THE FOLIAGE OF WORDS

The immigrants brought a lost tradition with them. It had decayed over the generations in Greece, what with occupation, war, hunger, death and suffering. The ghosts of the old ways had been submerged for hundreds of years. This tradition plays out in shadow form in the lives of the immigrants who first came here to the U.S. It is barely conscious, but it is in the form of "this is how we have always done things." I shall give a few examples. The immigrants base family life on old values. Ties among kin are fierce. Family is the rock of social life here, as it had been for centuries in Greece. They pray with a mixture of zeal and fear, as bearers of both a Christian and Prechristian past. They are devout and superstitious. They hold education and art in highest esteem, as did the forebears. They live with a kind of careful abandon, expressing themselves with a strong sense of the finalily of the death the poets talk so much about. They revere the woman, treat her as a sacred being. The mother. The bearer of the seed. The one who will secure the foothold in the promised land. The only one who can bring out children, the insurance policy, so to speak. They play music they make on the mandolin, the flute, the violin. The music and dance, above all. The music and dance we no longer are capable of, those of us born here, who were taught to study and work, work, work. We forgot to play and later forgot how to play. Oh, the first ones were joyous. They had such a good time, so much fun. Hard work, but they played hard. Had so much fun. Played jokes, practical jokes, laughed from the belly, had endless card games, parties, outings, ceremonies they took part in. Joy, in the new land, based on a very old style of life they had brought from abroad.

They had a superior grasp of things, too. This is hard to explain. I mean material things, stuff. They used everything that passed through their hands to full advantage. They were frugal. The women sewed a storm. .Women did the careful embroidered works that today grace their children's homes. The men made things of wood that were useful. The food was prepared the long way. From scratch. Clothing was selected with care and worn with a sense that it was valuable and worthy drapery. It was not a throw-away world. Like today is. The reverence for the object was in these persons. As it had been with the ancients. The sense that everything on this earth was somehow special and even sacred. That each thing had its own spirit. The candle you lit in the bedroom. The sewing basket. The scissors, the vase that sat next to the foto on the mantle. That to damage a thing was to anger a god lurking somewhere. It just wasn't right to steal a thing or break a thing intentionally, or throw something around with no respect for it. In the home this feel of the majesty that resided in everything was strong. The home was a museum of sorts. You still see it in the homes kept by the first generation born here. Especially in the folks who still live in their parents" homes. There is an order that mimics that of the first parents. Order is paramount. Cleanliness next to godliness. In some ways then, the old strictures were obeyed. Even when the immigrants didn't really know why they were the way they were. At least, that is the way I see it, looking at the matter from a distance and allowing full well, I may be wrong. It is funny. To this day I become most uncomfortable when I see a stranger handle a thing carelessly. I get nervous. Maybe the thing will mind. Our things did in my childhood, as my things do now. The old notion that things are valuable as themselves, so to speak, is strong in me. The idea is found way back, that in all things is divinity. Oh, well maybe, I will be forgiven for putting words in the mouthes of the firstcome, but I swear the thing I say is true.

The poetic sense is strong in me because it is a window I have used for a long time to locate myself in Boston as the child of the immigrant. My parents came here on a day in 1936.

This is a poem I did years ago about Theo Belezo. He ran a little variety store in Codman Square, Dorchester, called Mary's Variety. I remember him most fondly, more so now that his daughter, Aunt Angie, has shown me the fotos of him and his family. I used them in a program called, "Call the Children." He was nice to me. He let me spend time with him at the store. Then we would walk home, to his three-decker together. His kindness was a food for me. It seems I was constantly cared for, by the big people around me. It was natural for them. It was what people who are civilized do. I grew up knowing how to love. How to live and care for those around me. I learned from Theo Belezo. It was no big thing really. Only in this day when people are so preoccupied, busy, worried, sullen, and all that , how many people care, as he did for me , this little kid? I go about caring for others, because I was cared after, as a child.

THEO BELEZO

When my father died, another family helped raise me.

Sundays in magical, late, Dorchester afternoon.

Listened to the Shadow on a dusty radio that

stood behind the marbly soda fountain of my uncle.

Wry smile, apron, hat on his head.

Knew customers' names; gave Credit, where due.

....had the best collection of penny candy in the whole world.

Powder from bullseyes

would come off in my hand.

I came up strong because I had to. It was a given that I would not give up easily. The jurist, Giorgios Alexandros Mangakis, who wrote about his Greece in the Charioteer, the Greek journal, says that the warmth he got as a child gave him his freedom and direction as an adult. He cites the heroism and love of those around him to do what was right and to care for others in their sphere. His childhood memories soothed him, as he sat writing in his jail cell during Junta days. I relate to that, as I too benefited from the association with those elders around me. It was never what was said but what was felt that counted . I always sensed what others felt, the positive tones and the sense of doing what was right, even though it meant extra effort and concern. I was not blood to those around me, but they cared about me, nonetheless. That is something I can not forget.

I came up strong in Boston. Like Mangaki, I learned early to run and to dance, so to speak. I might as well have lived in Greece like him. He talks about what moved his life. The same things that move mine. Greece, god, family, and the general feeling that the world was in good hands with us decent folks living here. Here I was in Boston, buffeted about by the modern winds of the American 1970's. I wrote this pome about what I was like as a person then.

GREEK OF BOSTON

I am neither here nor there, yours or his.

I am free, not of public relations, not a special kind of greek.

I am a greek who screams from the levele of the ancestors.

Not precious, cute, correct, worried, not standing for something.

I am free, a greek. I won't say what you want

nor do it still unless.....

My Greekness has always sat jaunty-hat on my head.

I did not discover it at a late age.

I am it.... greek, forged of wet hot dishes, sweat-scarred menus.

I am a black greek, an irish, a universal.

Mostly a one-of-a-kind. It is not hard to be a greek.

Just feel your way through cocacola land. No comfort in history.

Just today. A Boston Greek sitting here at Park Street Station and

the man goes by to say "the coolest place in town."

I don't speak for another greek. This is not what greeks of Boston are like.

I speak for one who won and current lives. I know no grace nor make a claim.

Just a greek, alert, and made.

In those times I had not read fully enough, the poets who would change my little life. I now read in the Charioteer that modern Greek poetry is " the only form of art expressing and unbroken continuity." This is moving to me. It locates me under the shade and protection of the large plane tree that sits in the village. Or so I imagine. I mean I just don't have much to worry about if I am but a little piece of the pipeline that is Greek poetry. It is funny. I never worry whether what I write is good. It really doesn't matter. I am working. That is all that matters. My job is what I am doing. To me it is good. That has to be enough. It is.

The tradition of which I am part has four characteristics. It idealizes Greece, the place, o topos. The language is the supreme expression of the place. Second , the way we follow, celebrates everyday life. Third we point to the future. That future is positive. And last, the tradition stresses the importance of "humaneness." We have contributed compassion in the face of great obstacles. I wish to flow just a bit now. We are the flower people, the flower children, the ones who come bearing gifts. We are the flower purple. We represent the royalty.

I will read to you little pieces now to document my claim. I once wrote the line, "For Greece is..." and went on to list some things. It all begins with that statement. It has been so, since Sappho took up writing. This topos, this place, Greece. One must run to light. Seferi uses light as a poetic image. Elytis sanctifies the sun. Ritso comments on the shadows that frame his victims. So it is always light that counts. No light means dark and dark is death. Poets fight the death. That is what poets are for. Odyseas Elytis exerts effort. He wants you to know it is not easy, but he can do it, our little hero. He slays the dark with his hard work for the nation and for you and me. He is part of the historic treasure of Greece. He is in a category with the holies among his more discerning countrymen and country women. Here is what he says. To an American, it rings true. We have to work hard to succeed at what we are doing.

You always pass through the fire to reach brightness.

You always pass through the brightness

to reach the top of snow-haloed mountains.

It is a Graecocentric world. Whether in Sydney or Pretoria, the words sound the same. The Greek in translation or in the language itself, calls to the brethren, to the little sister. Elytis wrote a long piece about Maria Nefeli, a modern Greek woman who is alienated, but he works it out in the end. He has the following lines about how she is reconciled to her tradition. It is a promise, and amid his last lines, he chides her for her lack of faith in the Greek path. I have to love his words. I have not seen them yet in Greek, but I wish to.

you will be catechized by the birds,

and a foliage of words will clothe you

in Greek to look inviolable...

You quickly notice that the language and the culture are physical things. That is how we see them. As things. They are so real they exist as matter and when we die, we believe the language will be there to clothe us. The culture will come from the shadows to cool us. Please know a poem by Vrettakos where he says the angels understand Greek and that it is like music to anyone's ears. The poem is called the Greek Tongue.

See, he says when he leaves this light he's gonna meander to the other place. Oh, the poem is lovely. He says this,

And if perchance somewhere amid

those turquoise highways

I should meet angels, I will

speak to them Greek, because

they don't know tongues. They speak

to one another with music.

Please forgive me if I have to hear the Greek. I know you understand.

Ki an tyhos kapou anamesa

stous yalazious thiathromous

synandyso aggelous, tha tous

mylyso ellinika, epithy

then kseroun ylosses. Milane

metaksy tous me mousiky.

The Greek sense is the strongest it gets in Seferi. One who stayed alone and wrote things. He is in myriad embassies around the world. Greek embassies, but he is a hermit. Our diplomat, one I love dearly. He said whoever was good in his country was alone always. He was and I am too.

Here he is on the olive. Go over to Greece and get off the plane and the first thing you ask the relative who greets you is, what is the price of oil? Not crude because of your investment in Shell or Texaco, but olive oil. The stuff is the lubricant of daily living. Anyway you will get Seferi's meaning. The olive tree is old and knowledgeable. It is a symbol of eternal and long-lived Greece. Life there is unimaginable with no olive. Just as life is not possible with no language of ours. The olive is our sky-seeker, another bond to the clouds and the gods residing therein. Here is Summer Solstice 9.

Yet to row up the dark river

against the current,

to take the unknown road

blindly, stubbornly,

and to search for words rooted

like the knotted olive tree-

let them laugh

Seferi says in many places that he feeds on the tradition, even though the children pelt the poet with turds, even though there is no person he can talk to, so he talks with the dead. On and on, this fellow drives us crazy with his love for Greece and his awful aloneness. I must move on now with the second aspect of the culture under investigation here today. If you see a movie about us or see a brochure for travel or hear someone talking about what is good about Greeks, what you hear is that we live for the moment. Of all we do, that is what we are most known for. Like the Chinese are known for their cuisine, we are known for this curious trait. It is hard to explain. Anything that comes from deep inside, is. But it is also Greek to analyze everything because it is fun to do so and it passes the time. The Greek calls this inspiration many things. It shines as a jewel in so much of our poetry. It is in the average person walking down the street over there. Off hand, I would say it is no way to live. One has to be ready for tomorrow. It is a Greek weakness, that is all. And we all have it, who are Greek. Think of it as congenital, a weakness one has in the heel that causes one to limp a bit when one is tired. Something like that. In any event it is fact that we live for the moment and that causes all sorts of problems. Always has. Hear Sappho of Lesbos, Mytiline. Seventh century, bce.

Some say an army of horsemen, others

say foot-soldiers, still others, a fleet,

is the fairest thing on the dark earth;

I say it is whatever one loves.

She is a free spirit. The charges against her are not fair. Her sexuality is complex, is all. Nothing to get exercised over. One can clearly see she is a passionate spirit, that she lives fully. Our charge is that. To love and live fully. God, put us here us to live. Now, how does she phrase it? She says that whatever one loves is the issue. Not whoever or whomever, but what ever. In Greek she uses the neuter form, not the masculine. Not the feminine. Her method is inclusive and broad. She cares not to miss any possibility, so her way is to encompass all life with her grammar in her poem.

Now she will tell us about Helen, the selfsame of Troy. She, too, foolishly lives for the moment and follows her passion. SHe is admired for her courage to go where life leads her. Her brain speaks and she follows her heart. For tomorrow Helen will be gone, so today she lives to the full . Sappho records.

I would rather see her lovely step

and the radiant sparkle of her face

than all the war-chariots in Lydia

and soldiers battling in shining bronze.

Lydia is the vast area in the ancient world that is now the middle east. Bronze was the metal of choice for the soldiery of the day, the hired guns and assassins.Where you look, you find this thing. This celebration of the this and the that. The now, the bread, the sun, the moment in time when a bird creases the air with its rapid presence. The poets we love, simply capture this feel. That is all it is , a feel. Of time stood still. We have Helen's frozen smile, her radiant step. We move up a few years to Vrettakos who also seizes the moment, so to speak. He is a soldier in the ww2 times and he is tired of all the killing and trouble he sees. He finds the relief in the moment. He plays a riff on his pipe, like some jazz musician in a smoky club in Memphis, Tennessee. The point for me is he finds relief in a little thing, a hamoyelo, which means a little laugh, a small smile. Here is what Vrettakos has to say.

Between my lips, a rose,

and hanging from it, like a knapsack,

with all my life-belongings inside,

a smile.

Always so. Today. A smile. Now. It may be an act as simple a facing a star in the night. Sappho;

Evening star who gathers everything

shining, dawn scattered.

You bring the sheep and the goats

You bring the child back to its mother.

If you will bear with me......The contemporary Yiannis Ritso also says that what is going on now in the moment is the essence of life. There is a star that guides in Sappho or a smile that is on the face of God's little pauper, Vrettakos. Or it can perhaps be a piece of string or a sound or a something that happens now on the spur of the moment. Somehow, the Greek has to capture it in words, Greek words, because it is important. It says something about life, that we look at the minute things , the things of the minute. Somehow, Ritso is always the surgeon of the small. He takes a small thing and it becomes a universe of meaning. He stays to celebrate the now, the moment. That's what we understand. The Greek public that reads him, knows what he is up to. We just feel the now so deeply; it is like a wound that is being probed. It is a terrible pressure on us to live now alone.

Ritso's got hundreds of poems. Everyplace I turn, I come on a new poem he did. His energy is a restless one. I have the feeling he writes a lot, so he can be sure we at least read one or two things he did. Maybe he figures, if he does a lot of work, his people, the Greeks may read a piece, here or there. Anyway, he write for now, this moment, and I will refer to two poems I love best in his work. The first is called "Always." He and his buddies are always prisoners. One day, there it is; the silverware of the doomed, just sitting there. Cheap and chipped. Their users gone to their just desserts. That is the kind of stuff he is prone to. Not too cheerful, really. But with Ritso you get used to it. We here in America have a more positive outlook and gloomy poetry is hard to understand. Only so much of the Greek ,contemporary poetry is sad, as it describes what happened to our Greece in this century. So what the American like me does, is go after the positive. I seek the moment , American and Greek moment. When I seek the moment, I have to combine the two cultures because as you know, I am Greek and also American both. We are hedonistic in this country too, if you had not noticed. Not in the same way though. That is a subject of another day. So we see Ritso sitting on a beach somewhere with armed guards pacing above him, guns at the ready. The little ragtag group. They are communists or radical socialists. Bad dudes. Ritso stresses the this-time. Real time. Now. This very moment in his work. That is a special skill he has. Vrettakos has it . We need it. It feeds like bread. Sappho got it. We need it like water, like life itself. Here are a few lines from the end of the piece, "Always.

All we split up, buddies.

the bread, the water, the cigaro, the heartache, the hope;

now we are able to live or to die

plain and pretty- very pretty

like opening one door in the morning

and we say goodmorning to the sun and to the world.

Or try "In Darkness." Again, halfway throught the poem. It is hard to convey a feeling. That is what I am attempting here. I have to cross the Atlantic Ocean, a linguistic barrier, an emotional divide and tell you , strangers, ones I don't know, how I do feel. It is like this. I have awakened many days with the last lines of "Always", on my sleep-draped lips. I have few resources than a poem and an easy smile. He has a mighty great effect on me when he says goodmorning to the world. His poems are an absolute necessity to my life and his sense of the now nourishes me, as a glass of water. In this poem to follow, we see another and endearing side to Yianni. Here he recounts the sounds of our village, the one we travel back to daily in our minds, we sojourners. This is a now of sounds. "In Darkness," goes like this. Last lines of the poem

a cross shined on the belfry

of Ayia Pelayias;

one dog barked back of the

stable; a second at Customs Office.

The sign of the food-diner pooling blood; the

man nakedchested

held a big red knife; the woman

uncombed was hitting the whites of the

eggs in a bowl.

The sense of a poem is that human strength comes from a culture, a rootedness. It is the same I feel when I read Toni Morrison about the African-American tradition. It is there in the poem of Langston Hughes, one I love, Ruby Brown. It is that way with our people too. The Greek people are at ease, hearing poetic voices that come at them at the strangest times. The world is this huge carnival that talks to you and all you have to do is have fun and write it down. That is all the ancestors and the tradition of Greece really demands.

It has gone on since Sappho, seventh century, bce. I mean, that is a long time. To remain the same. The poetry, the plays, the arts, the ceramic pots, the buildings, are all one. One stone mosaic, little timeless tiles that tell the same story. The same story. One that has never changed and probably never will. No matter what we do, it will always be there to remind us of our roots. As long as Greece is there, so will we be Greek here. Our sense of the moment dominates us. That sense leads us to poetry, love and happy times.

The third aspect of the Greek tradition is one which points to the future. It is didactic. It is a guide, so we will be able to handle tomorrow as well as we handle today. Poetry is a roadmap that tells us which road to take and which to avoid. The didactic aspect is found in the next piece I wish to render here. It has to do with building things. We must always construct, not destruct. It is against god to tear down, so we build. It is called, "The Building of It."

This house, how'll it be built? Who'll put on doors?

See these hands are too slight; the rocks too heavy to carry.

Quiet. Be still. Hands at work are getting strong. Bigger too.

and don't forget that every night, the dead, they help.

Ritso reminds us that the future requires construction, wood, nails, mortar and tiles. The Greek poets always join this world with the next. As George Vafopoulos, another poet shows, death is a near neighbor. Ritso tells us never to fear the future. We are always building. Futures require it. Assiduous little bees, we are, always creating shelters.

Seferi argues that words have a permanent power. These emanations of sound live over time. That is what he says. Who can say? The mechanism he describes is one which allows the poet's words to exist posthumously. He puts it this way. "This posthumous effect of the words that increases to the extreme, the responsibility of the poet." We who care, build buildings and make word castles so the future may record our contribution to the tide that is Greekness. The flow of which left the homeland to travel the world

This is Seferi, "On Stage, " 6.

As pine trees

hold the world's imprint

after the wind has gone, is no longer there

So words

retain a man's imprint

after the man has gone, is no longer there.

The purpose of the poet is to point to and paint the future, to lead the way and act as a prodromos, a leader. They stitch the time around them, the old and the current to the time to come.

Here is Seferi again, piously mouthing an ancient text to illustrate the point that we modern Greeks must continue to sew, to build, to raise crops and children. That the goal of our culture and of any culture worth its salt, is to create. Now it is funny, how Seferi gets us to look at this rule we need follow for a safe future. He says he has funny sensations now and then. He is walking around an old amphitheatre. It is something he likes to do. His metaphor has to do with actors and theatres. He is an actor himself, he tells us now and then. So, he's out and about, and alone there. He and his racial memory. He seems to see this old movie in his head. Brought to you by that award-winning cinematographer, Monsieur Homer. The 50 women are in Alcinous's palace,

and there are those who weave upon the loom

who spin the distaff

with hands like the leaves of the tall, poplar trees.

Our racial future lies in weaving our gold kimono with old and hallowed threads. It connects the past with the future. When we build with a Greek cast, we set foundations for a future we can live in comfortably.

The fourth part of our grand tradition has to do with a stance toward our fellow humans. All humans, all life, merit bother and care. The all is our concern. Panta plyry theon. The gods are everywhere. In people, things, amphitheatres, at the supermarket.

The sense of the holy in everything comes out of the pores of Greek poets. Here is a master, Nikiforos Vrettakos.

The Faces of the Flowers.

For one time more, I stopped

today and for a long time, I looked

at the face of a flower

I found its eyes.

I leaned over

inside it

and sensed

awe.

And filled with love

filled up on godliness

filled up on Human-ness.

In a day of crowds, of too many people in a crowded universe, our little thinker fills up on woman and man. On children too. He sates on humans and their life.

Or take Kazantzaki's Zorba. The novel , Zorba, is a movie that stars Anthony Quinn. Nice show. But if you hear the Greek from the magical Kazantzaki, it transports you to the holy sea of ours. The Mediterranean. It transports you. You are there postehaste. This is my translation. It is how I feel about the Greek sea. I feel it is also how Kazantzaki would feel, if he knew the American language I am so fluent in.

This is a page at the head of Chapter 2.

Sea, sea, a fallish sweetness, light-shampooed isles, transluscent, muslin veil of a thin, little rain which was dressing the deathless, eternal nakedness of Greece. Joy to the one, I consider, whom God deemed worthy, before dying, to boat on the Aegean.

Many joys has this here world- women, fruits, ideas. Maa, be it falltime, tender falltime, and you're ripping, skimming this here little ocean, mumbling the names of each and every island. I guess there's no similar joy which dunks the heart deeper into feeling, the heart of the Human in to the Paradise. Nowhere else is one conveyed as by mesmerism from one spot to to another, so saintly and so easily serene, from Reality to the dream. Edges and boundaries wash out totally and the masts of even the most ramshackled boat throw off shoots and make the grape. Real time truth, here in Greece. The miracle is the sure blossoming, blooming of the Necessity, of need.

Around noon, the rain had stopped, the sun ripped the clouds and peeked a look, cool, tender, freshly shampooed clean, and mother-like patted, gracing with its rays, the beloved waters and dirts.

Nikos Kazantzaki sounds like this in Greek too. He ends his paragraph with water and defilement. Dirt. He goes on and on about the aged, holy sea, the Aeagean and now has to rub our noses in filth. Only the filth is walking detritus, he says. He treats the daily, complicitous Greek to a roast in the section which follows. The poet, Vrettakos, transports woman and man to a holy level and it takes Kazantzaki a bare minute to tell us what the real story is. The one you would and could read in the National Enquirer. The author wafts out over the breezes of the Aegean in fall. It is as he describes. I am embarressed to admit it. The experience is as he says it. It happened to me, the whole thing, but he won't let a good thing lie. He has to tell us about the Greeks. Lest they ever let you forget, with their endless shopping bags, the garlic breath, the eyes, the eyes , those eyes.

Anyway, Kazantzaki should describe them. He knows them better than I ever will.

I just love how he eases into the thing. The term, Romioi, describes us Greeks, as Roman, as those who lived through the Roman times, the Byzantine that followed, the modern times and stayed common, funny and real. The contrast is with the Hellenes. These latter kept up pretense. They practiced and practice formal Greek, put on airs, and are located in the classical history of ancient Greece. We who are Romioi, are street people, who sit in cafes, knit in the back stoop, tell stories of robbers in the hills defying the Turk. I am trying to say that the Romioi are the common folk over our history who have kept hope alive. Unlike the Hellenic types who went back to the classical Greece to get a little relief from the rigors of modern life.

Kazantzaki goes on to say.

I was standing updeck and on me and in me I felt joy to take in up to the edge of the sky-water, the very miracle of it. And inside the boat, the overpowering Romioi, the Romioi, who can estimate everything as it is, even if they've never seen it before, the eyes, eagle-sharp, grabby, the brains loaded with the petty articles, the notions found in the five and dime store. The little, political, petty-difference squabblings, one vast unravelled piano. Prim, poison-full, small time ladies. Village suspicion and perversity on this water, monotonous, misery, monotony. It entered your head to pick up the boat at its two edges, dunk it into the sea, shake it wellm, well so that the living things will leave, which pollute it- humans, mice, bedbugs- and then to raise it once more up to the waves, emptied, light and fresh washed.

The grand author brings it all down to the level of the daily Greek. We are the peripato, the little stroll, the casual walk. Slow, perambulatory. Down the street. The street whose name is words, the avenue of vocabulary, the boulevard of dreams and of idle chattering.

We are the people of the kouvenda , the chat, the conversation. It leads nowhere but to the stars.

We are the people of water, bread and olive.

We are we. We take a nap and then the din starts again. The Greek is talking , laughing, dancing.

I will finish with an ounce of the knowledge I possess. I located it years ago when I was young, in the 1970's. I grabbed it and put it aside the flower of Vrettakos. I said,

a poem has a scent, a body, a end

when it is on it has a shield-like substance.

Poetry is our way, our insurance policy. It calls to be heard. It waits patiently in the wings.

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