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.
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