by Homer
The Crowd Disperses
They all approved what he said. They asked that the stranger
be sent off well because he’d spoken so rightly.
They poured wine to the Gods and drank as their hearts wished.
Then they went to lie down, each man to his own house.
A Telltale Mantle
Godlike Odysseus, left behind in the great hall,
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sat by godlike Alkinoos close to Arete.
Housemaids took away the settings for dinner.
Arete, the white-armed queen, started to ask him—
♦ she knew the handsome tunic and mantle Odysseus
wore was made by the queen herself and her handmaids—
she spoke out now and the words had a feathery swiftness:
“Stranger, I’ll ask you questions first for myself here:
who are you, where are your people? Who gave you this clothing?
You wandered the sea, I thought you said, when you came here.”
Glaring Lightning at Sea
Full of designs, Odysseus answered by saying,
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“It’s hard, my queen, to tell you all of my troubles
because the Gods in heaven gave me so many.
I can say this much, now that you’ve asked me:
an island, Ogugie, lies far off in the salt sea,
the home of Atlas’s daughter, the clever Kalupso,
in lovely braids but a feared Goddess. No one will join her,
none of the deathless Gods, no man who is death-bound.
Some Power led me, a wretched man, to her fireside
alone, for Zeus had hurtled his glaring lightning,
blasted my race-fast ship and plunged it in wine-dark
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seas where all of them drowned—the men I relied on.
I clasped the keel of my up-turned ship and was borne off
nine whole days. In the black of the tenth night
Gods drove me close to Ogugie, the isle of Kalupso,
in lovely braids but a feared Goddess. Taking me in there,
she fed me and loved me warmly, yes and she told me
she’d make me deathless. All my days I would not age.
Seven Years on the Island
“The Goddess never changed the heart in my own chest.
Although I stayed there seven years I was always
crying for home, drenching Kalupso’s undying
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clothes she gave me. Then the eighth year came in its circling
♦ way and she asked—she urged me to go. Maybe a message
from Zeus was the cause; maybe a change of her own mind.
She sent me away on a well-tied raft and she gave me
lots of bread, sweet wine and her ageless clothing.
She brought up a following wind, gentle and balmy.
Seventeen Days at Sea
“For seven and ten more days I sailed on the water.
The eighteenth day, with shadowy mountains looming—
your own land was close—my heart was delighted.
Then I was cursed, about to meet with a great deal
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of struggle brought on by the Earth-Shaker Poseidon.
He set the wind against me, it stopped me from making
headway, astounding waves he roused would not let me
stay on the raft and go on. Though I moaned there without end,
the storm soon splintered my raft. So now I went swimming
my way on the wide sea till water and headlong
sea-wind brought me closer at last to your own land.
A Welcoming River
“But there if I’d gone ashore, the surf would have thrown me
straight into huge rocks. That place was no pleasure!
I went back out, I swam and came to a river
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at length, plainly the best landfall I’d spotted,
free of rock and fairly sheltered from storm-wind.
I fell down there, worn out. When night like a Goddess
came I moved away from the Zeus-lavished river
and lay in some bushes. I piled leaflets around me.
A God then poured his boundless rest on my body.
The Welcoming Princess
“I slept in those leaves, my heart restless and saddened
all that night, through dawn and well into midday.
The Sun-God westered; the honeyed Sleep-God unbound me.
Now on the shore I spotted handmaids playing,
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then your daughter herself, the likes of a Goddess.
I humbly approached her. She never failed in her good sense.
You’d hardly hope that a younger woman who met you
would act so—younger people are always so carefree—
she gave me bread to eat and plenty of bright wine.
She helped me wash in the river and gave me some clean clothes.
Despite my hardship that’s the truth I have told you.”
A Grandly Welcoming King
King Alkinoos promptly answered by saying,
“Stranger, my child was not so thoughtful in one way
clearly: she failed to bring you straight to our household
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along with her maids when you humbly approached her the first time.”
An answer came from Odysseus, full of the best plans.
“War-lord, don’t upbraid your high-born daughter on that count.
She asked me indeed to follow behind with her handmaids
but I was afraid, embarrassed and therefore unwilling.
Somehow I thought your heart would be angry to see me
because we races of men on earth are often distrusting.”
Again Alkinoos promptly answered by saying,
“The heart in my chest is not the kind to be angry
rashly, my guest. Good rule is better in all things.
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In fact by Zeus our Father, Athene and Apollo,
being the man you are, with a mind like my own mind,
I’d much rather you stay here and marry my daughter—
a son-in-law now! I’d offer you wealth and a fine house
if only you’d stay. But no Phaiakian holds you
against your will. May Zeus our Father dislike that.
Help on the Long Way Home
“To know your send-off now I’ll make it tomorrow
surely. After you lie down, ready to doze off,
our men will row on a calm sea to your own land.
You’ll go back home, or whatever place you would like to,
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♦ even to land much farther away than Euboia.
They call that island the farthest, those who have seen it
among our people: they ferried the blond Rhadamanthus
there to join with Tituos, son of the Goddess,
Gaia. They sailed and arrived and hardly were tired—
making their way back home, all in the same day!
You’ll know in your heart how vastly better my ships are.
My men are the best at scattering sea-foam with oar-blades.”
A Joyful Prayer
He stopped and the long-suffering, godlike Odysseus
gladly wanted to pray. He answered by saying,
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“Fatherly Zeus! Bring everything King Alkinoos told me
now to a good end. May his name be never extinguished
where earth gives grain. May I reach the land of my Fathers.”
Ready for Bed
All the while they spoke that way with each other,
white-armed Arete had told her handmaids to set out
a bed in the hallway promptly with beautiful covers,
to throw down violet blankets, spread out the ruglike
layers and put thick wool on top of the whole pile.
Torches in hand, the maids went out of t
he great hall.
After they spread out the thick-piled bed in a hurry,
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they stood beside Odysseus, prompting and asking,
“Get up now, stranger. The bed you wanted is ready.”
They said no more. For the man, how welcome to lie down!
Long-suffering, godlike Odysseus slept there.
His corded bed lay under the echoing hallway.
Alkinoos lay in the inmost room of the high house.
The Lady was there beside him, sharing the same bed.
BOOK 8 Songs, Challenges, Dances, and Gifts
The Call of a Herald-Like Goddess
When newborn Dawn came on with her rose-fingered daylight,
Alkinoos rose from his bed. His kingly power was holy.
Zeus-born Odysseus also rose, a looter of cities.
Alkinoos led the way—his kingly power was holy—
down to the ships. The Phaiakians’ built-up assembly
lay nearby. They entered and sat close to each other
on shining stones. Meanwhile Pallas Athene
moved through the city resembling the herald of mindful
Alkinoos. Planning on great-hearted Odysseus’s way home,
she went up close to every man and she told him,
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“Come on, Phaiakian counselor, lord of the people!
Go to the assembly place and learn of a stranger
newly arrived in mind-full Alkinoos’s great hall.
He looks like a deathless God and he’s wandered the great sea.”
Her words aroused the strength and spirit of each man.
Promptly coming together, filling assembly
chairs, the large crowd was amazed to be seeing
the mindful son of Laertes: Athene had showered
a heavenly grace on the man’s forehead and shoulders,
making him taller and much more forceful to look at.
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She made him welcome, liked by all the Phaiakians,
held in awe and respected. He’d win in a number
of games the Phaiakians used to challenge Odysseus.
The Promise of a Fast Way Home
Soon as the crowd had grown, pressing together,
King Alkinoos told the gathering outright,
“Listen, Phaiakian counselors, lords of the people!
Let me speak as my own spirit enjoins me.
This guest whom I don’t know has arrived in my great hall.
He’s wandered from people in Dawn’s land or in Hesper’s.
He asks to be sent on home. He wants us to stand firm;
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so as we often have let’s hurry the send-off.
No other man—whoever arrives in my own house—
waits there sadly a long time for a send-off.
Come on then: haul a black ship down to the shining
sea for her maiden voyage. Let fifty-two crewmen
be chosen from all our people—make them our best ones.
When crewmen have lashed all their oars to the oar-locks,
let them go ashore and hurry to our house
to join our feast. I’ll offer plenty to each man.
“That’s my charge for the young men. Now for you others,
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scepter-carrying lords: come to my handsome
palace and help me regale our guest in the great hall.
Let no one say no! And call my God-gifted singer,
♦ Demodokos. Surely a God gave him the best voice
to entertain us whatever his heart moves him to sing of.”
A Black Ship Is Ready
He stopped and led the way out. All of them followed,
sceptered lords. A steward went for the God-gifted singer.
Young men soon were chosen: fifty-two crewmen—
the king’s command—left for the tireless seashore.
After they came on down to the ship and the salt sea,
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they hauled the night-black vessel out into deeper
water and set both mast and sail on the black deck,
moved the oars through leather straps at the thole-pins,
all in order, and finally let out the white sail.
They anchored her high on the tide, left her and quickly
walked to the mind-full Alkinoos’s stately household.
Blindness and the Gift of Song
Corridors, courtyards and rooms were crowded with people.
Many were younger there and many were older.
Alkinoos killed twelve sheep for the Gods and his people,
eight white-tusked boars and a pair of hoof-dragging heifers.
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Flayed and dressed, they’d make for wonderful dining.
Now the herald approached, guiding their faith-full poet,
loved most by the Muse. She gave him a good and a bad thing:
she’d taken his eyes but gave him honey-sweet music.
Pontonoos placed a chair for him, studded with silver.
It leaned on a tall column surrounded by diners.
The herald hung the clear-toned lyre on a peg there
over the singer’s head and guided his hand up
