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Sea Grapes
That sail which leans on light, tired of islands, a schooner beating up the Caribbean for home, could be Odysseus, home-bound on the Aegean; that father and husband's longing, under gnarled sour grapes, is like the adulterer hearing Nausicaa's name in every gull's outcry. This brings nobody peace. The ancient war between obsession and responsibility will never finish and has been the same for the sea-wanderer or the one on shore now wriggling on his sandals to walk home, since Troy sighed its last flame, and the blind giant's boulder heaved the trough from whose groundswell the great hexameters come to the conclusions of exhausted surf. The classics can console. But not enough.
The sail that leans on the light, weary of islands, a ship navigating the Caribbean heading home, could be like Odysseus, returning to the Aegean; that father's and husband's longing, under twisted sour grapes, is like the unfaithful man hearing Nausicaa's name in every seagull's cry. This brings no one peace. The old conflict between obsession and duty will never end and has been the same for the sea traveler or the one on land now slipping on his sandals to walk home, since Troy breathed its last flame, and the blind giant's rock moved the wave from whose swell the great poems come to the end of tired waves. The classics can comfort. But not enough.