherever I happen to look,/ I see the black ruins of my life.” And Baudelaire says, “The world, monotone and small, today,/ Yesterday, tomorrow, makes us see our image.” (That’s just my workaday translation, not a fancy one.)

The party doesn’t end with just those two, though. If “The City” is talking to “The Voyage,” then it’s also talking to a lot of other poems – the Inferno and the Odyssey, just to name the most obvious. Wow, it’s like I never even left home! New poet, but all my same poems. Wherever I turn, wherever I happen to look, I see the black ruins of my dissertation…  😉 But really, it’s not just me. Cavafy is actually much more authorized to be alluding to Homer than Baudelaire is, and his poetry is overtly calling out Dante and Homer all over the place. It’s Baudelaire who’s the stretch to bring in here. But anyway, this is totally a “Ulysses speaking from the flame” moment. (He’s got at least two others poems about that.) This is the guy talking who left home (or wanted to leave home) to seek new worlds, new civilizations (oh shit, has anybody ever talked about Star Trek and the Odyssey?), but didn’t end up seeing anything new after all, because there’s nothing new in the world, or out of it. Only the black ruins of everything you’ve burned up with your own flames.

Yeah, this poem is deep. And depressing, I’m sure my students would readily point out. That’s how I like my poetry.

I’m adding some new phrases to my cache of poetic mantras. When things get really bad, I chant to myself in my head, “La, tout n’est qu’ordre et beaute,/ Luxe, calme, et volupte.” Now I can change that up with, “Tha pago s’ alle ge, tha pago s’ alle thalassa” (“I’ll go to another land, I’ll go to another sea”). Or, if I’m feeling really dark, “perasa kai rematza kai khalasa.”

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People who know things about bugs – don’t judge me. I’m about to write about ants and anthills without actually knowing if what I want to write about is true at all. It feels true.

I’m not a person who has ever destroyed an anthill on purpose, and that’s partly why I don’t know if this thing that feels true is true. But this is it:

My feeling is that if you destroy an anthill, the ants immediately start rebuilding it, or rather start building a new anthill. That makes me so uncomfortable. I don’t know what I would want them to do instead. Stand around? All move somewhere else? Give up on having an anthill at all? Of course they need a place to… do what ants do in anthills. I don’t know. I’m just troubled by the idea that work would never stop. It’s weird.

The last few weeks have been like that. Something devastating happened. Things were bent, broken, crushed, shattered. Real physical things. Many bones belonging to someone I love. Also a helmet, a phone, a pink bicycle. Also my sense of safety (fragile anyway), my son’s sense of safely (stronger, originally, I hope, but then much more precious), our home life, an idea of our future. Ideas, expectations, dreams.

But things don’t stop. Some force of life that is stronger than I could have ever imagined begins immediately to rebuild. Even too quickly. Blood clots to stop its own flow. Bones knit back together any which way. (By the way, that is a very inappropriate word for what bones do, even if it is the accepted word – if anything, they splice, but they do not knit. Any knitter would recognize that.) A body can work so fast to heal itself.

So fast, my feelings, thoughts, ideas, expectations can’t keep up. I’m grateful, of course, for the healing. In awe of it. I’ve never seen anything like it. But part of me is still back there, grieving for the old anthill. Life wasn’t perfect before. I was unhappy about a lot of things. But now here we are racing furiously into the unknown. I know the future is always unknown. But this is such a different unknown from the unknown I thought it would be. I just want to slow down and get used to it. Sit down and figure out what I’m doing. Just for a little while.

Then I’ll get back to work.

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I started this blog (which means, picked the name for it, and then never did anything else) at least a year ago. I named it Flying House in honor of two pictures which seemed to me to capture how I felt about our lives – mine, Seth’s, Mark’s. The pictures are small engravings – both came to us from a little shop in Heidelberg. Each shows a house, floating – one house is floating in the air, above trees; the other house is floating in the water, with fish swimming around. They are the same house. Each of these pictures was a gift to us from friends, who had chosen them independently of each other. Clearly I was not alone in thinking that our household had been vagrant for a while. Seth and I have moved so many times – almost every year that we’ve been together. We lived in six different places in Atlanta. We lived in South Carolina, in Colorado, we lived apart. For the past six months, we have lived in Stillwater, Oklahoma. Or Stillwater, USA, as people here like to say. Now, and for in undefined period of future time, we live in the ICU of the OU Medical Center in Oklahoma City. Seth has been able to talk today for the first time in a week. He asked me where we were. I’ve told him before, but I don’t expect him to remember from one day to the next. He’s still on a lot of drugs. I told him we were in the city, that they flew him down here right away after his accident. “Flew?”, he asked. “Why?” It is hard to know when is the right time, or what is the right way to tell him how serious it was, and still is. But for eight years, ever since my dad died, I have struggled with never feeling at home – never feeling safe or taken care of, anywhere. Is it strange, that at this moment of crisis, I feel safe here? The doctors and nurses are incredible. They are taking such good care of him. I trust them. So, for now, our house is a hospital, and I feel at home here.

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