Year 8: Poetry Module
The Odyssey and its influences on modern poetry.
NAME……………………………………………………
FORM……………………………………………………
English Teacher…………………………………….
UCGS English Department 2013
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Key elements from the Odyssey:
Fall of Troy
Polyphemus Book ix
Sirens Book Xii
Circe
Return/Penelope
Bow firing
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The Blinding Of Polyphemus
Discoid, huge, shining like the sun
redder, though, and far more irritated
shocking to see, pulsing, infiltrated,
starred with veins and veins,
the one sole eye of Polyphemus shone
wicked, hippic
and dilated with the drink it had absorbedhooded, half, in drowsy-drunken slumber.
The cave, the cave stank of sheeps' dung and nard
and shook, shook with the grumblings of thunder
while the fire higher burned
fed by the mast they'd sharpened and prepared,
and when it closed in full he gave the word:
seven men (it took at least that many)
hoisted the pike and starting from the rear
swallowing their fear
ran with gathering steam against the heavy
lidded orb, buryin the fired point
like a fork into a melon
into the sinkhole of light on which, therefore,
darkness closed foreverlife would be better from now on.
Then with a ruse that every child knows
each a-clutch a rams' wooley belly
escaped to the ship
and sailed over the horizon;
Yet he couldn't resist a backward quip
even to the backwards son of Neptune
he was the Ulysses, after all, deft and clever,
and thinking perhaps of Penelope's
weaving arms, one better
answered the tyrants' vain enquiries:
No one did it! Check the spelling. No one!
robert dickerson
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Odysseus escapes Polyphemus: Homer, Odyssey ix
‘As he finished speaking I handed him the bright wine. Three times I poured and
gave it to him, and three times, foolishly, he drained it. When the wine had fuddled
his wits I tried him with subtle words: “Cyclops, you asked my name, and I will
tell it: give me afterwards a guest gift as you promised. My name is Nobody.
Nobody, my father, mother, and friends call me.”
Those were my words, and this his cruel answer: “Then, my gift is this. I
will eat Nobody last of all his company, and all the others before him”.
As he spoke, he reeled and toppled over on his back, his thick neck twisted
to one side, and all-conquering sleep overpowered him. In his drunken slumber he
vomited wine and pieces of human flesh. Then I thrust the stake into the depth of
the ashes to heat it, and inspired my men with encouraging words, so none would
hang back from fear. When the olivewood stake was glowing hot, and ready to
catch fire despite its greenness, I drew it from the coals, then my men stood round
me, and a god breathed courage into us. They held the sharpened olivewood stake,
and thrust it into his eye, while I threw my weight on the end, and twisted it round
and round, as a man bores the timbers of a ship with a drill that others twirl lower
down with a strap held at both ends, and so keep the drill continuously moving. We
took the red-hot stake and twisted it round and round like that in his eye, and the
blood poured out despite the heat. His lids and brows were scorched by flame from
the burning eyeball, and its roots crackled with fire. As a great axe or adze causes a
vast hissing when the smith dips it in cool water to temper it, strengthening the
iron, so his eye hissed against the olivewood stake. Then he screamed, terribly, and
the rock echoed. Seized by terror we shrank back, as he wrenched the stake, wet
with blood, from his eye. He flung it away in frenzy, and called to the Cyclopes,
his neighbours who lived in caves on the windy heights. They heard his cry, and
crowding in from every side they stood by the cave mouth and asked what was
wrong: “Polyphemus, what terrible pain is this that makes you call through
deathless night, and wake us? Is a mortal stealing your flocks, or trying to kill you
by violence or treachery?”
Out of the cave came mighty Polyphemus’ voice: “Nobody, my friends, is
trying to kill me by violence or treachery.”
To this they replied with winged words: “If you are alone, and nobody does
you violence, it’s an inescapable sickness that comes from Zeus: pray to the
Lord Poseidon, our father.”
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ODYSSEY XII
SIREN SONG:
This is the one song everyone
would like to learn: the song
that is irresistable:
the song that forces men
to leap overboard in squadrons
even though they see the beached skulls
the song nobody knows
because anyone who has heard it
is dead, and the others can’t remember
Shall I tell you the secret
and if I do, will you get me
out of this bird suit?
I don’t enjoy it here
squatting on this island
looking picturesque and mythical
with these two feathery maniacs,
I don’t enjoy singing
this trio, fatal and valuable.
I will tell the secret to you,
to you, only to you.
Come closer. This song
is a cry for help: Help me!
Only you, only you can,
you are unique
At last. Alas
it is a boring song
but it works every time.
— Margaret Atwood, 1976 —
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Odyssey xii
First to the Sirens ye shall come, that taint
The minds of all men, whom they can acquaint
With their attractions. Whomsoever shall,
For want of knowledge moved, but hear the call
Of any Siren, he will so despise
Both wife and children, for their sorceries,
That never home turns his affection's stream,
Nor they take joy in him, nor he in them.
The Sirens will so soften with their song
(Shrill, and in sensual appetite so strong)
His loose affections, that he gives them head.
And then observe: They sit amidst a mead,
And round about it runs a hedge or wall
Of dead men's bones, their wither'd skins and all
Hung all along upon it; and these men
Were such as they had fawn'd into their fen,
And then their skins hung on their hedge of bones.
Sail by them therefore, thy companions
Beforehand causing to stop every ear
With sweet soft wax, so close that none may hear
A note of all their charmings. Yet may you,
If you affect it, open ear allow
To try their motion; but presume not so
To trust your judgment, when your senses go
So loose about you, but give straight command
To all your men, to bind you foot and hand
Sure to the mast, that you may safe approve
How strong in instigation to their love
Their rapting tunes are. If so much they move,
That, spite of all your reason, your will stands
To be enfranchised both of feet and hands,
Charge all your men before to slight your charge,
And rest so far from fearing to enlarge
That much more sure they bind you.
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Trans Alexander Pope
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‘So I explained everything to my friends, while our well-built vessel, borne on a
gentle breeze, quickly neared the island of the Sirens. Suddenly the wind dropped,
and a breathless calm followed, as some god lulled the waves. My comrades rose
and furled the sail, then stowed it, then sat to their oars and thrashed the water with
the blades of polished pine. I, in the meantime, sliced a large cake of beeswax with
my sword-edge, and kneaded the slivers in my strong hands until the pressure and
the rays of Lord Helios Hyperion heated it. Then I plugged the ears of each of my
friends, and they tied me hand and foot and stood me upright in the mast housing,
and fastened the rope ends round the mast itself. Then sitting down again, they
struck the grey water with their oars.
We drove past swiftly, but when we were within hail of the shore, the Sirens
could not fail to see our speeding vessel, and began their clear singing:
“Famous Odysseus, great glory of Achaea, draw near, and bring your ship to rest,
and listen to our voices. No man rows past this isle in his dark ship without hearing
the honeysweet sound from our lips. He delights in it and goes his way a wiser
man. We know all the suffering the Argives and the Trojans endured, by the gods’
will, on the wide plains of Troy. We know everything that comes to pass on the
fertile Earth.”
This was the haunting song the Sirens sang, and I longed to listen,
commanding my crew by my expression to set me free. But they bent to their oars
and rowed harder, while Perimedes and Eurylochus rose and tightened my bonds
and added more rope. Not till they had rowed beyond the Sirens, so we no longer
heard their voices and song, did my loyal friends clear the wax that plugged their
ears, and untie me.’
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Dante Gabriel Rossetti
The Wine of Circe
Year written: 1869
Written for the picture 'The Wine of Circe' by Sir Edward Burne-Jones. Large watercolour, 1863-9.
Crouching Circe puts potion in jar, as new ships put into her harbour; black panthers, ex-sailors,
earlier potion drinkers, snuffle about their female bewitcher. Exhibited 1869.
Dusk-haired and gold-robed o'er the golden wine
She stoops, wherein, distilled of death and shame,
Sink the black drops; while, lit with fragrant flame,
Round her spread board the golden sunflowers shine.
Doth Helios here with Hecate combine
(O Circe, thou their votaress?) to proclaim
For these thy guests all rapture in Love's name,
Till pitiless Night give Day the countersign?
Lords of their hour, they come. And by her knee
Those cowering beasts, their equal heretofore,
Wait; who with them in new equality
To-night shall echo back the unchanging roar
Which sounds forever from the tide-strown shore
Where the dishevelled seaweed hates the sea.
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Circe
I’m fond, nereids and nymphs, unlike some, of the pig,
of the tusker, the snout, the boar and the swine.
One way or another, all pigs have been mine –
under my thumb, the bristling, salty skin of their backs,
in my nostrils here, their yobby, porky colognes.
I’m familiar with hogs and runts, their percussion of oinks
and grunts, their squeals. I’ve stood with a pail of swill
at dusk, at the creaky gate of the sty,
tasting the sweaty, spicy air, the moon
like a lemon popped in the mouth of the sky.
But I want to begin with a recipe from abroad
which uses the cheek – and the tongue in cheek
at that. Lay two pig’s cheeks, with the tongue,
in a dish, and strew it well over with salt
and cloves. Remember the skills of the tongue –
to lick, to lap, to loosen, lubricate, to lie
in the soft pouch of the face – and how each pig’s face
was uniquely itself, as many handsome as plain,
the cowardly face, the brave, the comical, noble,
sly or wise, the cruel, the kind, but all of them,
nymphs, with those piggy eyes. Season with mace.
Well-cleaned pig’s ears should be blanched, singed, tossed
in a pot, boiled, kept hot, scraped, served, garnished
with thyme. Look at that simmering lug, at that ear,
did it listen, ever, to you, to your prayers and rhymes,
to the chimes of your voice, singing and clear? Mash
the potatoes, nymph, open the beer. Now to the brains,
to the trotter, shoulders, chops, to the sweetmeats slipped
from the slit, bulging, vulnerable bad of the balls.
When the heart of a pig has hardened, dice it small.
Dice it small. I, too, once knelt on this shining shore
Watching the tall ships sail from the burning sun
like myths; slipped off my dress to wade,
breast-deep, in the sea, waving and calling;
then plunged, then swam on my back, looking up
as three black ships sighed in the shallow waves.
Of course, I was younger then. And hoping for men. Now,
Let us baste that sizzling pig on the spit once again.
Carol Ann Duffy
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Penelope
By Carol Ann Duffy
with heroism’s boy
At first, I looked along the road
in a wild embroidery of love, lust, lessons learnt;
hoping to see him saunter home
then watched him sail away
among the olive trees,
into the loose gold stitching of the sun.
a whistle for the dog
And when the others came to take his place,
who mourned him with his warm head on my
disturb my peace,
knees.
I played for time.
Six months of this
I wore a widow’s face, kept my head down,
and then i noticed that whole days had passed
did my work by day, at night unpicked it.
without my noticing.
I knew which hour of the dark the moon
I sorted cloth and scissors, needle, thread,
would start to fray,
thinking to amuse myself,
I stitched it.
but found a lifetime’s industry instead.
Grey threads and brown
I sewed a girl
pursued my needle’s leaping fish
under a single star—cross-stitch, silver silk—
to form a river that would never reach the sea.
running after childhood’s bouncing ball.
I tried it. I was picking out
I chose between three greens for the grass;
the smile of a woman at the centre
a smoky pink, a shadow’s grey
of this world, self-contained, absorbed, content,
to show a snapdragon gargling a bee
most certainly not waiting,
I threaded walnut brown for a tree,
when I heard a far-too-late familiar tread outside
my thimble like an acorn
the door.
pushing up through umber soil.
I licked my scarlet thread
Beneath the shade
and aimed it surely at the middle of the needle’s
I wrapped a maiden in a deep embrace
eye once more.
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and lost myself completely
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Odysseus' Decision
The great man turns his back on the island.
Now he will not die in paradise
nor hear again
the lutes of paradise among the olive trees,
by the clear pools under the cypresses. Time
begins now, in which he hears again
that pulse which is the narrative
sea, at dawn when its pull is strongest.
What has brought us here
will lead us away; our ship
sways in the tinted harbor water.
Now the spell is ended.
Give him back his life,
sea that can only move forward.
Louise Gluck
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Penelope serves Odyusseus Breakfast: Karen Bjorneby
More coffee? Cream? The Times Week in Review?
I hope the Trojan didn't make you mad
but, dear, I sometimes did hear news of you,
and islands, sirens, flowered leis you had.
You'll see I've changed one or two things.
I plowed the grapes all up, and filed for subsidy,
and subdivided lots to take a fling
in futures, made a killing trading wheat,
then hired a weaver, wow was he a find,
that goddamn loom was making me a hag
before my time. And husband, pay no mind
to talk, you know how blinded tongues can wag.
And now the Travel pages, please. Since you've
returned, safe from the seas, I'll plan a cruise.
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