What's the Best Version of Homer's Invocation of the Muse?

Steven Pressfield, in his classic The War of Art, shares with the world the secrets of his writing habits and pre-writing rituals. It’s the latter that I find most fascinating, and indeed, even magical. Before putting pen to paper, Pressfield recites a special prayer. This prayer comes from the introduction to Homer’s Odyssey, where Homer invokes the Muse as a source of inspiration to launch the story of Odysseus.

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Well, if the father of epic poetry prayed to the gods for some help, and the prayer was granted, what’s stopping the rest of us from doing the same thing? Nothing! Pressfield steals Homer’s strategy, and encourages us to do the same shamelessly, mercilessly, and even proudly. Each of us has access to a mystical, higher power, which is waiting to be activated. Call it God’s voice. Call it imagination. Call it the soul. Call it genius. Whatever. The label doesn’t matter. What matters is that it’s there. And unless you make the ask, it’s just sitting there collecting dust.

Here’s the version that Pressfield uses:

translated from the Greek by T. E. Lawrence

Invocation

O Divine Poesy,
Goddess-daughter of Zeus,
Sustain for me
This song of the various-minded man,
Who after he had plundered
The innermost citadel of hallowed Troy
Was made to stray grievously
About the coasts of men,
The sport of their customs good or bad,
While his heart
Through all the seafaring
Ached in an agony to redeem himself
And bring his company safe home.

Vain hope – for them!
For his fellows he strove in vain,
Their own witlessness cast them away;
The fools,
To destroy for meat
The oxen of the most exalted sun!
Wherefore the sun-god blotted out
The day of their return.

Make the tale live for us
In all its many bearings,
O Muse.

What a lovely translation! After reading it, don’t you feel inspired to call on the Divine and let her speak through you, too? Let’s compare this with some other notable English translations:

George Chapman translation (1615)

The man, O Muse, inform, that many a way
Wound with his wisdom to his wished stay;
That wander’d wondrous far, when he the town
Of sacred Troy had sack’d and shiver’d down;
The cities of a world of nations,
With all their manners, minds, and fashions,
He saw and knew; at sea felt many woes,
Much care sustain’d, to save from overthrows
Himself and friends in their retreat for home;
But so their fates he could not overcome,
Though much he thirsted it. O men unwise,
They perish’d by their own impieties!
That in their hunger’s rapine would not shun
The oxen of the lofty-going Sun,
Who therefore from their eyes the day bereft
Of safe return. These acts, in some part left,
Tell us, as others, deified Seed of Jove.

Chapman’s translation is the oldest English version of the Odyssey. Unlike Lawrence’s version, this one rhymes and thus makes you feel it as a song (even if you have to read it over a few times to get past the idiosyncrasies of the Early Modern English language). After getting the hang of it, I find myself singing it out loud, each time with more confidence and with more earnestness. I sincerely admire this version. Even though it lacks Lawrence’s elaborate introduction to the muse in the opening lines, it makes up for it by the power of verse and the “deified Seed of Jove" reference at the end (Jove is the Roman word for Zeus). So, like Lawrence, he makes it clear that Homer is appealing to an outside, divine force. But whereas Lawrence throws all that at you in the beginning, Chapman savors it for the end. Dear reader, which one do you prefer?

Next.

Alexander Pope translation (1725)

The man for wisdom’s various arts renown’d,
Long exercised in woes, O Muse! resound;
Who, when his arms had wrought the destined fall
Of sacred Troy, and razed her heaven-built wall,
Wandering from clime to clime, observant stray’d,
Their manners noted, and their states survey’d,
On stormy seas unnumber’d toils he bore,
Safe with his friends to gain his natal shore:
Vain toils! their impious folly dared to prey
On herds devoted to the god of day;
The god vindictive doom’d them never more
(Ah, men unbless’d!) to touch that natal shore.
Oh, snatch some portion of these acts from fate,
Celestial Muse! and to our world relate.

There is a sense in which Pope improves upon Chapman’s version here by making the readers grasp not just what is being said, but how it is being said. A resounding voice fills an entire room. It’s like an echo. A voice that merely informs, on the other hand, just doesn’t convey that part of the message. It lacks that oomph quality. And yet, I can’t really declare a winner between the two yet. I like that Chapman emphasizes how Odysseus tried to save his friends but was unsuccessful. Pope’s version somehow misses that nuance by saying he was safe with his friends. Sometimes the strategic use of a preposition can make all the difference.

W.H.D. Rouse translation (1937)

This is the story of a man, one who was never at a loss. He had travelled far in the world, after the sack of Troy, the virgin fortress; he saw many cities of men, and learnt their mind; he endured many troubles and hardships in the struggle to save his own life and to bring back his men safe to their homes. He did his best, but he could not save his companions. For they perished by their own madness, because they killed and ate the cattle of Hyperion the Sun-god, and the god took care that they should never see home again.

This version reads as if it is a regular modern fiction story. It does not read as proper verse. (See how it looks as a book here). I appreciate it’s clarifying power—if you had any open questions about the plot with respect to the previous versions, this one likely filled in those gaps. However, it just feels like a dumbed-down, sparknotes summary. The over-simplification filters out the forces of emotion and imagination that pervade the other versions.

E.V. Rieu translation (1945)

Tell me, Muse, the story of that resourceful man who was driven to wander far and wide after he had sacked the holy citadel of Troy. He saw the cities of many people and he learnt their ways. He suffered great anguish on the high seas in his struggles to preserve his life and bring his comrades home. But he failed to save those comrades, in spite of all his efforts. It was their own transgression that brought them to their doom, for in their folly the devoured the oxen of Hyperion the Sun-god and he saw to it that they would never return. Tell us this story, goddess daughter of Zeus, beginning at whatever point you will.

Meh. “Tell me” is too direct and too simple. This ruins the subtlety and playfulness we see in the other translations, notably in Lawrence and Pope. Second, as with the Rouse translation, the lack of verse takes the soul out of the work. And by taking the soul out, you dispense with the magic that makes the story come alive!

Robert Fitzgerald Translation (1961)

Sing in me, Muse, and through me tell the story 

of that man skilled in all ways of contending,

the wanderer, harried for years on end, 

after he plundered the stronghold 

on the proud height of Troy.

He saw the townlands 

and learned the minds of many distant men, 

and weathered many bitter nights and days

in his deep heart at sea, while he fought only 

to save his life, to bring his shipmates home. 

But not by will nor valor could he save them, 

for their own recklessness destroyed them all— 

children and fools, they killed and feasted on 

the cattle of Lord Helios, the Sun, 

and he who moves all day through heaven 

took from their eyes the dawn of their return.

Of these adventures, Muse, daughter of Zeus,

tell us in our time, lift the great song again. . .

Sing in me. Wow. Powerful. This captures exactly what Homer is trying to do. He’s not asking for a mere reminder or a helping hand. No, he wants the muse to speak through him. He wants to take full advantage of that story-telling power for a temporary amount of time. The other versions allude to this, but this one makes it more visceral without oversimplifying anything. Ultimately, it all hinges on how you begin the ask. What’s more exciting, more soul-stirring— ‘inform me’, ‘tell me,’ or ‘sing in me’? Surely it’s the latter.

Robert Fagles Translation (1996)

Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns …

driven time and again off course, once he had plundered

the hallowed heights of Troy.

Many cities of men he saw and learned their minds,

many pains he suffered, heartsick on the open sea,

fighting to save his life and bring his comrades home.

But he could not save them from disaster, hard as he strove—

the recklessness of their own ways destroyed them all,

the blind fools, they devoured the cattle of the Sun

and the Sungod blotted out the day of their return.

Launch out on his story, Muse, daughter of Zeus,

start from where you will—

sing for our time too.

I’ve heard good things about the Fagles translation. And there’s an audio-book version of it which is superbly narrated by the god Ian McKellen. But, with respect to the invocation, I just think Fitzgerald’s comes out on top, if only because “sing in me” hits the nail right on the head whereas “sing to me” misses the mark just by a tad. My favorite line in this version is the “man of twists and turns.” This refers to Odysseus’ journey, his strategic mind, to everything. It’s all about the struggle. And the phrase captures that succinctly and beautifully.

Richard Lattimore translation (1965)

Tell me, Muse, of the man of many ways, who was driven

far journeys, after he had sacked Troy’s sacred citadel.

Many were they whose cities he saw, whose minds he learned of,

many the pains he suffered in his spirit on the wide sea,

struggling for his own life and the homecoming of his companions.

Even so he could not save his companions, hard though

he strove to; they were destroyed by their own wild recklessness,

fools, who devoured the oxen of Helios, the Sun God,

and he took away the day of their homecoming. From some point

here, goddess, daughter of Zeus, speak, and begin our story.

This one is a pretty straightforward, literal translation. I admire the clarity. But it doesn’t stir any passions in me. That’s all I have to say about this one! Ha!

Stanley Lombardo Translation (2000)

Speak, Memory –

Of the cunning hero

The wanderer, blown off course time and again

After he plundered Troy’s sacred heights.

Speak

Of all the cities he saw, the minds he grasped,

The suffering deep in his heart at sea

As he struggled to survive and bring his men home

But could not save them, hard as he tried –

The fools – destroyed by their own recklessness

When they ate the oxen of Hyperion the Sun,

And that god snuffed out their day of return

Of these things,

Speak, Immortal One,

And tell the tale once more in our time.

By Memory, Lombardo is likely not referring to human memory but to Mnemosyne—the goddess of memory who gave birth to the 9 muses (by Zeus)—and is herself considered to be an elder muse. Assuming my interpretation is correct, I find it illuminating to invoke the goddess directly by name. The logic of the invocation becomes clearer: Homer has direct access to this goddess because she is the divine extension of his own human capacity. Imagine thinking this way about all of our capacities in the real world. Sure, some might call us crazy. And yet, doesn’t it somehow make the our lives and the world more interesting?

My one problem with the Lombardo version is that by aiming for precision it removes some of the poetic subtlety. For example, what’s more interesting: “cunning man” or “the man of twists and turns”? Which one gives Odysseus more dimensions?

The winner: It’s a tie between T.E. Lawrence’s version and Robert Fitzgerald’s. But if you were to put a gun to my head, and force me to choose one, I would go with Lawrence’s. His opening lines call the soul to action in a way not replicated by any of the other unique takes.