Conatser Poem 2
Soviet-born and exiled Russian poet Joseph Brodsky sets his Odyssey-based poem “Odysseus to Telemachus” during Odysseus’s one-year stay with the witch-nymph Circe, who transforms most of Odysseus’s men into pigs. After freeing his men with a bit of help from Hermes, Odysseus remains with Circe, indulging himself in her bed and at her table. Addressing his son Telemachus in what appears to be an epistolary form (though it’s unclear if it’s merely idle daydreaming or actual letter-writing), Brodsky’s Odysseus strikes us as lost not only in terms of geographic literacy but also in state of mind. Not quite able to recall the victors of the epic war that consumed ten years of his life, and not quite able to discern where he is, Odysseus seems to resign himself to the prospect that he never will return to his home and to the son to whom the poem is addressed. As in many folk and fairy tales, the protagonist is faced with temptations to quit in the middle of an arduous journey, and here Odysseus seems to have succumbed to the temptation at least momentarily (we know that he does eventually leave Circe and continue his quest). The poem concludes with what we might read generously as Odysseus poignantly letting go of the hope that he’ll return to Telemachus, or what we might read cynically as a halfhearted rationalization for Odysseus’s enervated hedonism and inaction.
click here for a reading of this poem
Odysseus to Telemachus
Joseph Brodsky
My dear Telemachus,
The Trojan War
is over now; I don’t recall who won it.
The Greeks, no doubt, for only they would leave
click here for a reading of this poem
Odysseus to Telemachus
Joseph Brodsky
My dear Telemachus,
The Trojan War
is over now; I don’t recall who won it.
The Greeks, no doubt, for only they would leave
so many dead so far from their own homeland.
But still, my homeward way has proved too long.
While we were wasting time there, old Poseidon,
it almost seems, stretched and extended space.
I don’t know where I am or what this place
can be. It would appear some filthy island,
with bushes, buildings, and great grunting pigs.
A garden choked with weeds; some queen or other.
Grass and huge stones . . . Telemachus, my son!
To a wanderer the faces of all islands
resemble one another. And the mind
But still, my homeward way has proved too long.
While we were wasting time there, old Poseidon,
it almost seems, stretched and extended space.
I don’t know where I am or what this place
can be. It would appear some filthy island,
with bushes, buildings, and great grunting pigs.
A garden choked with weeds; some queen or other.
Grass and huge stones . . . Telemachus, my son!
To a wanderer the faces of all islands
resemble one another. And the mind
trips, numbering waves; eyes, sore from sea horizons,
run; and the flesh of water stuffs the ears.
I can’t remember how the war came out;
even how old you are--I can’t remember.
Grow up, then, my Telemachus, grow strong.
Only the gods know if we’ll see each other
again. You’ve long since ceased to be that babe
before whom I reined in the plowing bullocks.
Had it not been for Palamedes’ trick
we two would still be living in one household.
But maybe he was right; away from me
you are quite safe from all Oedipal passions,
and your dreams, my Telemachus, are blameless.
run; and the flesh of water stuffs the ears.
I can’t remember how the war came out;
even how old you are--I can’t remember.
Grow up, then, my Telemachus, grow strong.
Only the gods know if we’ll see each other
again. You’ve long since ceased to be that babe
before whom I reined in the plowing bullocks.
Had it not been for Palamedes’ trick
we two would still be living in one household.
But maybe he was right; away from me
you are quite safe from all Oedipal passions,
and your dreams, my Telemachus, are blameless.
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