Ithaca by C.P. Cavafy
An old view on living good.
I was introduced to Ithaca in a collection I adore called Poems That Make Grown Men Cry. Many of the poems include hefty introductions by the chooser, often going into great depths of how and why a poem inspires tears; its good, no really, but when you know what makes it special to someone else, what concoction of words make their hairs salute in attention, it’s hard to escape and find you own meaning; perhaps that is why I adore this poem; Walter Salles, a renowned Brazilian director and the person who chose this poem, introduced it in a much different way, using only 18 words:
Someone once told me: “Don’t ask the way of those who know it, you might not get lost”
And so, I must insist that you read this poem before you see more from me. Go. Go on now. Read, saviour the taste of each word on your tongue.
Done? Good. Let’s begin.
Constantine Cavafy was a remarkable character, widely held as one of the greatest contemporary greek poets, yet never reached significant fame until late in his life, and especially late in his poetry writing. During his lifetime he didn’t publish a single volume of poetry for sale, mostly he just gave it to his family and friends whilst he continued to work his full time job at the Ministry of Public Works; it wasn’t until three years after his death that the first collected edition of his poetry was published, and subsequently translated into English. It’s likely he first wrote Ithaca in 1894, but revised it later in 1910 before it was published in 1911, so the poem is well over its 100th birthday. When so few things connect us to our past, it is a rare surprise when we are given a bridge to walk over and appreciate the daisies stretching from the soils of time.
Ithaca, at its core, is a 1911 advice column for life. It uses the original epic of The Odyssey which follows Odysseus as he takes the long 10 year journey back to his home, Ithaca, as a core metaphor for life. On his journey Odysseus faced many trials and tribulations, being constantly attacked and losing many of his men. In all respects, the journey was a long and painful one, where he constantly wished for his quiet and peaceful home. It’s interesting to see Cavafy take such an opposing view, despite the wistful tone of the poem, it calls for the reader to not only try and enjoy the journey, but to hope it is long: “As you set out for Ithaca, hope the journey is a long one…”. It’s hard to see this as an interpretation of The Odyssey but, perhaps more suitably, as a rebellion against its telling; Odysseus wanted a quick journey, we shouldn’t.
Since the time of The Odyssey, Ithaca has become synonymous with the achievement of our goals. It’s that mystical place where, once the work is done, we have arrived and can enjoy the flowering fields. Cavafy takes a hard stance on the purpose of these ‘Ithacas’: they are the goal, but the reward is buried in the journey and you must dig it out. This lies in stark contrast to much of the self help world today which focusses on efficiency and productivity - the quicker you arrive at your goal the better. After having been swept under the guise of this dogma for so long, it’s hard for me not to look at this poem with an almost ecstatic feeling of “Oh wait, this is what it’s ACTUALLY about”. It’s good to be eager for you goals, but there’s much more to life than a healthy pension.
To my eyes, this poem has a healthy splitting of ideas: the first two stanzas are dedicated to introducing the beauty of what can be sought from the journey, whilst the last three are a warning of the seductive nature of ‘Ithacas’ and a reinstatement of the message of the poem to ensure it is received.
The opening two stanzas are beautiful; they draw you in with a calm tone, as though being read by an old wise traveller imparting wisdom on a naive passer by (if you haven’t watched it already, Sean Connery does an excellent reading accompanied by music). The phrasing in the 4th and 10th lines is nothing novel, Greek and Roman philosophers had similar ideas which have grown roots in the 21st century in the form of stoicism: a set of ideas and principles that can suffer from the modern interpretation that “your problems, and how you feel about them, is entirely your fault”. This is sometimes true, some of us do have a remarkable ability to look past our issues and appreciate that the hurt comes from the story we tell ourselves. But, as anybody who has felt the cold hammer of mental health issues knows, sometimes you just can’t help it. Cavafy doesn’t directly address this, but I do think it’s acknowledged in the subtext. He warns us of fearing the dangers along our path,“Laistrygonians and Cyclops, angry Poseidon”, and that these aren’t present as long as we remain stirred by small excitements, as long as we don’t carry them inside our soul. The monsters of our lives will always be there and, perhaps, are unavoidable, but still, I like to think that the true harm is not that they are real, but is what emphasis we put on them. Yes, we may have bad weather, and there may be villains to defeat, but these only become the anger of Poseidon, or battles with Cyclops if we let them; if we don’t, they are, at the very least, part of the adventure. I think very few reasonable people believe the hogwash often spouted by these wannabe toga wearing fools, and I doubt Cavafy did either. Much more, I’m inclined to think that he understood that pain isn’t unavoidable, it isn’t, just that we can work towards deciding if it becomes a monster that haunts our epic.
The second stanza reflects part of the same image, emphasising all the riches which can be sought from the moving towards your Ithaca, “Mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony…” and “sensual perfumes of every kind…”, yet never mentioning the seeking of fortunes from our ‘Ithaca’. Again, Cavafy is emphasising the sheer pleasure and elation that can be found in everyday life by the appreciation of the small treasures we find as we sail towards our island, pushing away the modern emphasis on the destination. The final lines are, to me, the worst feeling on the tongue from the poem (perhaps due to the translation: in more recent versions the meaning is preserved, but the wording is significantly sweeter on the tongue) but somehow carry a large part of what I take as the message. Wrapped up in two short lines:
… and may you visit many Egyptian cities
to gather stores of knowledge from their scholars.
For myself, the quality of curiosity encouraged in these lines is one of the most important messages of the piece. Fundamentally, a journey towards the most spectacular of destinations is stale and stagnant without curiosity of the new and wonderful things we encounter along the way. As Tim Minchin put it, “If you focus too far in front of you, you won’t see the shiny thing out the corner of your eye”.
Ah, the last three stanzas. The final reminder. Each of these can rightfully be considered separately, but for my purposes they’re all sides of the same coin. In the third stanza we are given our final reminder to not rush. Its final attempt to convince us that it is worth living every moment is its most powerful, with its final line giving the first direct warning of expecting our Ithacas to provide us riches. The true value is not what she has on her island, but what she provided in adventure and discovery as you moved towards her.
I’d like to give special attention to the last two lines, and, maybe out of laziness, lay down very few words on them:
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you will have understood by then what these Ithacas mean
These two lines marvellously summarise the whole meaning of the poem in simple, elegant words: there is more to life than where we are going, and that perhaps the meaning we glimpse from it is something we can only gleam in retrospect.
Ithaca is my favourite poem. In 37 lines it gave me an appreciative glance in to how, in many years, I will be looking back at my long journey to my own, perhaps unknown, Ithaca, appreciating how marvellous a journey it truly was. Hopefully, I, and you, will stop to smell the sensual perfumes, and appreciate the pearls.
A poem for you:
End Of Summer by Stanley Kunitz.
A wonderful piece about the ineffable passing of time. Simple, elegant, powerful.
Every Tuesday I write a personal review of a poem that has captured my attention, as well as providing another poem for your own enjoyment. If you like what I write please share it with a friend!
As the saying goes: Sorry about the length of this email, I’d have written a shorter one if I had more time.
See you next week,
Jake Rose