Fires of St John

Our fate: spilled lead; our fate can’t change –
nothing’s to be done.
They spilled the lead in water under the stars, and may the fires burn.

If you stand naked before a mirror at midnight you see,
you see a man moving through the mirror’s depths
the man destined to rule your body
in loneliness and silence, the man
of loneliness and silence
and may the fires burn.

At the hour when one day ends and the next has not begun
at the hour when time is suspended
you must find the man who then and now, from the very beginning, ruled your body
you must look for him so that someone else at least
will find him, after you are dead.

It is the children who light the fires and cry out before the flames in the hot night
(Was there ever a fire that some child did not light, O Herostratus*)
and throw salt on the flames to make them crackle
(How strangely the houses – crucibles for men – suddenly
stare at us when the flame’s reflection caresses them).

But you who knew the stone’s grace on the sea-whipped rock
the evening when stillness fell
heard from far off the human voice of loneliness and silence
inside your body
that night of St John
when all the fires went out
and you studied the ashes under the stars.

(Giorgos Seferis)

■ Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard in their translation of the Collected Poems of George Seferis regarding the Fires of St John write: ‘On the eve of the feast day of St John (24 June), it was customary in Seferis’ childhood village of Skala near the town of Vourla in Asia Minor – as in other Greek villages generally – for the children to light small fires in the streets after sunset and jump over them for good luck. Among the various divinatory rituals practiced by unmarried girls on this feast day are the two mentioned in the poem: 1) The girl drops molten lead into a container filled with “silent” water (i.e. water brought secretly from a spring by a young girl or boy who is forbidden to speak to anyone on the way), and the shape the lead takes on cooling indicates the trade or profession the girl’s future husband will follow; 2) The girl undresses at midnight and stands naked before a mirror, invoking St John and asking him to reveal the man she will marry; the first name she hears on waking the next morning is that of her future husband.'

*Herostratus, in 346 BC, burned down the famous Temple of Artemis at Ephesus in order to make his name immortal.

Seferis on Justice

Below is the acceptance speech Giorgos Seferis gave in Stockholm on 10 December 1963 on receiving the Nobel Prize for poetry. As well as a powerful statement of Seferis’ belief in the importance of poetry, it is also a compelling definition of Hellenism as an insistence on the human, justice and self-limitation. The ‘master’ Seferis refers to in the third paragraph, who wrote 'We are lost because we have been unjust', is the hero of the Greek war of independence, General Makriyiannis.


I feel at this moment that I am a living contradiction. The Swedish Academy has decided that my efforts in a language famous through the centuries but not widespread in its present form are worthy of this high distinction. It is paying homage to my language – and in return I express my gratitude in a foreign language. I hope you will accept the excuses I am making to myself.

I belong to a small country. A rocky promontory in the Mediterranean, it has nothing to distinguish it but the efforts of its people, the sea, and the light of the sun. It is a small country, but its tradition is immense and has been handed down through the centuries without interruption. The Greek language has never ceased to be spoken. It has undergone the changes that all living things experience, but there has never been a gap. This tradition is characterized by love of the human; justice is its norm. In the tightly organized classical tragedies the Erinyes punish the man who exceeds his measure. And this norm of justice holds even in the realm of nature.

'Helios will not overstep his measure'; says Heraclitus, 'otherwise the Erinyes, the ministers of Justice, will find him out'. A modern scientist might profit by pondering this aphorism of the Ionian philosopher. I am moved by the realization that the sense of justice penetrated the Greek mind to such an extent that it became a law of the physical world. One of my masters exclaimed at the beginning of the last century: 'We are lost because we have been unjust.' He was an unlettered man, who did not learn to write until the age of thirty-five. But in the Greece of our day the oral tradition goes back as far as the written tradition, and so does poetry. I find it significant that Sweden wishes to honour not only this poetry, but poetry in general, even when it originates in a small people. For I think that poetry is necessary to this modern world in which we are afflicted by fear and disquiet. Poetry has its roots in human breath – and what would we be if our breath were diminished? Poetry is an act of confidence – and who knows whether our unease is not due to a lack of confidence?

Last year, around this table, it was said that there is an enormous difference between the discoveries of modern science and those of literature, but little difference between modern and Greek dramas. Indeed, the behaviour of human beings does not seem to have changed. And I should add that today we need to listen to that human voice which we call poetry, that voice which is constantly in danger of being extinguished through lack of love, but is always reborn. Threatened, it has always found a refuge; denied, it has always instinctively taken root again in unexpected places. It recognizes no small nor large parts of the world; its place is in the hearts of men the world over. It has the charm of escaping from the vicious circle of custom. I owe gratitude to the Swedish Academy for being aware of these facts; for being aware that languages which are said to have restricted circulation should not become barriers which might stifle the beating of the human heart; and for being a true Areopagus, able 'to judge with solemn truth life's ill-appointed lot', to quote Shelley, who, it is said, inspired Alfred Nobel, whose grandeur of heart redeems inevitable violence.

In our gradually shrinking world, everyone is in need of all the others. We must look for man wherever we can find him. When on his way to Thebes Oedipus encountered the Sphinx, his answer to its riddle was: 'Man'. That simple word destroyed the monster. We have many monsters to destroy. Let us think of the answer of Oedipus.

Stratis Thalassinos

Below is Giorgios Seferis' Stratis Thalassinos Among the Agapanthi, a poem on the perennial Greek theme of exile. The poem was set to music by Yiannis Markopoulos and I've made available the song in Radio Akritas. The singer is Nikos Xylouris.

To reach the end of our journey we must seek the advice of the dead – as Odysseas does when he descends into Hades – a more than problematic process for Seferis who since leaving Skala in Asia Minor in 1914 found himself, as a student, refugee and professional diplomat, getting no closer to his homeland, but being driven further and further away from it. The furthest point Seferis ever found himself from home was in 1941, when Greece had fallen to the Germans and he wound up working at the Greek embassy in 'ghastly' Pretoria, South Africa, among the agapanthi – African lilies – where there are no asphodels, the food of the Greek dead.


Stratis Thalassinos Among the Agapanthi
There are no asphodels, violets, or hyacinths;
how then can you talk with the dead?
The dead know the language of flowers only;
so they keep silent
they travel and keep silent, endure and keep silent,
beyond the community of dreams, beyond the community
of dreams.

If I start to sing I'l1 call out
and if I call out –
the agapanthi order silence
raising the tiny hand of a blue Arabian child
or even the footfalls of a goose in the air.

It's painful and difficult, the living are not enough for me
first because they do not speak, and then
because I have to ask the dead in order to go on farther.
There's no other way: the moment I fall asleep
the companions cut the silver strings
and the flask of the winds empties.
I fill it and it empties, I fill it and it empties;
I wake
like a goldfish swimming
in the lightning's crevices
and the wind and the flood and the human bodies
and the agapanthi nailed like the arrows of fate
to the unquenchable earth
shaken by convulsive nodding,
as if loaded on an ancient cart
jolting down gutted roads, over old cobblestones,
the agapanthi, asphodels of the negroes:
How can I grasp this religion?

The first thing God made is love
then comes blood
and the thirst for blood
roused by
the body's sperm as by salt.
The first thing God made is the long journey;
that house there is waiting
with its blue smoke
with its aged dog
waiting for the homecoming so that it can die.
But the dead must guide me;
it is the agapanthi that keep them from speaking,
like the depths of the sea or the water in a glass.
And the companions stay on in the palaces of Circe:
my dear Elpenor! My poor, foolish Elpenor!"
Or don't you see them
– 'Oh help us!' –
on the blackened ridge of Psara?

Ο Στρατής Θαλασσινός ανάμεσα στους αγάπανθους
Δεν έχει ασφοδίλια, μενεξέδες, μήτε υάκινθους·
πως να μιλήσεις με τους πεθαμένους.
Οι πεθαμένοι ξέρουν μονάχα τη γλώσσα των λουλουδιών
γι' αυτό σωπαίνουν
ταξιδεύουν και σωπαίνουν, υπομένουν και σωπαίνουν
παρά δήμον ονείρων, παρά δήμον ονείρων.

Αν αρχίσω να τραγουδώ θα φωνάξω
κι α φωνάξω —
Οι αγάπανθοι προστάζουν σιωπή
σηκώνοντας ένα χεράκι μαβιού μωρού της Αραβίας
ή ακόμη τα πατήματα μιας χήνας στον αέρα.

Είναι βαρύ και δύσκολο, δε μου φτάνουν οι ζωντανοί·
πρώτα γιατί δε μιλούν, κι ύστερα
γιατί πρέπει να ρωτήσω τους νεκρούς
για να μπορέσω να προχωρήσω παρακάτω.
Αλλιώς δε γίνεται, μόλις με πάρει ο ύπνος
οι σύντροφοι κόβουνε τους ασημένιους σπάγκους
και το φλασκί των ανέμων αδειάζει.
Το γεμίζω κι αδειάζει, το γεμίζω κι αδειάζει·
ξυπνώ
σαν το χρυσόψαρο κολυμπώντας
μέσα στα χάσματα της αστραπής,
κι ο αγέρας κι ο κατακλυσμός και τ' ανθρώπινα σώματα,
κι οι αγάπανθοι καρφωμένοι σαν τις σαΐτες της μοίρας
στην αξεδίψαστη γης
συγκλονισμένοι από σπασμωδικά νοήματα,
θα 'λεγες είναι φορτωμένοι σ' ένα παμπάλαιο κάρο
κατρακυλώντας σε χαλασμένους δρόμους, σε παλιά καλ­ντερίμια,
οι αγάπανθοι τ' ασφοδίλια των νέγρων:
Πώς να τη μάθω ετούτη τη θρησκεία;

Το πρώτο πράγμα που έκανε ο θεός είναι η αγάπη
έπειτα έρχεται το αίμα
κι η δίψα για το αίμα
που την κεντρίζει
το σπέρμα του κορμιού καθώς τ' αλάτι.
Το πρώτο πράγμα που έκανε ο θεός είναι το μακρινό ταξίδι·
εκείνο το σπίτι περιμένει
μ' ένα γαλάζιο καπνό
μ' ένα σκυλί γερασμένο
περιμένοντας για να ξεψυχήσει το γυρισμό.
Μα πρέπει να μ' ορμηνέψουν οι πεθαμένοι·
είναι οι αγάπανθοι που τους κρατούν αμίλητους,
όπως τα βάθη της θάλασσας ή το νερό μες στο ποτήρι.
Κι οι σύντροφοι μένουν στα παλάτια της Κίρκης·
ακριβέ μου Ελπήνωρ! Ηλίθιε, φτωχέ μου Ελπήνωρ!
Ή, δεν τους βλέπεις;
– «Βοηθήστε μας!» –
Στων Ψαρών την ολόμαυρη ράχη.

A little farther

I’ve made available in Radio Akritas three more songs by Yiannis Markopoulos based on poems by Giorgos Seferis. The poem, A little farther, was also set to music by Mikis Theodorakis and the video above is of Theodorakis performing his version in his inimitable style.

A little farther
A little farther
we will see the almond trees blossoming
the marble gleaming in the sun
the sea breaking into waves

a little farther,
let us rise a little higher.

Λίγο ακόμα

Λίγο ακόμα

θα ιδούμε τις αμυγδαλιές ν’ ανθίζουν

τα μάρμαρα να λάμπουν στον ήλιο

τη θάλασσα να κυματίζει

λίγο ακόμα,

να σηκωθούμε λίγο ψηλότερα.

Folk song
The monocotyledonous
and the dicotyledonous
were blooming in the meadow

they'd told you in the klidonas
and we locked lips lasciviously, Malamo!

Δημοτικό τραγούδι
Τα μονοκοτυλήδονα
και τα δικοτυλήδονα
ανθίζανε στον κάμπο

σου το 'χαν πει στον κλήδονα
και σμίξαμε φιλήδονα
τα χείλια μας, Μαλάμω!

Between two bitter moments
Between two bitter moments you don’t have time even to breathe
between your face and your face
the tender form of a child takes shape and vanishes.

Ανάμεσα σε δυο πικρές στιγμές
Ανάμεσα σε δυο πικρές στιγμές δεν έχεις καιρό μήτε ν'ανασάνεις
ανάμεσα στο πρόσωπό σου και στο πρόσωπό σου
μια τρυφερή μορφή παιδιού γράφεται και σβήνει.

Our country is closed in

Below is Giorgios Seferis’ poem Our country is closed in. It was set to music by Yiannis Markopoulos in 1973 and I’ve made available the original recording in Radio Akritas. The video above is a version performed by the Greek-American singer Elli Paspala.

Our country is closed in
Our country is closed in, all mountains
that day and night have the low sky as their roof
We have no rivers, we have no wells, we have no springs,
only a few cisterns – and these empty – that echo, and that
we worship.

A stagnant hollow sound, the same as our loneliness
the same as our love, the same as our bodies.
We find it strange that once we were able to build
our houses, huts and sheepfolds.
And our marriages, the cool coronals and the fingers,
become enigmas inexplicable to our souls.
How were our children born, how did they grow strong?

Our country is closed in. Two black Symplegades
close it in. When we go down
to the harbours on Sunday to breathe
we see, lit in the sunset,
the broken planks from voyages that never ended,
bodies that no longer know how to love.

Ο τόπος μας είναι κλειστός
Ο τόπος μας είναι κλειστός, όλο βουνά
που έχουν σκεπή το χαμηλό ουρανό μέρα και νύχτα.
Δεν έχουμε ποτάμια, δεν έχουμε πηγάδια, δεν έχουμε πηγές.
μονάχα λίγες στέρνες, άδειες κι αυτές, που ηχούν και που
τις προσκυνούμε.

Ήχος στεκάμενος, κούφιος, ίδιος με τη μοναξιά μας,
ίδιος με την αγάπη μας, ίδιος με τα σώματά μας.
Μας φαίνεται παράξενο που κάποτε μπορέσαμε να χτίσουμε
τα σπίτια, τα καλύβια και τις στάνες μας.
Και οι γάμοι μας, τα δροσερά στεφάνια και τα δάχτυλα,
γίνουνται αινίγματα ανεξήγητα για την ψυχή μας.
Πώς γεννήθηκαν, πώς δυναμώσανε τα παιδιά μας;

Ο τόπος μας είναι κλειστός. Τον κλείνουν
οι δυο μαύρες Συμπληγάδες. Στα λιμάνια
την Κυριακή σαν κατεβούμε ν' ανασάνουμε,
βλέπουμε να φωτίζουνται στο ηλιόγερμα
σπασμένα ξύλα, από ταξίδια που δεν τέλειωσαν
σώματα που δεν ξέρουν πια πώς ν' αγαπήσουν.

Seferis in Hyperborea

When the poet Giorgios Seferis was secretary at the Greek consulate in London in 1931, he lived in a two-room furnished flat at 8 Antrim Grove in Belsize Park, a pleasant-enough part of North London, squeezed in between even more salubrious Hampstead and Primrose Hill. Not that Seferis was happy in London. He found the city grimy, gloomy and depressing and yearned for the Greek climate and landscape. The only things that appealed to Seferis about England were the optical illusions the flames of an English fireside created, and the Thames, with its docks and ocean-bound ships. In his biography of Seferis, Waiting for the Angel, Roderick Beaton describes 8 Antrim Grove thus:

'The house belonged to an elderly widow and her daughter; [Seferis'] rooms were cleaned by a maid, who carried with her an aroma of beer and bacon… The other side of Antrim Grove has been rebuilt since the 1960s; Number 8 looks much as it must have done then; a demure, semi-detached house with bow windows to the front and a tiny front garden, almost hidden behind the traditional English privet hedges. George's rooms were probably on the attic floor.'

I passed by Antrim Grove recently and took these photos. The street and houses are well-heeled; yet Number 8, for some reason, is dilapidated.