Patriots In Exile: Creative Platypus

Patriots in Exile

The real world has no room for an Aeneas,

And perhaps that is a good thing.

Troy burned and Troy rebuilt

As much as seven-gated Thebes

Or Hiroshima and Dresden –even

Roman Carthage- though the Goths

Sacked that one.

There are no more seas to sail,

No new worlds to discover.

I’ve been from one coast

To another

And believe me,

The World is round.

On the other side is Russia

And that’s right back to where

You came from;

Whether Irish or Algonquin.

So we’ll drink another round

In a bar in Massachusetts

And we’ll raise a toast to Foxwoods

As a Wonder of the World.

I met an old Oneida in the land

Of broken promise

And he spoke of David Brainard

And a little of John Eliot.

Here we were across the world

Far from both our lands and fathers

And I’d bless him by Saint Patrick

If I were still a papist.

Homes are tricky things

And a heritage’s a burden

Whether it’s one that you can’t get to

Or it’s lost as sure as Eden.

So let’s raise a glass of grape juice

And be glad we weren’t born Britons.

Rule Britannia, rule them waves.

Britons never will be slaves

For they’re better than almost

Anyone

At making slaves of others.

What is there between us,

Save a land we both call home,

Unless something so large

And universal

Big enough for Walter Whitman?

That is so large as to be useless,

Except to Eliot and Patrick.

But I drove by Brainard’s Rock

At least three times a day

And the gas station marks the

Place

Where he wrestled with discernment.

So in the end we both love something;

Our affinities unite us

And I’ll gladly show you round the

Place

When I cross your side of Jordan.

There’s no kingdom for Aeneas

And old Virgil’s half a fascist

But here’s to David Brainard

The Patrick of Oneida.