You grumble and curse your luck
and I hear:
“O Lynceus,
aloft by the prow,
his head on his arms,
his eyes half closed,
almost asleep,
to watch for a rock,
(and hardly ever we need
his ‘to left’ or ‘to right’)
let Lynceus have my part,
let me rest like Lynceus.”
“Rest like Lynceus!”
I’d change my fate for yours,
the very least,
I’d take an oar with the rest.
“Like Lynceus,”
as if my lot were the best.
O God, if I could speak,
if I could taunt the lot
of the wretched crew,
with my fate, my work.
But I may not,
I may not tell
of the forms that pass and pass,
of that constant old, old face
that leaps from each wave
to wait underneath the boat
in the hope that at last she’s lost.
Could I speak,
I would tell of great mountains
that flow, great weeds
that float and float
to tangle our oars
if I fail “to left, to right;”
where the dolphin leaps
you saw a sign from the god,
I saw why he leapt from the deep.
“To right, to left;”
it is easy enough
to lean on the prow, half asleep,
and you think,
“no work for Lynceus.”
No work?
If only you’d let me take an oar,
if only my back could break with the hurt,
if the sun could blister my feet,
pain, pain that I might forget
the face that just this moment
passed through the prow
when you said, “asleep.”
Many and many a sight
if I could speak,
many and many tales I’d tell,
many and many a struggle,
many a death,
many and many my hurts
and my pain so great,
I’d gladly die
if I did not love the quest.
Grumble and swear and curse,
brother, god and the boat,
and the great waves,
but could you guess
what strange terror lurks in the sea-depth,
you’d thank the gods for the ship,
the timber and giant oars, god-like,
and the god-like quest.