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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 leans into the light, tired of islands, a ship struggling through the Caribbean heading home, like Odysseus returning to the Aegean; the longing of a father and husband under twisted sour grapes, is like a cheating man hearing Nausicaa's name in every seagull's cry. This brings no peace to anyone. The old conflict between desire and duty will never end and has always been the same for the wanderer at sea or the person on land now slipping on his sandals to walk home, since Troy breathed its last fire, and the blind giant's rock moved the sea from which the great epic lines arise to the end of tired waves. The classics can offer comfort. But not enough.