Postmodern Odysseus (Homecoming)

Odysseus' Ithaca, Greece

As you set out for Ithaka
hope your road is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery


Now that the time has come
Soon gone is the day
There upon some distant shore
You'll hear me say

Long as the day in the summer time
Deep as the wine dark sea
I'll keep your heart with mine
Till you come to me


May there be many summer mornings when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you enter harbors you're seeing for the first time;
Arriving there is what you're destined for
But don't hurry the journey at all


There like a bird I'd fly
High through the air
Reaching for the sun's full rays
Only to find you there

Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey
Without her you wouldn't have set out
She has nothing left to give you now

And in the night when our dreams are still
Or when the wind calls free
I'll keep your heart with mine
Till you come to me

Wise as you will have become,
so full of experience,
you'll have understood by then
what these Ithakas mean



Ithaka, Constantine Cavafy
Penelope's Song, Loreena McKennitt


For the journey in all of us. For the people who wish us happiness along the way. For the people we leave behind. For the people who await our return.

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Schrodinger's Newspaper

I push open the creaky screen door
and stoop down to pick it up
because I must know.
It comes rolled up with the headlines inside
a fortune cookie stuffed with misfortunes.
Crack it open and suffering will spill out.

I hesitate. Until I smooth the paper flat
tyrant and victim hover, suspended.
Until I read, the bullet hasn't left the gun,
the hammer hasn't hit the skull,
the suicide bomber hasn't pushed the button.

The nails and gunpowder will stay
packed tight in their satchel under the shirt.
The girl in the market will stand forever
with her hand on the melon, smiling.

The odds are clear. Death will take his share
and not be cheated. I open and read.
I ache, knowing I can't stop what already is.

And yet, every morning, my front steps are still here.
My screen door, the wet grass, the neighbor's cat, still here.
The rolled baton of newsprint on the step
is cool proof that the presses ran all night,
in that big building downtown, also still here.



poem by Cheryl Gatling
art by LIzard Incognito


And we are still here, both villain and victim, tossed about by the vicissitudes of fate...

Pie Jesu, miserere nobis, dona nobis pacem. Dona eis requiem.
.
.

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The Arrival

The Blue Door, Paris. Photograph by L. Style.

I saw you leaning against my door. When you heard my footfalls on the flags you turned your head and uncrossed your arms.

I allowed myself to take a step. You smiled, and it reached your eyes.

"Hey, ninja-girl."

I took another step toward you, marveling at how my heart can stand still at a voice. A face. A name.

And then I was running.


Under the lambent glow of every streetlight, at every distant doorway - I look for you. I will be waiting for your knock. I will be hoping.

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