The Odyssey: Book 8

No one, I tell you, no one
who comes to my house will languish long here,
heartsick for convoy home.

And the fifty-two young sailors, duly chosen,
briskly following orders,
went down to the shore of the barren salt sea.

In came the herald now,
leading along the faithful bard the Muse adored
above all others, true, but her gifts were mixed
with good and evil both: she stripped him of sight
but gave the man the power of stirring, rapturous song.

They toed the line—
and broke flat out from the start
with a fast pack flying down the field in a whirl of dust
and Clytoneus the prince outstripped them all by far,
flashing ahead the length two mules will plow a furrow
before he turned for home, leaving the pack behind
and raced to reach the crowds.

Next the wrestling,
grueling sport.

They grappled, locked, and Broadsea,
pinning the strongest champions, won the bouts.

I've borne my share of struggles, cleaving my way
through wars of men and pounding waves at sea.

All the rest of you, anyone with the spine and spirit,
step right up and try me—you've incensed me so—
at boxing, wrestling, racing; nothing daunts me.

All the rest of you, anyone with the spine and spirit,
step right up and try me—you've incensed me so—
at boxing, wrestling, racing; nothing daunts me.

But I'd never vie with the men of days gone by,
not Heracles, not Eurytus of Oechalia—archers
who rivaled immortal powers with their bows.

You simply want to display the gifts you're born with,
stung that a youngster marched up to you in the games,
mocking, ridiculing your prowess as no one would
who had some sense of fit and proper speech.

The herald returned and placed the ringing lyre now
in Demodocus' hands, and the bard moved toward the center,
flanked by boys in the flush of youth, skilled dancers
who stamped the ground with marvelous pulsing steps
as Odysseus gazed at their flying, flashing feet,
his heart aglow with wonder.

This snare the Firegod forged, ablaze with his rage at War,
then limped to the room where the bed of love stood firm
and round the posts he poured the chains in a sweeping net
with streams of others flowing down from the roofbeam,
gossamer-fine as spider webs no man could see,
not even a blissful god—
the Smith had forged a masterwork of guile.

Once he'd spun that cunning trap around his bed
he feigned a trip to the well-built town of Lemnos,
dearest to him by far of all the towns on earth.

Your husband's away—
by now he must be off in the wilds of Lemnos,
consorting with his raucous Sintian friends.

So he pressed
and off they went to bed and down they lay—
and down around them came those cunning chains
of the crafty god of fire, showering down now
till the couple could not move a limb or lift a finger—
then they knew at last: there was no way out, not now.

Halting there at the gates, seized with savage rage
he howled a terrible cry, imploring all the gods...

"Tell me, Quicksilver, giver of all good things—
even with those unwieldy shackles wrapped around you,
how would you like to bed the golden Aphrodite?"

A peal of laughter broke from the deathless ones
but not Poseidon, not a smile from him...

"Look, Hephaestus, if Ares scuttles off and away,
squirming out of his debt, I'll pay the fine myself."

There the Graces bathed and anointed her with oil,
ambrosial oil, the bloom that clings to the gods
who never die, and swathed her round in gowns
to stop the heart...an ecstasy—a vision.

There the Graces bathed and anointed her with oil,
ambrosial oil, the bloom that clings to the gods
who never die, and swathed her round in gowns
to stop the heart...an ecstasy—a vision.

That was the song the famous harper sang
and Odysseus relished every note as the islanders,
the lords of the long oars and master mariners rejoiced.

With wings of the wind they cross the sea's huge gulfs,
shrouded in mist and cloud—no fear in the world of foundering,
fatal shipwreck.

Nausithous used to say
that lord Poseidon was vexed with us because
we escorted all mankind and never came to grief.