Boston Marathon Poem by Joseph S. Josephides

Most people run, either hunting or being hunted.
I, Stelios, as a boy in Paphos used to run barefoot.
Τeenager in Limassol the British colony wanted me
to run and glorify them in the Olympic Games. I run
for Greece, so Hitler got angry seeing me, a stranger.

That conquest by nazi chased us, I run up to Pindos
fasting, I bought cheap things to repair. Then I sold
my kitchen and radio for an air-ticket to Boston, to run
and exhibit the spirit of Greeks in its Marathon race.
Myriads run just to show off, not for their countries,
they delayed behind, couldn’t catch my shadow.
When I won, I loaded aboard clothes and food
donation from expatriates, all for our skinny country.
They illuminated Acropolis to welcome me, my friends
there, of both right and left party, similarly wounded.

I run without stopping – with Fidippides and Louis;
the Greek tribe that runs and by running she survives.
The word Marathon has not five syllables, its length
is millions of miles, long as the nerves of small folks,
us, who have the sacred love beyond any prophecy;
if all is unravelled, if knowledge and speech are lost
such love can transform for us the chaos into a ditch.



© JosephJosephides