I walk past fields of resistance,
mutilated bodies of donkeys
an eye shot out.
I see no heroes,
only a dirt road
joining one village to the next.
An olive tree,
branches arthritic,
stands in a neighbor’s barren plot.
He left for the mainland.
The colonels are in power,
extolling nationalism
denouncing swine Turks.
Grandfather’s distant town lies quiet.
White stucco homes,
aged generations,
illuminated by sunlight.
Out-of-view old men sit
in the bowels of town
playing checkers, sipping ouzo;
afraid to talk politics,
lamenting dead sons.
Women wrap and unwrap babies,
ridding them of irritation
and unpleasantness.
From the road I see the port
and blueness beyond.
Perhaps beyond that is the crackle of guns
and heroes I have never seen.
I was born in Northampton, Massachusetts and have lived in both Turkey and Greece. The maternal side of my family comes from the island of Mytilene (the ancient name is Lesbos), There has been a history of animosity between the Greeks and Turks which is reflected in my poem. Jonathan Porter