03/08/2026
Today's Odyssey poem (again in two parts), one of mine, is a persona poem in the voice of Eidothea, the daughter of that well-known shape-shifting soothsayer Proteus...
Eidothea Grieving (part one)
“The Ancient of the Salt Sea...
Proteus of Egypt...is, they say, my father.”
—The Odyssey, Book IV
Waves keep rolling
and I keep asking
this vague mound under blankets—
why a lion, why a falcon, why a towering flame?
Why all those years walking the beach,
following your tracks with the urge for you,
Father, your touch, your solidity,
your hand firmly holding mine?
You were grass once. From then on
I treaded fields so carefully,
wondering what shapes I took
in Mother’s womb—or was it your womb,
Father? Did I step from your ear,
a girl already asking questions?
I thought I could have you
with words, Father. While you slept
I’d spread feathers, fur or sand—
whatever was where your ear
should be—and whisper,
Who are you? Who am I?
I’d touch my hair, my chest,
and shiver at the thought
that I’m not me, I’m you. Seals clapped
each time you became a towering flame
for the crowds of locals and travelers
who’d wrestle you to learn the future. You won.
You always won. But still you kept changing—
bull laboring up a hill, boulder
rolling through scrub, flicker of trout, gull
barely touching the waves—
each shape flashing before our eyes
then lost in a sea of shapes,...
