I

Crouched upon sea-chiselled gravel, staring out and up at the sea,
++ The gnarled and glorious twister, seasoned in danger, went
Thrusting his heart at that monstrous wall of water
++ Beyond which somewhere was Ithaca.

Behind him the island was terraced, before him terrace on terrace of waves
++ Climbed to the cruel horizon; though he was strong, he wept,
The salt tears blent and blurred with the salt spindrift
++ While the salt of his wit grew savourless.

Behind him also, faintly curling out of the woods, a voice,
++ Which once entranced, now pained him; instead of that too sweet song
He yearned for the crisp commands of laundry and kitchen
++ Which his wife must be giving in Ithaca.

And again he rode his mind at the hurdles of ocean, counted the hours
++ That would not pass, the waves that would not sleep, and wept
But not as of old when he half enjoyed the weeping
++ For shared sorrows in company.

But this was not tragic, this was frustration; infertile as the foam
++ That creamed around his sandals, listless as the hope
The sweet voice held out sometimes of an immortal
++ Life, but life here, not Ithaca.

For here his bed was too soft and the wine never rough and the scent of the flowers
++ Too heavy; here when he should have smiled he wept.
Better have stayed on that other island of lotus
++ Smiling from pure forgetfulness.

Out and up at the sea. A stiff climb for a tired mind
++ And nothing at the top; the terraces dissolved
In the clambering eye; while a voice sang on, destroying
++ All heart, all hope, all Ithaca.

II

Home beyond this life? Or through it? If through, how?
Through as through glass—or through the nerves and blood?
We all are homeless sometimes, homesick sometimes,
As we all at times are godless or god-fearing—
++ And what does that imply?

On scrubbed white deal two hands, red from the sink, are clenched
On the hope of an after-life; there is dirt in the cracks
Of the table and under the nails for all their scouring
And the golden walls of Jerusalem the Golden
++ Have black cracks in them too.

Zion is always future. Just as Calypso’s isle
Was always and too present, so out of time;
But home is seen and lived through time, the alarm clock
Rules from the kitchen shelf and the dog Argus
++ Grows old and vexed with fleas.

On Sunday perhaps the alarm is stilled and the red hands
Reposed on a Sunday lap in the just-so room
Which does not exist on weekdays, where die Penates
Are no more jug nor clock but family photos
++ Of a family not to the life.

Stiff collars and a harmonium. White and black. Stiff keys.
A creaking lock in gates of mother of pearl.
The street is curtained off that up and inwards
The mind may count the golden rungs, though Jacob
++ Unseen limp down the street.

A stiff climb—and at the top? Will Wesley hand us a gold
Chalice of nectar—immortal and islanded life,
A home from home? But is it a window or mirror
We see that happiness in or through? Or is it
++ Merely escape from the clock?

As Penelope never escaped. And, though her husband did,
He found that bliss a prison and each day
Wept as he watched the changing unchanging ocean
Beyond which lived his wife and die dog Argus
++ And real people. Who lived.

III

But even so, he said, daily I hanker, daily
Ache to get back to my home, to see my day of returning
After those years of violent action—and these of inaction.
Always and even so. But I have no ship, no comrades,
Only my wits with nothing to grind on. Nectar, ambrosia,
Promise me nothing; the goddess no longer pleases me.
Who would be loved by a goddess for long? Hours which are golden
But unreal hours, flowers which forget to fall,
And wine too smooth, no wrinkles to match my own—
Who would be loved by a goddess who cannot appreciate
The joy of solving a problem, who never wept
For friends that she used to laugh with? I stare at the sea
Till that hard horizon rounds one great round eye
Hard as that of the Cyclops; this time I have no
Means of putting it out—and now I am really No Man
For my ears ring with a too sweet voice which never
Falters or ages. They call me crafty Odysseus;
I have used my craft on gods and nymphs and demigods
But it is time, high time, I turned it again
To the earth that bred it, a new threshing floor
Or setting up boundary stones, for even the best
Neighbours encroach—and I like to have someone to argue with
About my rights of grazing or wood-cutting; aye, it is time
I heard the bleat of my goats and smelt the dung of my cattle;
Here there is neither dung nor rights nor argument,
Only the scent of flowers and a too sweet voice which is ever
Youthful and fails to move me. Here could never be home,
No more than the sea around it. And even the sea
Is a different sea round Ithaca.

IV

They call me crafty, I robbed my brother,
Hoaxed my father, I am most practical,
Yet in my time have had my visions,
Have seen a ladder that reached the sky.
A smooth old man but when I was younger—
You noticed my limp, here, in the thigh—
I wrestled all night with God Eternal.

Which one can never do twice. And the ladder
I never saw that again either; presumably
It is there always if one could see it
And the shining messengers, busy as bees,
Go up and come down it searching for honey
In the hearts of men; they are hard to please,
Want only the best. But we know when they find it

Because we feel suddenly happy. For all that
One should not think too much about them; analysis
Cannot hit off what they want; it is better
To keep one’s eyes on the earth and they
Can take their tithes when they choose, they are welcome,
But now is my home and here is my day
And my job is to father a chosen people.

A hard job but grateful. Laban exacted
Seven years of diligent bailiffry,
Then tried to cheat me; my wives, my children,
Proved jealous; followed the years of dearth
When Joseph was lost—but God had assured me
My seed should be as the dust of the earth
And Joseph and corn were found in Egypt.

Yet sometimes, even now, I have a nightmare,
Always the same, that the challenge has come again
In a stony place, in ultimate darkness,
And I feel my sinews crack in advance
And, because this time I know my opponent,
I know that this time I have no chance
Of holding my own. My own is nowhere;

And I wake in a sweat, still in the darkness
Which might be nowhere—but I am most practical,
I put out my hand to finger the darkness
And feel the nap of it, it is my own,
Enclosed by myself with walls and enclosing
My family; besides, the ache in the bone
Of my thigh confirms me that I am somewhere,

That I am home; no more a vagrant,
No more—except in flashes—a visionary,
No more a chooser, I have been chosen
To father the chosen, a full-time task—
With by-products perhaps such as shall we say honey—
Still on the whole I have little to ask
But that day should return, each day of returning.

Louis MacNeice

from Collected Poems of Louis MacNeice
Faber and Faber. London. 1966