The Chase — A letter to contemporaries
I.
In night’s deep veil I fled, a thief in shadow’s guise,
This night, more burdened than the last, its weight did rise.
For with the dusk, a flight’s desire within me woke,
In life, there are such times, post vanity’s harsh stroke.
When one must face intentions’ bravery, unbound,
The body craves to run, though reason’s voice may sound.
As if a force, in thousands megawatts, did surge,
From fingertips to crown, an uncontrollable urge.
To race without a backward glance, in wild escape,
Wearied of joy’s facade, where true sadness takes its shape.
Long hidden from dear hearts, through shame, not care, I lied,
How can one sorrow feel, when beauty’s spread so wide?
Yet thoughts of ending pain, in night’s quiet, whispered soft,
To myself, I speak, as if to one met oft.
To dream of death, ungrateful seems, to lives I’ve brushed,
But from happiness’s spell, I knew I must be flushed.
Escape adds tragedy, to life’s already heavy load,
In a land of milk and honey, my heart abode.
Despair’s first reflex, in communal suffering sought,
True solitude’s endurance, by few can be wrought.
Yet as the last race dreamed, for solitude we yearn,
In protest’s form, alone, our spirits twist and turn.
As failures mount, the clearer death’s desire draws near,
If not the final sleep, then from this life to steer.
Away from fate’s gifts, both kind and cruel, we seek to flee,
In this crafted sonnet’s bounds, my soul’s plea.
II.
Amidst your throngs, no longer do I yearn to stay,
For living with you has led my heart astray.
No sanctuary found within your grasp, but chains,
As if my parting gifts were naught but pains.
With scorn I arm myself, your love, a cruel jest,
Inflates the wounds from words that never rest.
In dreams, unlike you, eternal flight I claim,
Above what I am, in slumber or awake, the same.
Seeking always a foundation yet caressing the essence pure,
Towards you, a bitter disillusionment I endure.
Not god nor man, within me humanity barely stirs,
Yet not a beast, though in us all, a primal instinct occurs.
Even beasts a modicum of empathy do seek,
In uniform society, our differences are meek.
The variance ‘twixt us, merely how our savagery is shown,
To those who dare to stray, by harsh judgment overthrown.
In realms of mist and fable, dissenters I have found,
Their tales of endless wandering, where lost souls are bound.
Under cover of the night, their crimes they carry near,
While loved ones at the break of dawn, their reasons fear to hear.
Emigration now as treachery is deemed,
And traitors without mercy, in their new graves they’re reamed.
Yet fleeing, in essence, buries memories so deep,
In our own funerals, we partake, yet cannot keep.
Across the threshold ventured, no path leads us back,
In foreign beds we slumber, our dreams no solace lack.
An exile’s dream upon new shores, a different tune we hum,
No yearnings of the past, but to new beginnings succumb.
III.
Let me now speak of a generation betrayed –
Of you, not traitors, but by fate dismayed.
In mad pursuit of the golden calf you sprint,
Told that in money, true happiness is mint.
Education, they claimed, would your success ensure,
Years of study, in hopes that wealth would be pure.
“The brightest minds of my era, by madness torn,
Starving, naked, at dawn through the streets worn.”
A decade’s journey ends, a merchandiser’s role embraced,
Dignity hidden, like treasure misplaced.
Through shadows, like thieves, we were forced to flee,
Our sun, inexplicably, ceased to be.
In darkness like moles, accustomed to night’s void,
Hope’s bath emptied, our dreams destroyed.
To lands unknown, where only natives find their sun,
Our betrayal rewarded with darkness, undone.
Wandering, seeking with a candle, our stolen homes’ trace,
Lost amidst warehouses, dishpits, each a disgrace.
Talking of art and history’s maze,
To those unaware of the right-hand ways.
Explaining, with care, our saviors’ tongue’s grace,
While our own vowels we disgrace.
Distant marches and cries in the night implore,
“Wake up, Homeland,” but it hears no more.
A giant sleeps, blocking the pilgrims’ sky,
While we, in foreign lands, silently cry.
“Awake, dear land,” the exiles plead,
But their homeland sleeps, pays them no heed.
A different war we wage, with other worries to face,
In memories and dreams, our only solace.
IV.
In our realm, what dies soon rises once more –
We, like dogs, our own wounds do adore,
Serving faithfully the creed of masters gained,
Or foxes, our freedom with maiming attained.
We fall into comas, paralysis spreads wide,
Madness infects us, our victims we chide.
To executioners, emotionless, we cling,
Our faces hidden, as tormented beings we sing.
We’d feign the vilest illness, it’s confessed,
To avoid the bitter truth by others professed.
We’re Jerusalem of the moved monsters, at dawn,
Heads in ash, by the Wailing Wall we mourn.
Evening finds us, from vodka and the dead’s dust,
Crafting ink, in ancient tongues we trust,
Known only to the eldest carrier doves — they bear
Our words through skies undying, landscapes bare.
They navigate past Alpha and Omega, prophets’ flight,
On currents rising, crossing bounds of night and light.
These messengers, from earth’s end they bring –
To deliver a message from the beyond, their wing.
For these letters wait our parents, foes, and mentors old,
Women who spared not love, men with courage bold,
Indians from forgotten reserves, New York’s ghetto sons,
Not to say they’re black, it’s not done; waits every one.
Gypsies from camps, Jews from the stock exchange in haste,
The Chinaman from the souvenir shop, blame misplaced,
The freckled Irish from Cabra, Inuit with reindeer fur upon his face,
And Snowman from childhood’s last winter embrace.
They wait for apologies, explanations — why did I flee?
I fled before dawn — for what in you becomes clear,
When you gaze upon me, filled me with fear.
A need for existence, for death a sudden call,
For a new homeland — a deserter, an outlaw,
In a long-distance effort, no need to look back,
No need to foresee, on my and your wreck,
I run, and I run for Life — a thirty-year-old emigrant, indeed,
Raised by the Vistula, from its teachings, I proceed.
_______________________
In “The Chase — A Letter to Contemporaries,” I sought to weave a narrative that traverses the contours of escape, disillusionment, the stark critique of our societal constructs, and the profound existential quest that underlies our generation’s journey. This collection of sonnets is my attempt to distill the essence of our collective and individual struggles, our identities, and our ceaseless yearning for a place where we truly belong, where understanding is not a scarce commodity. In the opening stanza, I introduce the motif of escape, likening it to a nocturnal flight, akin to a thief shrouded in darkness. This image is emblematic of the universal urge to flee from various facets of our lives — be it the turmoil within, the crushing weight of societal expectations, or the disillusionment borne from the realization that the pursuit of material wealth is a hollow endeavor. Here, I speak of the overwhelming desire to break free, a longing to shed the fetters of conformity and pursue a path less trodden, guided solely by one’s inner convictions. As the narrative unfolds, I delve deeper into the complexities of escape and disillusionment, articulating a palpable sense of betrayal by societal norms that exalt material success above genuine human connection and self-fulfillment. Through the lens of emigration — portrayed as an act of treachery — I reflect on the physical and metaphorical journeys undertaken in search of authenticity and purpose. This odyssey, fraught with the trials of adapting to foreign lands, symbolizes the enduring quest for identity and belonging that persists, irrespective of one’s geographic anchorage. In this section, I critique the structural and economic paradigms that have led to a feeling of betrayal among my generation. We find ourselves ensnared in a relentless chase after illusory idols of success, sacrificing our dignity and potential at the altar of material gain. Through vivid imagery, I lament the squandering of brilliance and the erosion of self-worth in the relentless pursuit of wealth. The recurring themes of shadowy flight and the quest for a new homeland underscore our ongoing struggle to find meaning in a world from which we feel increasingly alienated. The concluding part of my sonnet series addresses the notion of resurrection, suggesting that despite the depths of despair and disillusionment, there exists an indomitable human spirit — a force that compels us to rise, to seek out connections beyond our immediate realities. The act of composing letters in ancient tongues, entrusted to carrier doves, serves as a metaphor for our attempts to bridge the chasms of experience, culture, and comprehension. This segment is a testament to the enduring human need for connection, understanding, and empathy, even in the face of profound isolation and disconnection.
In crafting “The Chase — A Letter to Contemporaries,” my aim was to offer a candid reflection on the human condition, to explore the intricate dance between the desire for something more tangible, more real, and the often elusive nature of such aspirations. Through this poetic journey, I invite readers to contemplate the relentless pursuit of authenticity in a world that seems to offer everything but.
