leaving ithaca
my presence is but patchwork
in a corner of your tapestry
neither mystic blue nor royal purple
white nor black nor murderous red
it has no place
in the threadwork
that tells your story
i am she indeed
but nobody has told you this
i left my home
for i could not wait
did not wish to wait
cast once more in the role of unwitting temptation
the plum catch bound by custom
to entertain all suitors who claimed hospitality
as insolent honored guests
he would have left again
after an episode of indigestion
a pretense of madness
secretly stirring to be unmasked
or a bout of violence
against this party or that
all rustlers and raiders like him
for that was and remains still the source of their wealth
how cunningly he stole and hoodwinked
the best they said in the land
and so a king
but a vassal ever to avarice
always waiting for his chance
no matter how much he had amassed
to answer its call
my occupation
while he fought his brawls
stabbed friends in the back
schemed mercilessly always to come out on top
and rode the turbulence of the seas
plundering and philandering wherever he went
was to wait for him
my river my sea my ocean
the raider of my thoughts by day
the burglar of my body by night
to return to me
even as I quietly raised a son to rule in his stead
but now this patchwork
no longer remains
stuck in its corner
its thread split and sprouted
drifts into the fabric
deep within its colors
with tints of its own
and wakes up the secrets of its images
telling a tale so very unlike
the one you were used to hear and repeat
these long lying centuries
of mystifying evenings and nights
celebrating his exploits
and written into the warp and woof of this weave
in malevolence and kindliness
rampant tendril green and sunflower yellow
glowing peat brown burning through in defiance
must always now be
among his and hers and theirs
forever part of the dissension of threads
winding and looping through their lively maze
my story
which never was before this
never could be
no matter how I set to divert myself
wear myself out
weaving a shroud of absence and longing in exasperation all day
and unravelling all I had woven in fury by night
confined as I was entirely
to house and home and hearth
custom and forced hospitality
and the blasted memory of a husband
the moon’s quicksilver and the sun is mine
mine the unruly oceans the battle blows on shields
the wooing and desertion
the crimsoning white apricot
triumph and defeat
I Circe and the Sirens singing
I Helen and Iphigenia I
The raped Casandra and the murdering adulteress Clytemnestra
I the tamer of Poseidon and Mars
Apollo and Zeus grovel at my feet
dust seed
of husband who puts his wife
in way of another’s courtship
and brings plague upon the household
that grants them refuge
of man rewarded for his deception
practicing it yet again to acquire
more oxen, herds of sheep, and mules
a train of manservants and women besides
of wealth that multiplies with each lie
of offspring that won’t be born unless
a maidservant is impregnated first
before the sister-wife mistress can conceive
of water gushing forth from sand
at the tap of an infant’s heel
catching fire in the sun
as hands cup to receive it
of sister-wife mistress reclaiming her power
cheated by a dream and a voice
consumed by anger and dying of grief
on report of her son’s slaughter by the father’s hand
of husband who marries again
maidservant abandoned and discarded
now incense to be lighted and burnt at his altar
for the master of dreams and delusions
of fable and history and myth
of sons and grandsons and children of grandsons
swindling and stealing their way to success
of banishment and branding
of daughters and mothers
of wives and sisters and concubines
used as forfeit censured trespassed forgotten
bonded and free equally secured
of immeasurable wisdom and whim
without differentiation
of the robber blessed
the robbed yoked to servitude
of the womb of creation birthing
sons and daughters of masters and mistresses
and sons and daughters of handmaids and slaves
and all their innumerable descendants
of a master’s writ or a mistress’s caprice
fondly indulged under license
of devotion of those who purchase
and those who sell at a price
of eyes of a child awakening
to morning mist in the wilderness
scattering little by little
in the haze of an optical illusion
my presence is but patchwork
in a corner of your tapestry
neither mystic blue nor royal purple
white nor black nor murderous red
it has no place
in the threadwork
that tells your story
i am she indeed
but nobody has told you this
i left my home
for i could not wait
did not wish to wait
cast once more in the role of unwitting temptation
the plum catch bound by custom
to entertain all suitors who claimed hospitality
as insolent honored guests
he would have left again
after an episode of indigestion
a pretense of madness
secretly stirring to be unmasked
or a bout of violence
against this party or that
all rustlers and raiders like him
for that was and remains still the source of their wealth
how cunningly he stole and hoodwinked
the best they said in the land
and so a king
but a vassal ever to avarice
always waiting for his chance
no matter how much he had amassed
to answer its call
my occupation
while he fought his brawls
stabbed friends in the back
schemed mercilessly always to come out on top
and rode the turbulence of the seas
plundering and philandering wherever he went
was to wait for him
my river my sea my ocean
the raider of my thoughts by day
the burglar of my body by night
to return to me
even as I quietly raised a son to rule in his stead
but now this patchwork
no longer remains
stuck in its corner
its thread split and sprouted
drifts into the fabric
deep within its colors
with tints of its own
and wakes up the secrets of its images
telling a tale so very unlike
the one you were used to hear and repeat
these long lying centuries
of mystifying evenings and nights
celebrating his exploits
and written into the warp and woof of this weave
in malevolence and kindliness
rampant tendril green and sunflower yellow
glowing peat brown burning through in defiance
must always now be
among his and hers and theirs
forever part of the dissension of threads
winding and looping through their lively maze
my story
which never was before this
never could be
no matter how I set to divert myself
wear myself out
weaving a shroud of absence and longing in exasperation all day
and unravelling all I had woven in fury by night
confined as I was entirely
to house and home and hearth
custom and forced hospitality
and the blasted memory of a husband
the moon’s quicksilver and the sun is mine
mine the unruly oceans the battle blows on shields
the wooing and desertion
the crimsoning white apricot
triumph and defeat
I Circe and the Sirens singing
I Helen and Iphigenia I
The raped Casandra and the murdering adulteress Clytemnestra
I the tamer of Poseidon and Mars
Apollo and Zeus grovel at my feet
dust seed
of husband who puts his wife
in way of another’s courtship
and brings plague upon the household
that grants them refuge
of man rewarded for his deception
practicing it yet again to acquire
more oxen, herds of sheep, and mules
a train of manservants and women besides
of wealth that multiplies with each lie
of offspring that won’t be born unless
a maidservant is impregnated first
before the sister-wife mistress can conceive
of water gushing forth from sand
at the tap of an infant’s heel
catching fire in the sun
as hands cup to receive it
of sister-wife mistress reclaiming her power
cheated by a dream and a voice
consumed by anger and dying of grief
on report of her son’s slaughter by the father’s hand
of husband who marries again
maidservant abandoned and discarded
now incense to be lighted and burnt at his altar
for the master of dreams and delusions
of fable and history and myth
of sons and grandsons and children of grandsons
swindling and stealing their way to success
of banishment and branding
of daughters and mothers
of wives and sisters and concubines
used as forfeit censured trespassed forgotten
bonded and free equally secured
of immeasurable wisdom and whim
without differentiation
of the robber blessed
the robbed yoked to servitude
of the womb of creation birthing
sons and daughters of masters and mistresses
and sons and daughters of handmaids and slaves
and all their innumerable descendants
of a master’s writ or a mistress’s caprice
fondly indulged under license
of devotion of those who purchase
and those who sell at a price
of eyes of a child awakening
to morning mist in the wilderness
scattering little by little
in the haze of an optical illusion
what is left
on a kite string launched
then cut adrift
by your own hand
to float on air
aimless in the season
of mustard and geese returning
borne by the breeze
spinning and sailing
ever farther away
keeling when it sags
to sink among trees
snagged by a runner
as spoils of conquest
claimed by strange hands
by right of possession
used willfully then
harnessed and tied
to unfamiliar strings
raised once more to fly
and ripple in the wind
its dance and surge
could still entrance
but severed in a duel
swept away by the draft
only to be seized
yet again as a prize
captured and surrendered
in casual repetition
riding ever degraded strings
in hands of fortune-hunters
colors fast declining
garments wearing thin
dispirited now and dull
flickering but damply
spent and shabby
to fall at last
to a gaggle of street boys
who brawl and bicker
over a patched-up thing
and tear it to pieces
in rivalry and spite
the one most irate
snaps the spine in two
cracks the bow
shreds and crumples what is left
tosses it on the roadside
kicks dust over it
looks about for other game
all broken and torn
these are but scraps
of the paper kite I was
fooled by the fable
of a momentary release
it was just sport for you
but a worn piece of thread
still locked in a knot
you tied with your hand
binding spine and bow
to equip me to fly
remains as a relic
in the wreckage that is left
Author’s Bionote:
*Waqas Khwaja is the Ellen Douglass Leyburn Professor of English at Agnes Scott College where he teaches courses in Postcolonial literature, British Romanticism, Empire Narratives, Victorian Novel, and Creative Writing. He has published four collections of poetry, “Hold Your Breath”, “No One Waits for the Train”, “Mariam’s Lament”, and “Six Geese from a Tomb at Medum”, a literary travelogue about his experiences as a fellow of the International Writers Program, University of Iowa, and three edited anthologies of Pakistani literature. He served as translation editor (and contributor) for “Modern Poetry of Pakistan”, showcasing translations of poems by 44 poets from Pakistan’s national and regional languages, and has guest-edited special issues on Pakistani Literature and poetry for the “Journal of Commonwealth and Postcolonial Studies” and “Atlanta Review”. A bilingual edition of one of his collections, “No One Waits for the Train”, was published as “Nadie espera el tren” in Madrid, Spain, in 2024. His poems have appeared in US, South Asian, European, African, Middle Eastern, Chinese, Far Eastern, and Latin American publications, literary journals, and anthologies.