The Odyssey: Book 2

Still, he never forgot the soldier, desolate in his grief
In tears for the son he lost...

Some news he's heard of an army on the march,
word he's caught firsthand so he can warn us now?
Or some other public matter he'll disclose and argue?

Not they—they infest our palace day and night,
they butcher our cattle, our sheep, our fat goats,
feasting themselves sick, swilling our glowing wine
as if there's no tomorrow—all of it, squandered.

We're hardly the ones to fight them off. All we'd do
is parade our wretched weakness. A boy inept at battle.

By god, it's intolerable, what they do—disgrace,
my house a shambles!

You should be ashamed yourselves,
mortified in the face of neighbors living round about!

Better for me
if you were devouring all my treasure, all my cattle—
if you were the ones, we'd make amends in no time.

We'd approach you for reparations round the town,
demanding our goods till you'd returned the lot.

So high and mighty, Telemachus—such unbridled rage!

This was her latest masterpiece of guile:
she set up a great loom in the royal halls
and she began to weave, and the weaving finespun,
the yarns endless, and she would lead us on...

Not one could equal Penelope for intrigue
but in this case she intrigued beyond all limits.

He launched two eagles soaring high from a mountain ridge
and down they glided, borne on the wind's draft a moment,
wing to wingtip, pinions straining taut till just
above the assembly's throbbing hum they whirled...

All were dumbstruck, watching the eagles trail from sight,
people brooding, deeply, what might come to pass...

Go home and babble your omens to your children—
save them from some catastrophe coming soon.
I'm a better hand than you at reading portents.

Flocks of birds go fluttering under the sun's rays,
not all are fraught with meaning.

If you, you old codger, wise as the ages,
talk him round, incite the boy to riot,
he'll be the first to suffer, let me tell you.

If you, you old codger, wise as the ages,
talk him round, incite the boy to riot,
he'll be the first to suffer, let me tell you.

Who's there to fear? I ask you.
Surely not Telemachus, with all his tiresome threats.
Nor do we balk, old man, at the prophecies you mouth—
they'll come to grief, they'll make us hate you more.

Never courting others,
bevies of brides who'd suit each noble here.

Odysseus' friend-in-arms to whom the king,
sailing off to Troy, committed his household,
ordering one and all to obey the old man
and he would keep things steadfast and secure.

But all the rest of you, how you rouse my fury!
Sitting here in silence...
never a word put forth to curb these suitors,
paltry few as they are and you so many.

Rabble-rousing fool, now what's this talk?
Goading them on to try and hold us back!

Mentor and Halitherses can speed our young prince on,
his father's doddering friends since time began.

Look how my countrymen—the suitors most of all,
the pernicious bullies—foil each move I make.

Few sons are the equals of their fathers;
most fall short, all too few surpass them.
But you, brave and adept from this day on—
Odysseus' cunning has hardly given out in you—
there's every hope that you will reach your goal.

Antinous, smiling warmly, sauntered up to the prince,
grasped his hand and coaxed him, savoring his name...

But self-possessed Telemachus drew the line...

With this
he nonchalantly drew his hand from Antinous' hand
while the suitors, busy feasting in the halls,
mocked and taunted him, flinging insults now.

So they scoffed
but Telemachus headed down to his father's storeroom,
broad and vaulted, piled high with gold and bronze,
chests packed with clothing, vats of redolent oil.

All running gear secure in the swift black craft,
they set up bowls and brimmed them high with wine
and poured libations out to the everlasting gods...