I returned;Fatherland was gone
Posted by: adonis49 on: August 8, 2009
I visited my “Motherland” once
I read Ulysses once; it was all ancient Greek.
All languages are suitable for writing poems:
Poems are meant to express the spirit of the Land;
Long before languages were created or codified.
Samuel Butler demonstrated that Ulysses was written by a woman,
A young woman and single; I like that better;
It is more convincing.
Butler confirmed that Ulysses’ trip was around Sicily.
Seven years to tour Sicily is irrelevant.
Years in ancient times were measured by seasons.
The shorter year was winter; the longer one was the extended long dry season.
One systematic mind split the differences in moon rotations.
Another mathematical mind worshiped number three.
His enemy preferred the symmetrical number four.
Years kept shifting in length.
It was a time of confusion and rare standards.
It was a time of total freedom of ignorance
Mainly for the “free men”.
Slaves were redundant and obeyed the will of their masters.
They still do on a larger scales, number and ignominy.
The masters are mostly regrouped in “Secret Clubs” of free men;
Sometimes in veto power nations around a United Nation.
I visited my “Motherland” once.
I returned to my City-State of Itaca once.
I had no Penelope there waiting for me:
I would never care for a dumb witch waiting for a war man.
I have never been a war man: I fled the war zone for reasons.
I visited my “Motherland” once.
I visited my “Motherland” with my new family.
I called up my exiled friends to join me.
I didn’t care to face little men and little souls;
Petrified and perched on mountain peaks.
I toured my motherland solely with my family like a tourist:
Nature and natural phenomena are romantic and truer to my origins.
The children loved my motherland;
They had plenty of fun with super energetic and fun children.
They climbed trees, jumped walls and cliffs.
They played war battles with sticks;
On land, seas, and around the galaxies.
Fire crackers a go-go; makeshift guns and swords flailing around.
Many wounds and scars to mend;
Barely missing their folks; the tamed ones.
It was a dangerous habit experiencing natural chaos among the kids’ world.
I won’t allow my children this extravagant climate;
They won’t visit my motherland as long as in protection.
I visited my “Motherland” once.
I fled as quickly as the airport was re-opened.
I boarded the ships of my adoptive nation;
Evacuating its citizens from a worn torn dysfunctional society.
I visited my “Motherland” once.
Nobody cared to ask me about my life in my “adoptive” society.
They blabbered about stories and anecdotes of the dead and mostly the dying.
They recounted of newer generations, totally irrelevant to me.
Nobody cared to ask how much I suffered and struggled to survive.
Everybody mocked the caring soul who ventured to know the new me.
I visited my “Motherland” once.
I am currently living in a standardized society,
Highly organized and administered for just the free people:
A society every bit the dream of racist Plato in his Republic.
I visited with trepidation:
I had been given a medal of honor in my adoptive society.
I kept on my high white horse and barely mingled.
They insisted on raising me on shoulders and necks.
I lamely fought this uncalled for barbaric show of substituted glory.
Another medal of honor was attached on my lapel.
The officials never cared to investigate if I was proud of my origin.
I was a sample of men worthy of the motherland’s origin.
I visited my “Motherland” once.
I visited with hesitation; I am back almost broke financially.
A life of learning and struggles is irrelevant.
I kept my silence, wrapped in mysteries.
I created my own island.
With inexistent public transportations
It is so easy and comfortable creating islands;
Alongside islands of communities.
I returned for good to my island.
Many poets toured the world for inspirations.
They returned to keep silent.
The world was too gruesome to laud humanity;
Miserable beings were no inspirations for chants and songs.
Pablo Neruda was also frustrated and lived in solitude abroad.
He clawed to his roots, the toiling and brave workers.
His “Canto general” was a culmination of the spirit recounting its origins;
Of dirt, mud, forests, rivers, sand, wind, wilderness, and the survival of man.
Neruda returned to chant the dignity of South Americana.
All languages are suitable for writing poems and the best ones.
It is the spirit of the Land that chants through the soul.
No need to be ashamed of traditions and customs;
All civilizations had almost similar traditions and customs.
Cultures that banished theirs for the sake of modernity
Are not bearable communities for the living.
Cultures that banished theirs for the sake of modernity
Transferred them to exclusive clubs, secretive associations,
The guardians of the customs and traditions
To rule, govern, and safeguard the continuity of the “Free elected Men”
Adonis Diaries 
Leave a Reply