My Great Fathers -- A Poem (Videos-Turned-Into-Posts)
Updated: Sep 16
(Subcategory Directory:
During my high school years, I used to write poems as well. I don't describe myself as a poet, but I did manage to create an entire handbook of poems in English which I never published. Here is one of the poems from that handbook, titled "My Great Fathers," a tribute to the intellectuals of history and of the world. Enjoy yourselves and have a good week.
To those who gave themselves a living spirit,
In the dusts of yellow-papered books.
The those who were profound in intellectual merit,
Some struggled among the hillbillies and crooks,
Some prospered in a noble narrate.
Their voices are echoed in halls of university,
Greman, American, Russian or French,
They are scattered in diversity.
Some were miserable in life’s trench,
And found themselves in the morning,
On a filthy and wet bench.
Others where rich and outgoing,
And in were grasped by Dionysus’s catch.
I do not care for the genetic aspect,
As I view those Great Fathers
With all of my intellectual respect.
In the written word they were the masters,
And granted me an inspirational impact.
I may know and will know some,
Better than my own ancestors.
I wish for a certain day to come,
And myself to be remembered alongside these majors.
In a concrete block of a hermitage,
I deeply hope to continue this antique heritage,
As this new and evolving modern age,
Gradually locking itself in an electronic cage,
Whilst the paper page,
Is being replaced by video games
Of nerve-wrecking rage.
So many names,
From the poet to the sage,
Were remembered under the glory of the pen,
And as if they were all joined into a hall of a league,
From the western renaissance to the industry’s lack of fatigue,
To the oriental east and their contemplative Zen.
If they all have one thing in common,
Is that they expressed themselves via this sacred craft,
Of writing contentful words of intellectual summon,
Of words which nowadays are generally being left,
Like an overused piece of lemon,
Which sails aimlessly in a primitive raft,
Away from the sea of consciousness,
Into the depths of the esoteric and ominous,
Where I live.
For many people they have little to give,
And some may even be forgotten,
And replace by these who never seem to be rotten,
Nor to outlive;
These idolized people with little cognitive contribution,
Who grasp the masses in unripe dreams of popular realm
Of sublime illusion,
To maintain them as entertained, obedient and calm.
Little the Great Fathers today have to claim,
In a world that may never be the same.
Perhaps I plenty of others,
Are the pilgrims, the newcomers,
To this land of digitalism,
From an abandoned earth of word-roamers,
With the mission of fighting the legions of nihilism,
In the concrete fields of emotional schism,
And to grant millions if not billions,
A soft and petting existentialism,
Under the maze of towering neons.
However, little the Great Fathers today have to claim,
In a world that may never be the same.
Nevertheless, this lack of popularity,
And even, at times, absent general knowledge,
I too, in the name of my individuality,
Wish to become a part of the percentage,
Of the literal intellectuality;
A member of the Humanities Historical Meritocracy;
A regime overshadowed by the Pop-Culture Aristocracy.
In the name of my mother,
I want, too, to be a Great Father.
.jpg)
Comments