Amorgos

	Eyes and ears are bad witnesses for those who have barbaric souls. HERAKLEITOS With their homeland tied to the sails and their oars hanging in the wind The sailors slept peacefully like wild beasts dead in sheets of sponge But the eyes of the seaweed are turned to the sea In case the southerly brings them back with lateens freshly painted And a single lost elephant is always worth more than a girl's breasts that sway Only to ignite in the mountains the roofs of deserted churches with the yearning of the evening star So that birds may ripple at the masts of the lemon tree With the steady white breath of the new walk And then shall come breezes swan's bodies that remained spotless tender and motionless Among the steamrollers of the shops among the vegetable gardens' cyclones When the women's eyes became charcoals and the hearts of the chestnut vendors were broken When the harvesting ceased and the hopes of the crickets began. So that is why my fearless young men with the wine the kisses and the leaves in your mouth I want you to come out naked to the rivers To sing of Barbary as the woodworker seeks the mastic tree As the viper passes through the fields of barley With her proud eyes furious And as the lightning threshes youth. And do not laugh and do not weep and do not rejoice Do not vainly tighten your shoes as if planting plane trees Do not become FATED For the booted eagle is not a closed drawer It is not a plum tree's tear nor the smile of a water lily Nor a pigeon's flannel vest and a Sultan's mandolin Nor a silken garment for the head of the whale. It is a saw of the sea that hacks the seagulls to pieces It is a carpenter's pillow it is a beggar's watch It is a fire at a gypsy forge that mocks the priests' wives and lulls the lilies to sleep It is the Turks' matchmaking the Australians' celebration It is a Hungarians' lair Where in autumn the hazelnut trees go secretly to meet They see the prudent storks dying their eggs black And they also weep for him They burn their nightgowns and wear the duck's petticoat They spread stars on the earth for the kings to tread With their silver talismans with the crown and the purple They scatter rosemary on the garden beds For the mice to cross to another cellar To enter other churches to eat the Holy Altars And the owls their children The owls scream And the dead nuns get up to dance With tambourines drums and violins with pipes and lutes With ensigns and with censers with herbs and with diaphanous veils With the bear's breeches in the frozen valley They eat the mushrooms of the martens They play heads and tails for the ring of St John and the florins of the Black Man They ridicule the witches They cut the beard of a priest with Kolokotronis' yataghan They wash in the smoke of incense And then chanting slowly they enter the earth again and become silent As the waves become silent as the cuckoo at dawn as the oil-lamp at dusk. So in a deep jar the grape dries and in the belfry of a fig tree the apple turns yellow So with a flamboyant tie In the tent of the grapevine arbour the summer breathes So sleeps all naked among the white cherry trees a tender love of mine A girl unwithered as the branch of an almond tree With her head inclined on her elbow and her palm on her florin Upon its morning warmth when softly softly like the thief Through the window of spring the morning star enters to wake her! They say that the mountains tremble and the firs get angry When the night gnaws the nails of roof tiles to let in the demon imps When hell sips the foaming toil of the torrents Or when the hair-parting of the pepper plant becomes the north wind's whipping horse. Only the cattle of the Achaians in the fat valleys of Thessaly Graze sturdily and powerfully with the eternal sun that watches them They eat green grass poplar leaves celery they drink clean water in the furrows They smell the sweat of the earth and then fall heavily under the willow to sleep. Throw out the dead said Herakleitos and he saw heaven turn pale And he saw in the mud two small cyclamens kissing And he also fell to kiss his dead body in the hospitable earth As the wolf descends from tall forests to see the dead dog and to weep. What will the drop glinting on your forehead do for me? I know the thunderbolt wrote its name on your lips I know an eagle built its nest in your eyes But here on the wet bank there is only one road Only one treacherous road and you must pass it You must immerse yourself in blood before the times overtake you And pass to the other side to find your companions again Flowers birds deer To find another sea another gentleness To take Achilles' horses by the reins Instead of sitting mute reproaching the river Stoning the river like Kitsos' mother. For you too will have been lost and your beauty will have aged. Among the branches of a willow I see your childhood shirt drying Take it a flag of life to shroud death And let not your heart yield And let not your tear roll upon this implacable earth As once rolled in the frozen wilderness the tear of the penguin Complaining is not profitable Life everywhere will be the same with the flute of the snakes in the land of ghosts With the song of robbers in the forest of fragrances With the knife of a disappointment at the cheeks of hope With the withering of a spring deep in a Scops Owl's heart It is enough that a plough be found and a sharp scythe in a joyous hand It is enough that there bloom merely A little wheat for the feasts a little wine for the memory a little water for the dust... In the backyard of the embittered man the sun does not rise Only worms come out to mock the stars Only horses sprout in the ant nests And bats eat birds and urinate semen. In the backyard of the embittered man the night does not set Only the foliage vomits a river of tears When the devil comes past to ride the dogs And the crows swim in a well of blood. In the backyard of the embittered man the eye has run dry The mind has frozen and the heart has become stone Frogs' corpses hang from the spider's teeth Starved locusts howl at the feet of vampires. In the backyard of the embittered man the grass comes up black Only one night in May a breeze went by A light step like a thrill of a meadow A kiss of the foam-laced sea. And if you thirst for water we shall squeeze a cloud And if you hunger for bread we shall slaughter a nightingale Only wait a moment for the bitter rue to open For the black sky to flash with lightning for the mullein to bloom But it was a breeze that went a skylark that vanished It was the face of May the whiteness of the moon A light step like a thrill of a meadow A kiss of the foam-laced sea. Wake clear gurgling water from the root of the pine to find the eyes of the sparrows and enliven them by watering the soil with fragrance of basil and with whistlings of a lizard. I know you are a naked vein under the fearsome gaze of the wind you are a dumb spark among the bright multitude of the stars. No-one pays you attention no-one stops to hear your breath but you with your heavy step through haughty nature will one day reach the leaves of the apricot tree you will climb the pliant stems of the young broom shrubs and you will roll from the eyes of a lover like an adolescent moon. There is an immortal stone on which once in passing a human angel wrote his name and a song that no-one knows yet not even the wildest children not even the wisest nightingale. It is shut now in a cave on Mount Devi in the valleys and the ravines of my ancestral earth but when one day this angelic song opens itself and shakes itself against corruption and time the rain will suddenly stop and the mud will dry the snows will melt on the mountains the wind will break into song the nightingales will be resurrected the willows will crack and the people with the cold eyes and the pale faces when they hear the bells ringing of their own accord in the cracked belfries will find festive hats to wear and flamboyant bows to put on their shoes. Because then no-one will be joking anymore the blood of the brooks will overflow the animals will break their bridles at the mangers the hay will turn green in the stables fresh green poppies and hawthorn blossom will sprout on the roof tiles and at all the crossroads red fires will ignite at midnight. Then slowly slowly the frightened girls will come to throw their last piece of clothing onto the fire and will dance around it completely naked exactly as in the time when we also were young and a window would open at dawn so that a flaming carnation would sprout in their breast. Friends perhaps the remembrance of ancestors is a deeper comfort and more valuable company than a handful of rose water and the intoxication of beauty no different than the sleeping rosebush of Eurotas. Goodnight then I see piles of falling stars lulling your dreams but I keep the music on my fingers for a better day. The travellers of the Indies have more to tell you than the Byzantine chronographers. Man during the course of his mysterious life Bequeathed unto his descendants testimonies multitudinous and worthy of his immortal ancestry As also he bequeathed traces of the ruins of daybreak avalanches of heavenly reptiles paper kites diamonds and gazes of hyacinths In midst of sighs tears famine lamentations and ashes of subterranean wellsprings. How much I loved you only I know I who once touched you with the eyes of the Pleiades And with the mane of the moon I embraced you and we danced in the summer meadows Upon the harvest's stubble and together we ate the cut clover Great black sea with so many pebbles around your neck so many coloured stones in your hair. A ship enters the harbour a rusted well-winch groans A tuft of blue smoke in the rose-pink of the horizon Just like the wing of a crane palpitating from grief Armies of swallows stand by to address a welcome to the manly brave Naked arms are raised with anchors tattooed in the armpit Childrens' shouts are entangled with the warbling of the west wind Bees go in and out of the nostrils of cows Kalamata handkerchiefs flutter And a distant bell paints the sky with indigo Like the voice of a wooden monastic bell travelling among the stars For so many centuries escaping From the soul of the Goths and from the domes of Baltimore And from the lost Holy Wisdom the great monastery. But up on the high mountains who could they be who watch With the unwavering gaze and the peaceful face? Of what conflagration is this dust in the air an echo? Could it be Kalyvas who does battle could it be Leventoyiannis? Could the Germans be fighting the Maniates? Neither Kalyvas fights nor Leventoyiannis Nor Germans with Maniates. Silent towers guard a haunted princess Tips of cypresses accompany a dead anemone Shepherds unperturbed say their morning song with a reed of linden A foolish hunter fires a shot at the turtle-doves And one old windmill forgotten by all With a dolphin's needle mends its rotten sails by itself And descends from the slopes with a favourable northwesterly As Adonis descended the tracks of Mt Chelmos to bid Golfo good evening. Years and years I wrestled with ink and hammer my tormented heart With gold and fire to make you an embroidery An orange-tree hyacinth A blossoming quince tree to comfort you I who once touched you with the eyes of the Pleiades And with the mane of the moon I embraced you and we danced in the summer meadows Upon the harvest's stubble and together we ate the cut clover Great black loneliness with so many pebbles around your neck so many coloured stones in your hair. Notes Booted Eagle: 'stavraetos', literally 'cross eagle', the smallest of the European eagles, called booted eagle in English because of its white 'boots'. However, there is also a metaphoric meaning, found in the language of villages and folk songs: the brave young man or, in Turkish times, the klepht. Black Man: 'Arapis' - the black man of folk tales who emerges at night to feed his flocks gold florins. Kolokotronis: one of the principal generals and heroes of the Greek War of Independence 1821 - 1830. Yataghan: a Turkish sword with a curved single-edged blade. Demon imps: 'kallikantzaroi', gross bestial destructive creatures that appear at night during the 12 days of Christmas Whipping horse: 'klotsoskoufi' literally 'kicking hat', really a combination of the meanings of whipping horse and plaything Kitsos: a Greek chieftain who fought against the Turks. He was captured and was about to be hanged when his mother attempted to join him from the opposite bank of an impassable river. In one of the most popular klephtic songs of Peloponnesos, she rebukes the river, throwing stones at it and pleading with it to let her cross over to her son. Scops Owl: 'gkionis', a small horned owl with a distinctive hoot common in Southern Europe. Translation as screech owl in other translations is inaccurate as screech owls occur only in Northern America. Unfortunately, no English name does justice to the very familiar, almost affectionate, Greek term. Kalamata: the capital of Messenia, the southwestern-most province of Pelopponesos, is famous among other things for its silk scarves and handkerchiefs, woven by the nuns of the convent of St Constantine. Holy Wisdom: 'Hagia Sophia'. The poet is referring to the cathedral of Hagia Sophia in Constantinople, now known as Istanbul. The great cathedral of the Orthodox Church was not named for the martyr St Sophia and her three daughters (a very popular saint among Greeks) but for the Holy Wisdom of God. Hagia Sophia was called the Great Church of Christ by the Greeks, but folk songs refer to it as the 'great monastery'. 'The lost Holy Wisdom the great monastery' is a direct quote from the many Greek folk songs about the fall of Constantinople, which have as their central image the last liturgy to be held in the church of the Holy Wisdom. An angel warns the congregation of what is to happen, the king becomes a marble statue and the priest disappears into the wall of the altar holding the chalice and Holy Communion, to re-emerge when Hagia Sophia 'is ours again'. Kalyvas and Leventoyiannis: heroes of the Greek War of Independence in which both were killed. Mani: the rocky and mountainous area in the southern part of the middle peninsula of Pelopponesos. It is legendary for the bravery of its inhabitants, which prevented the Turks from ever occupying it, and for vendettas that lasted until living memory. Golfo: a lovesick shepherdess, heroine of a nineteenth century play by Spiridon Persiades, still popular at the time of writing this poem. Golfo lived on Mount Chelmos near Patras. She was driven mad by the loss of her lover. Translator's Note Nikos Gatsos (1914-1992) is considered one of the great modern Greek poets. Amorgos is his main work, published during the Second World War, at the height of the famine that decimated the population of Greece under the Nazis. Amorgos had a deep influence on modern Greek poetry, including that of Gatsos' friend Odysseas Elytis, who was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. Amorgos is the name of a rocky Greek island that Gatsos never visited. The poem, with its virtuosic use of surrealistic imagery, seems to paint the Greek soul, touching upon most major landmarks in Greek history and thought. Gatsos is also virtuosic in his use of the enormous resources of the Greek language. George Seferis, another Nobel Prize winner, said of Gatsos that he was the only person whose Greek he envied. The poem incorporates style and vocabulary that ranges from demotic village Greek through to archaising Purist Greek, while all the time sounding entirely natural and unified. The rhythms of the poem range from calm lines with the subtlest music to galloping folksong rhythms. One stanza of the quatrains in the middle of the poem has been turned into a popular song Greek song by Hatzidakis. Which brings us to the peculiar thing about this poet. Amorgos, and about four or five other poems, are all the 'serious' poetry he ever wrote. In response to queries about his lack of output, Gatsos said that he could have written any number of poems in a style similar to Amorgos - such writing came very easily to him. He did not see the point, however, in producing more poems when there was nothing further of substance to say. He devoted the rest of his life to being one of Greece's foremost song lyricists, making a major contribution to the extremely high quality of Greek post-war popular musical culture. The lyrics are finely honed masterpieces in which simple language and striking, often surrealistic, imagery combine with genuine depth of thought. His lyrics in the hands of Theodorakis, Hatzidakis, Xarhakos and other composers became beautiful timeless songs that will be sung for many generations to come. I am indebted to Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard (A Greek Quintet, Denise Harvey & Company, Limni, Evia, Greece) whose translation was the best of those available to me, for their endnotes, on which mine are based. Vasili Stavropoulos

Eyes and ears are bad witnesses
for those who have barbaric souls.

HERAKLEITOS

With their homeland tied to the sails and their oars hanging in the wind
The sailors slept peacefully like wild beasts dead in sheets of sponge
But the eyes of the seaweed are turned to the sea
In case the southerly brings them back with lateens freshly painted
And a single lost elephant is always worth more than a girl's breasts that sway
Only to ignite in the mountains the roofs of deserted churches with the yearning of the evening star
So that birds may ripple at the masts of the lemon tree
With the steady white breath of the new walk
And then shall come breezes swan's bodies that remained spotless tender and motionless
Among the steamrollers of the shops among the vegetable gardens' cyclones
When the women's eyes became charcoals and the hearts of the chestnut vendors were broken
When the harvesting ceased and the hopes of the crickets began.

So that is why my fearless young men with the wine the kisses and the leaves in your mouth
I want you to come out naked to the rivers
To sing of Barbary as the woodworker seeks the mastic tree
As the viper passes through the fields of barley
With her proud eyes furious
And as the lightning threshes youth.

And do not laugh and do not weep and do not rejoice
Do not vainly tighten your shoes as if planting plane trees
Do not become FATED
For the booted eagle is not a closed drawer
It is not a plum tree's tear nor the smile of a water lily
Nor a pigeon's flannel vest and a Sultan's mandolin
Nor a silken garment for the head of the whale.
It is a saw of the sea that hacks the seagulls to pieces
It is a carpenter's pillow it is a beggar's watch
It is a fire at a gypsy forge that mocks the priests' wives and lulls the lilies to sleep
It is the Turks' matchmaking the Australians' celebration
It is a Hungarians' lair
Where in autumn the hazelnut trees go secretly to meet
They see the prudent storks dying their eggs black
And they also weep for him
They burn their nightgowns and wear the duck's petticoat
They spread stars on the earth for the kings to tread
With their silver talismans with the crown and the purple
They scatter rosemary on the garden beds
For the mice to cross to another cellar
To enter other churches to eat the Holy Altars
And the owls their children
The owls scream
And the dead nuns get up to dance
With tambourines drums and violins with pipes and lutes
With ensigns and with censers with herbs and with diaphanous veils
With the bear's breeches in the frozen valley
They eat the mushrooms of the martens
They play heads and tails for the ring of St John and the florins of the Black Man
They ridicule the witches
They cut the beard of a priest with Kolokotronis' yataghan
They wash in the smoke of incense
And then chanting slowly they enter the earth again and become silent
As the waves become silent as the cuckoo at dawn as the oil-lamp at dusk.

So in a deep jar the grape dries and in the belfry of a fig tree the apple turns yellow
So with a flamboyant tie
In the tent of the grapevine arbour the summer breathes
So sleeps all naked among the white cherry trees a tender love of mine
A girl unwithered as the branch of an almond tree
With her head inclined on her elbow and her palm on her florin
Upon its morning warmth when softly softly like the thief
Through the window of spring the morning star enters to wake her!

They say that the mountains tremble and the firs get angry
When the night gnaws the nails of roof tiles to let in the demon imps
When hell sips the foaming toil of the torrents
Or when the hair-parting of the pepper plant becomes the north wind's whipping horse.

Only the cattle of the Achaians in the fat valleys of Thessaly
Graze sturdily and powerfully with the eternal sun that watches them
They eat green grass poplar leaves celery they drink clean water in the furrows
They smell the sweat of the earth and then fall heavily under the willow to sleep.

Throw out the dead said Herakleitos and he saw heaven turn pale
And he saw in the mud two small cyclamens kissing
And he also fell to kiss his dead body in the hospitable earth
As the wolf descends from tall forests to see the dead dog and to weep.
What will the drop glinting on your forehead do for me?
I know the thunderbolt wrote its name on your lips
I know an eagle built its nest in your eyes
But here on the wet bank there is only one road
Only one treacherous road and you must pass it
You must immerse yourself in blood before the times overtake you
And pass to the other side to find your companions again
Flowers birds deer
To find another sea another gentleness
To take Achilles' horses by the reins
Instead of sitting mute reproaching the river
Stoning the river like Kitsos' mother.
For you too will have been lost and your beauty will have aged.
Among the branches of a willow I see your childhood shirt drying
Take it a flag of life to shroud death
And let not your heart yield
And let not your tear roll upon this implacable earth
As once rolled in the frozen wilderness the tear of the penguin
Complaining is not profitable
Life everywhere will be the same with the flute of the snakes in the land of ghosts
With the song of robbers in the forest of fragrances
With the knife of a disappointment at the cheeks of hope
With the withering of a spring deep in a Scops Owl's heart
It is enough that a plough be found and a sharp scythe in a joyous hand
It is enough that there bloom merely
A little wheat for the feasts a little wine for the memory a little water for the dust...

In the backyard of the embittered man the sun does not rise
Only worms come out to mock the stars
Only horses sprout in the ant nests
And bats eat birds and urinate semen.

In the backyard of the embittered man the night does not set
Only the foliage vomits a river of tears
When the devil comes past to ride the dogs
And the crows swim in a well of blood.

In the backyard of the embittered man the eye has run dry
The mind has frozen and the heart has become stone
Frogs' corpses hang from the spider's teeth
Starved locusts howl at the feet of vampires.

In the backyard of the embittered man the grass comes up black
Only one night in May a breeze went by
A light step like a thrill of a meadow
A kiss of the foam-laced sea.

And if you thirst for water we shall squeeze a cloud
And if you hunger for bread we shall slaughter a nightingale
Only wait a moment for the bitter rue to open
For the black sky to flash with lightning for the mullein to bloom

But it was a breeze that went a skylark that vanished
It was the face of May the whiteness of the moon
A light step like a thrill of a meadow
A kiss of the foam-laced sea.

Wake clear gurgling water from the root of the pine to find the eyes of the sparrows and enliven them by watering the soil with fragrance of basil and with whistlings of a lizard. I know you are a naked vein under the fearsome gaze of the wind you are a dumb spark among the bright multitude of the stars. No-one pays you attention no-one stops to hear your breath but you with your heavy step through haughty nature will one day reach the leaves of the apricot tree you will climb the pliant stems of the young broom shrubs and you will roll from the eyes of a lover like an adolescent moon. There is an immortal stone on which once in passing a human angel wrote his name and a song that no-one knows yet not even the wildest children not even the wisest nightingale. It is shut now in a cave on Mount Devi in the valleys and the ravines of my ancestral earth but when one day this angelic song opens itself and shakes itself against corruption and time the rain will suddenly stop and the mud will dry the snows will melt on the mountains the wind will break into song the nightingales will be resurrected the willows will crack and the people with the cold eyes and the pale faces when they hear the bells ringing of their own accord in the cracked belfries will find festive hats to wear and flamboyant bows to put on their shoes. Because then no-one will be joking anymore the blood of the brooks will overflow the animals will break their bridles at the mangers the hay will turn green in the stables fresh green poppies and hawthorn blossom will sprout on the roof tiles and at all the crossroads red fires will ignite at midnight. Then slowly slowly the frightened girls will come to throw their last piece of clothing onto the fire and will dance around it completely naked exactly as in the time when we also were young and a window would open at dawn so that a flaming carnation would sprout in their breast. Friends perhaps the remembrance of ancestors is a deeper comfort and more valuable company than a handful of rose water and the intoxication of beauty no different than the sleeping rosebush of Eurotas. Goodnight then I see piles of falling stars lulling your dreams but I keep the music on my fingers for a better day. The travellers of the Indies have more to tell you than the Byzantine chronographers.

Man during the course of his mysterious life
Bequeathed unto his descendants testimonies multitudinous and worthy of his immortal ancestry
As also he bequeathed traces of the ruins of daybreak avalanches of heavenly reptiles paper kites diamonds and gazes of hyacinths
In midst of sighs tears famine lamentations and ashes of subterranean wellsprings.

How much I loved you only I know
I who once touched you with the eyes of the Pleiades
And with the mane of the moon I embraced you and we danced in the summer meadows
Upon the harvest's stubble and together we ate the cut clover
Great black sea with so many pebbles around your neck so many coloured stones in your hair.

A ship enters the harbour a rusted well-winch groans
A tuft of blue smoke in the rose-pink of the horizon
Just like the wing of a crane palpitating from grief
Armies of swallows stand by to address a welcome to the manly brave
Naked arms are raised with anchors tattooed in the armpit
Childrens' shouts are entangled with the warbling of the west wind
Bees go in and out of the nostrils of cows
Kalamata handkerchiefs flutter
And a distant bell paints the sky with indigo
Like the voice of a wooden monastic bell travelling among the stars
For so many centuries escaping
From the soul of the Goths and from the domes of Baltimore
And from the lost Holy Wisdom the great monastery.
But up on the high mountains who could they be who watch
With the unwavering gaze and the peaceful face?
Of what conflagration is this dust in the air an echo?
Could it be Kalyvas who does battle could it be Leventoyiannis?
Could the Germans be fighting the Maniates?
Neither Kalyvas fights nor Leventoyiannis
Nor Germans with Maniates.
Silent towers guard a haunted princess
Tips of cypresses accompany a dead anemone
Shepherds unperturbed say their morning song with a reed of linden
A foolish hunter fires a shot at the turtle-doves
And one old windmill forgotten by all
With a dolphin's needle mends its rotten sails by itself
And descends from the slopes with a favourable northwesterly
As Adonis descended the tracks of Mt Chelmos to bid Golfo good evening.

Years and years I wrestled with ink and hammer my tormented heart
With gold and fire to make you an embroidery
An orange-tree hyacinth
A blossoming quince tree to comfort you
I who once touched you with the eyes of the Pleiades
And with the mane of the moon I embraced you and we danced in the summer meadows
Upon the harvest's stubble and together we ate the cut clover
Great black loneliness with so many pebbles around your neck so many coloured stones in your hair.

Notes

Booted Eagle: 'stavraetos', literally 'cross eagle', the smallest of the European eagles, called booted eagle in English because of its white 'boots'. However, there is also a metaphoric meaning, found in the language of villages and folk songs: the brave young man or, in Turkish times, the klepht.
Black Man: 'Arapis' - the black man of folk tales who emerges at night to feed his flocks gold florins.
Kolokotronis: one of the principal generals and heroes of the Greek War of Independence 1821 - 1830.
Yataghan: a Turkish sword with a curved single-edged blade.
Demon imps: 'kallikantzaroi', gross bestial destructive creatures that appear at night during the 12 days of Christmas
Whipping horse: 'klotsoskoufi' literally 'kicking hat', really a combination of the meanings of whipping horse and plaything
Kitsos: a Greek chieftain who fought against the Turks. He was captured and was about to be hanged when his mother attempted to join him from the opposite bank of an impassable river. In one of the most popular klephtic songs of Peloponnesos, she rebukes the river, throwing stones at it and pleading with it to let her cross over to her son.
Scops Owl: 'gkionis', a small horned owl with a distinctive hoot common in Southern Europe. Translation as screech owl in other translations is inaccurate as screech owls occur only in Northern America. Unfortunately, no English name does justice to the very familiar, almost affectionate, Greek term.
Kalamata: the capital of Messenia, the southwestern-most province of Pelopponesos, is famous among other things for its silk scarves and handkerchiefs, woven by the nuns of the convent of St Constantine.
Holy Wisdom: 'Hagia Sophia'. The poet is referring to the cathedral of Hagia Sophia in Constantinople, now known as Istanbul. The great cathedral of the Orthodox Church was not named for the martyr St Sophia and her three daughters (a very popular saint among Greeks) but for the Holy Wisdom of God. Hagia Sophia was called the Great Church of Christ by the Greeks, but folk songs refer to it as the 'great monastery'. 'The lost Holy Wisdom the great monastery' is a direct quote from the many Greek folk songs about the fall of Constantinople, which have as their central image the last liturgy to be held in the church of the Holy Wisdom. An angel warns the congregation of what is to happen, the king becomes a marble statue and the priest disappears into the wall of the altar holding the chalice and Holy Communion, to re-emerge when Hagia Sophia 'is ours again'.
Kalyvas and Leventoyiannis: heroes of the Greek War of Independence in which both were killed.
Mani: the rocky and mountainous area in the southern part of the middle peninsula of Pelopponesos. It is legendary for the bravery of its inhabitants, which prevented the Turks from ever occupying it, and for vendettas that lasted until living memory.
Golfo: a lovesick shepherdess, heroine of a nineteenth century play by Spiridon Persiades, still popular at the time of writing this poem. Golfo lived on Mount Chelmos near Patras. She was driven mad by the loss of her lover.

Translator's Note
Nikos Gatsos (1914-1992) is considered one of the great modern Greek poets. Amorgos is his main work, published during the Second World War, at the height of the famine that decimated the population of Greece under the Nazis. Amorgos had a deep influence on modern Greek poetry, including that of Gatsos' friend Odysseas Elytis, who was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature.

Amorgos is the name of a rocky Greek island that Gatsos never visited. The poem, with its virtuosic use of surrealistic imagery, seems to paint the Greek soul, touching upon most major landmarks in Greek history and thought.

Gatsos is also virtuosic in his use of the enormous resources of the Greek language. George Seferis, another Nobel Prize winner, said of Gatsos that he was the only person whose Greek he envied. The poem incorporates style and vocabulary that ranges from demotic village Greek through to archaising Purist Greek, while all the time sounding entirely natural and unified. The rhythms of the poem range from calm lines with the subtlest music to galloping folksong rhythms. One stanza of the quatrains in the middle of the poem has been turned into a popular song Greek song by Hatzidakis.

Which brings us to the peculiar thing about this poet. Amorgos, and about four or five other poems, are all the 'serious' poetry he ever wrote. In response to queries about his lack of output, Gatsos said that he could have written any number of poems in a style similar to Amorgos - such writing came very easily to him. He did not see the point, however, in producing more poems when there was nothing further of substance to say.

He devoted the rest of his life to being one of Greece's foremost song lyricists, making a major contribution to the extremely high quality of Greek post-war popular musical culture. The lyrics are finely honed masterpieces in which simple language and striking, often surrealistic, imagery combine with genuine depth of thought. His lyrics in the hands of Theodorakis, Hatzidakis, Xarhakos and other composers became beautiful timeless songs that will be sung for many generations to come.

I am indebted to Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard (A Greek Quintet, Denise Harvey & Company, Limni, Evia, Greece) whose translation was the best of those available to me, for their endnotes, on which mine are based.

Vasili Stavropoulos