Deborah Nash Ott is originally from Rochester, New York. She is the co-author of the poetry collection Twin Soul, a collaboration with Welsh poet Heather Gatley. A retired teacher who has taught both in Switzerland and the United States, she now resides in West Hartford, Connecticut.
She held her breath as he embarked
A trumpet blasted,
battle-fevered,
the slaughtered kine,
the blood his mother smeared,
anointing her son for war.
Penelope saw all of this;
she was there, silent and veiled
on the Achaean shore,
revealed to her the night before,
breasts milk-laden
for her own newborn,
she felt their weight
and that within her beating heart.
Odysseus would leave,
this barrel-chested man,
her life and love,
resting by her side,
the gentle night still moonlit,
breeze softly blowing.
In his mind, he’s already gone
high on the open seas,
and she has no words
to sink the abandonment,
only her long arms holding him,
only the frail hope that he would return,
if the gods would have it so.
And yet, she also knew,
in her orb-like vision
that she must will it too.
Patience. Her white magic.
Known to All
What bold princess
gazed upon this man,
naked, bruised, and swollen,
beaten by the sea,
bathed and clothed him,
then guided him to her father?
In the royal halls of King Alkinoos,
to be welcomed and fêted,
what luck, to come upon
this intrepid girl,
this generous Phaeacian host,
and his wise queen.
It was a time when strangers
were cared for, god or no,
before caring who the stranger was,
Odysseus, great seafarer, knew this well,
alone and unknown.
But caution stopped his divulging,
for disclosure could mean death.
Trust would be doled out carefully,
pulled as from a shaft of wheat,
one grain at a time.
So carefully he listened
when that great song rose up,
the one heralding his noble deeds.
No secret, his fame, in this vast realm,
the years of battle, the sack of Troy,
the loss of friends gone forever.
It was his song,
shook him to the core.
Tears spilled,
the years of suffering undone.
Like a bag of winds unleashed,
like a goatskin, full to the brim,
then uncorked, gushing its deep red wine,
so too did Odysseus let loose,
cry for his own recounting.
Unable to hold back,
finally, to be known,
he spoke his name aloud,
this King of Ithaca.
In the shining hall,
the guests, linen-robed, gold-banded,
stared in awe and amazement.
What relief, to trust,
and declare who he was
risk of revelation be damned,
come what may,
it opened the gates
to a journey home,
his identity, rooted in longing
born through song.
Laertes in the Fields
It was his father’s hands,
even from a distance,
the way the old man gripped the hoe,
working the dusty soil.
Odysseus, unknown to him,
recalled the days of old,
a mighty soul, battle-worn,
gripping his fearsome bow.
Laertes! Warrior in his own right,
reduced to this farmer in rags,
a lonely widower, longing for the day
when his kingdom would be healed,
now, all but defeated.
And sweet-worded Odysseus decides,
what to reveal, what to withhold.
First, the great seafarer is home,
and second, he had seen,
in the land of the shades,
his mother, Anticlea,
Laertes’ passionate wife,
was stunned by her revelations,
that this world, his Penelope,
both on the brink.
How would Laertes receive such news?
That his own beloved, dressed as a shadow,
compels his living son home?
The gods bestow the time now
to recount all things.
In the comfort of a timbered lodge,
wine poured, meat roasted,
goat cheese in the basket,
hands reaching for the good, hard bread.
Laertes, transformed now,
by Athena truly blessed,
restored to his former presence and grace,
embraces the heir to a land renewed,
rekindling home, reclaiming place.
Poetry in this post: © Deborah Nash Ott
Published with the permission of Deborah Nash Ott