Nancy Louise Freeman: Music
Ithaka, Ithaka
(Nancy Louise Freeman)
on the album Anchored to the Wind
words & music (c) 1994
Ithaka, Ithaka, land of the grey-leaved olive groves,
Of the goat in the thicket and the brisk
Wind that blows over Ithaka,
Ithaka; silver-bellied fish, tell my lover so:
"Like the shuttle through the pick,
"Quickly back to Ithaka,
"Ithaka, go."
Black sails upon the wine-dark sea;
These were the ships that brought Ithaka home to me.
Ten years without her lord,
Vine-harvest and field-harvest stored -
I said, "Set no funeral feast on the board."
In vain our precious offerings we had daily burned.
But omens danced in the hearth-fire's smoke
As if in veils grey-eyed Athene spoke
Of weaving and spinning to be learned
For Ithaka, Ithaka, land of the grey-leaved olive groves,
Of the goat in the thicket and the brisk
Wind that blows over Ithaka,
Ithaka; silver-bellied fish, tell my lover so:
"Like the shuttle through the pick,
"Quickly back to Ithaka,
"Ithaka, go."
Black wings that clouded out the day -
No crow or vulture flew ravenous here as they
Tell them who pay me court
Amid the drunkard brawl and glutton snort:
Gather all of your mettle to my sport
This day the bride of Ithaka makes her final choice.
Ah thus I weave the pattern bold
Athene guide me conjure him of old
Let the soul of my summons be the voice
Of Ithaka, Ithaka, land of the grey-leaved olive groves,
Of the goat in the thicket and the brisk
Wind that blows over Ithaka,
Ithaka; silver-bellied fish, tell my lover so:
"Like the shuttle through the pick,
"Quickly back to Ithaka,
"Ithaka, go."
So now he sits before the fire,
Man of the wandered heart, fruit of our desire
The old returning dream -
Yet twenty years lie in between
As he spins out his storyteller skein
What of the days ahead? What perils of the heart?
Athene watch my only child
Hera, let my mind be reconciled
To the end of his story and my part
Calypso calms the wayfarer
Circe breaks the beast
Helen toppled empires with the loosing of her hair
The daughter of Aeolus drives
the storm-clouds thunder-fleeced
But Penelope has spoken with the magic of the
shuttle and the thread
Singing Ithaka, Ithaka, land of the grey-leaved olive groves,
Of the goat in the thicket and the brisk
Wind that blows over Ithaka,
Ithaka; silver-bellied fish, tell my lover so:
"Like the shuttle through the pick,
"Quickly back to Ithaka,
"Ithaka, go.
"Like the arrow to the hit,
"Swiftly home to Ithaka,
"Ithaka, go."