1821 Hellenic Blues Poem by Cretan Maineiac

In Crete and in Mani
No cannon ever finds me…
-popular Greek song



Some call the blues uniquely
American, from the
Muggy Mississippi delta to the

Daunting nighttime streets of
Chicago, repetitive,
Progressive, peaking

& releasing & rife w/
heartfelt woe, at
Once springing from and revealing the Soul.

But the craggy peaks of Hellas cried a
similar strain, when
Ottoman occupants seized the

Cities, songs of loss,
Lament &
Anguish, as old as sin & fresh &

teary as the original composer, &
equally ephemeral, a
song enduring tho neither

Classical nor recorded, of proud people herded to the
mountains like so many
Sheep, never losing sight of

Their shepherd- w/out
Want-
Hopeless but for an indefatigable

Hope, based in
Faith…
Byron and Shelley found no Achilles reaming a musket nor
Alexander severing the Gordian knot, only
hungry, huddled masses waiting a fruitless wait on

great Catherine the blond for liberation, driven to
Fratricides between gasps on
Psiloritis, precursors to the mass exodus to

Chicago not to hear the
Wail, but to
celebrate escape from it, by-

passing the Crossroads &
that bloody john hancock,

singers giving way to
Modern programs, glad to be rid of
Ethnic burdens w/ no time left for tears.

*Athlete (from Greek) : to struggle against the self*

“Yet, behold now thy sons
With impetuous breath
Go forth to the fight
Seeking Freedom -
*eleftheria*-
or Death…” &

Tho I never tramped the mountain trails on Ossa or Psiloritis, never saw Minoa, neither strode the Mani seaside, nor do i own a Cretan dagger, the spirit of '21 runs coruscant thru me as I amble the sooty, greasy Lisbon St. or sweat the muddy, muggy trails of Thorncrag's secular spiral, or
Scrape Jack Frost from my
windshield, like the

blood run thru the Heroes of '21 as i
celebrate their sacrifice &
choose to get over the

wail rather than curse that bygone yoke of
dhimmitude, hailing- not
quite

unique but quite
American- ever
hailing Freedom.