COMERFORD WAY: Patrick Comerford’s online journal on Anglicanism, theology, spirituality, history, architecture, travel, poetry, beach walks ... and more
The Etz Hayyim synagogue – the last of seven synagogues in Larissa – has been refurbished, and reopened last month (Photograph: Kehila Kadosha Janina Facebook)
Patrick Comerford
The Etz Hayyim synagogue in Larissa, in central Greece, has reopened after a full-scale restoration and reconstruction project that began in 2019 but that was stalled due to Covid restrictions and other issues.
The Etz Hayyim (Tree of Life) Synagogue on Kentavron street is one of the oldest buildings in Larissa. It was built in 1866 in the heart of the Jewish neighbourhood of a traditional Sephardic community that has been there continuously for centuries.
Larissa (Λάρισα) is the capital of the Thessaly region in Greece and the fifth largest city in Greece, with a population of over 160,000 people, and the Jewish population of 300 people is the third largest in Greece. Legend says Achilles was born in Larissa and that Hippocrates, the Father of Medicine, died here.
While the synagogue was closed, Rabbi Elias Shabethai and the community kept Jewish religious life and traditions alive in Larissa. Services were held in the small community centre, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur and High Holy Days were celebrated under a tent in the schoolyard, while weddings and other events were hosted in hotel halls.
The Jewish community of Larissa, including Romaniotes and Sephardim, dates back to the 2nd century BCE. More Jews settled there after the Spanish Inquisition, and they included scientists, philosophers and entrepreneurs. Numbers increased with the arrival of Jews from Puglia and the Peloponnese.
The community had a large number of Talmudists, including Joseph Ben Ezra. Isaac Shalom, a philanthropist from Larissa, supported a yeshiva in Thessaloniki.
As the community developed in the 15th to 18th century, close connections were maintained with other Jewish communities in Thessaloniki, Izmir, Andrianopoulos and Sarajevo.
By the mid-19th century, the Jewish community in Larissa included 2,000 people, and there were seven synagogues. Most Jews lived and still live in the Exi Dromoi (‘Six Streets’) district in the centre of the city, but this was never a ghetto.
Much of the Jewish quarter was destroyed in a fire in 1857, including two of the seven synagogues in Larissa. But the synagogues had been rebuilt by 1860, and a Jewish school was founded in 1865.
There were 2,800 Jews in Larissa in 1882, and they were mainly involved in mercantile activities. After Thessaloniki was absorbed in the modern Greek state in 1913, many Jews from Larissa went there to set up businesses, while others moved to Athens.
On the eve of World War II, there were 2,000 Jews and seven synagogues in Larissa. When the Germans began mass arrests throughout Greece in 1943, 950 of the remaining 1,175 Jews in Larissa escaped into the mountains, where many joined the resistance movements. The 250 Jews who had remained in town were arrested and deported to Auschwitz, where most of them were murdered by the Nazis.
The Etz Hayyim synagogue, at the corner of Kentavron Street and Kyprou Street, is the only one of seven synagogues in the city to have survived. It was looted during the Nazi occupation and was used as a stable, but it was rebuilt by Holocaust survivors and has continued to keep the Jewish community alive in Larissa.
A monument to the Jewish Martyrs was erected in 1987 on the on the square called Plateia Evraion Martyron Katohis (Square of the Jewish Martyrs of the Holocaust). A monument to Anne Frank was unveiled in 1999 in memory of the children who died during the Shoah. The old Jewish cemetery in the Neapoli district was in use until 1900. The new Jewish cemetery is south of the city, in the Alexandroupoleos district.
Rabbi Elias Shabethai at the reopening and rededication of the Etz Hayim synagogue in Larissa (Photograph: Kehila Kadosha Janina Facebook)
The restoration and reconstruction project for the Etz Hayyim synagogue was filled with challenges, setbacks, and unforeseen obstacles, the community says on its website. It required relentless dedication by successive community administrations, a project committee, and a team of skilled engineers and technicians. At the same time, the community ensured Jewish community life continued over the last five or six years.
The synagogue reopened last month with three days of celebrations from 12 to 15 June that have been reported extensively on Jewish community sites in Greece and on the Jewish Heritage Europe site. The VIP attendance included the Mayor of Larissa, senior Greek government representative, Jewish and Christian leaders, German diplomats and senior figures from Jewish communities throughout Greece and abroad.
The Etz Hayyim synagogue in Larissa (bottow right) in a series of commemorative stamps launched last year
The President of the Larissa Jewish Community, Moses Manoah, said the restoration of the Etz Hayyim Synagogue ‘seemed like a dream’ 5½ years ago. ‘Today it is a reality, with which we honour our past, celebrate the unity, co-operation and faith that brought this result, and make a promise for the future – a future where our values will continue to be passed on to future generations.’
He said: ‘Etz Hayyim Synagogue is not just a building. It is the heart of our Community. And today it stands tall again, like a tree of life – rooted in the past, turned towards the light.’ He pointed out that ‘our synagogue has stood proud for over 150 years, a symbol of the centuries-old presence of the Jewish Community in Larissa.’
The project was also supported by the Greek Ministry of Culture, the regional government of Thessaly, and the German state through the German-Hellenic Fund for the Future Programme and the German Consulate in Thessaloniki.
During the ceremonies, tributes were also paid to the support of the Greek Orthodox Church in Larissa, Rhodes, Volos and Thessaloniki, and they closed with singing by the choir of the Greek Orthodox Church of Thessaloniki.
David Saltiel, President of the Central Board of Jewish Communities in Greece and president of and the Jewish Community of Thessaloniki, said: ‘I am certain that the Etz Hayyim Synagogue, the ‘Tree of Life’ of the Jews of Larissa, will remain a living beacon of Judaism in Greece – a place open, warm, full of devotion, melodies of prayer and deep emotions.’
The Governor of Thessaly, Professor Dimitrios Kouretas, said ‘the preservation of the history and heritage of the Jewish Community of Larissa is an important chapter for understanding the multidimensional character of the local society. The Jewish Community deserves congratulations for its intense social and charitable activity, its cultural contribution, as the traditions, customs and religious events of the community enriched the cultural mosaic of Larissa and cultivated a spirit of mutual understanding and coexistence … Our debt to memory will always be unpaid.’
He recalled how ‘Thessaly has a long history that is multicultural, Christian, Muslim, Jewish, a history that respects religious tolerance. Thessaly is historically a place of co-existence and mutual respect, a proud place that does not forget its past, a place for natives and refugees, a place for people of every religion. Deep respect for these principles is the axis that leads us to the future. They are fundamental principles on which our democracy is built and which constitute the most effective shield against the nightmares of intolerance and racism.’
Saint James the Apostle, or Saint James the Great … his statue among the apostles on the west front of Lichfiled Cathedral (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)
Patrick Comerford
We are continuing in Ordinary Time in the Church and this week began with the Fifth Sunday after Trinity (Trinity V, 20 July 2025). The Church Calendar today celebrates the Feast of Saint James the Apostle (25 July).
Saint James the Apostle is often known as Saint James the Great. He was called with his brother John as one of the first apostles. The two brothers were with Christ at the Transfiguration, they were with him again in Gethsemane, and were present for his resurrection appearances. He was put to death by the sword on the order of Herod Agrippa, said to have been in the year 44 CE.
Before today begins, I am taking some quiet time this morning to give thanks, for reflection, prayer and reading in these ways:
1, today’s Gospel reading;
2, a reflection on the Gospel reading;
3, a prayer from the USPG prayer diary;
4, the Collects and Post-Communion prayer of the day.
Saint James the Apostle, or Saint James the Great … his statue in the shrine in the cathedral in Santiago de Compostella (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)
Matthew 20: 20-28 (NRSVA):
20 Then the mother of the sons of Zebedee came to him [Jesus] with her sons, and kneeling before him, she asked a favour of him. 21 And he said to her, ‘What do you want?’ She said to him, ‘Declare that these two sons of mine will sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your kingdom.’ 22 But Jesus answered, ‘You do not know what you are asking. Are you able to drink the cup that I am about to drink?’ They said to him, ‘We are able.’ 23 He said to them, ‘You will indeed drink my cup, but to sit at my right hand and at my left, this is not mine to grant, but it is for those for whom it has been prepared by my Father.’
24 When the ten heard it, they were angry with the two brothers. 25 But Jesus called them to him and said, ‘You know that the rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them, and their great ones are tyrants over them. 26 It will not be so among you; but whoever wishes to be great among you must be your servant, 27 and whoever wishes to be first among you must be your slave; 28 just as the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many.’
Saint James (in the light green robes) with Saint Peter (white beard) and Saint John … a fresco of the Transfiguration in the Church of the Transfiguration in Piskopiano in Crete (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2024; click on image for full-screen view)
This morning’s reflection:
The English name James comes from Italian Giacomo, a variant of Giacobo, which is derived from Iacobus in Latin and Ἰάκωβος in Greek. It is the same name as Jacob in the Hebrew Bible. In French, the name is Jacques, in Spanish it is Jaime, and in Catalan it is Jaume. Variations include Diego in Spanish, giving us San Diego and Santiago, and Diogo in Portuguese.
This Saint James, traditionally regarded as the first apostle to be martyred, is said to have been a son of Zebedee and Salome, and brother of Saint John the Evangelist. He is also called Saint James the Great to distinguish him from Saint James, son of Alphaeus, and Saint James, the Brother of the Lord, or Saint James the Just.
His father Zebedee was a fisherman on the Sea of Galilee, and probably lived in or near Bethsaida in present Galilee, perhaps in Capernaum. His mother Salome was one of the pious women who followed Christ and ‘ministered unto him of their substance.’ But James and John are also known as ‘the Sons of Thunder’ (see Mark 3: 17).
This Saint James is one of the first disciples. The Synoptic Gospels say James and John were with their father by the seashore when Christ called them to follow him (see Matthew 4: 21-22; Mark 1: 19-20). James was one of the three disciples, along with Saint Peter and Saint John, who witnesses to the Transfiguration, which we celebrate on Saturday 6 August.
Saint James and Saint John, or their mother, ask Christ to be seated on his right and left in his glory. They also want to call down fire on a Samaritan town, but they are rebuked for this (see Luke 9: 51-6).
The Acts of the Apostles records that Herod (probably Herod Agrippa) had Saint James executed by sword, making him the only apostle whose martyrdom is recorded in the New Testament (see Acts 12: 1-2).
Saint James is linked with the Camino, a mediaeval pilgrimage that has become popular in recent decades with people seeking spiritual rootings that are relevant to the demands of modern life. The Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in northern Spain is the reputed burial place of Saint James the Great.
According to Spanish legends, Saint James spent time preaching in Iberia, but returned to Jerusalem after seeing a vision of the Virgin Mary on the bank of the Ebro River. One version says that after his death, his disciples shipped his body to the Iberian Peninsula, to be buried in what is now Santiago. Off the coast of Spain, a heavy storm hit the ship, and the body was lost in the ocean. After some time, however, it washed ashore undamaged, covered in scallops.
A second version of the legend says that after Saint James died his body was transported by a ship piloted by an angel, back to the Iberian Peninsula to be buried in Santiago. As the ship approached land, a wedding was taking place on the shore. The young groom was on horseback, and on seeing the ship approaching, his horse took fright and horse and rider were plunged into the sea. Through miraculous intervention, both horse and rider emerged from the water alive, covered in seashells.
Saint James became the patron saint of Spain, and Santiago de Compostela became the end point of the popular pilgrim route known as the Camino. The emblem of Saint James is the scallop, which has become a general symbol of pilgrims and pilgrimage. The name Santiago is a local Galician form of the late Latin name Sancti Iacobi, Saint James.
The history of the Camino de Santiago dates back to the early ninth century and the discovery of the tomb of Saint James in the year 814. Since then, Santiago de Compostela has been a destination for pilgrims from throughout Europe.
The Way of Saint James became one of the most important pilgrimages in the Middle Ages, alongside those to Rome and Jerusalem. With the Muslim occupation of Jerusalem and later during the Crusades, the Camino became a safe and popular alternative to pilgrimages to the Holy Land.
The flow of people along the Camino brought about a growth in the number of hostels and hospitals, churches, monasteries and abbeys along the pilgrim route.
The scallop shell has long been the symbol of the Camino de Santiago. Along the Camino, the shell is seen frequently on posts and signs to guide pilgrims, and the shell is commonly worn by pilgrims too. Most pilgrims receive a shell at the beginning of the journey and either sew it onto their clothes, wear it around their necks or keep it in their backpacks.
I am reflecting this morning on where I am in my own pilgrimage in life, asking questions about the role am I playing in the Kingdom of God, and wondering how I might truly serve God’s kingdom rather than serving my own interests in life.
Saint James’s Church, Quop, was built in 1863-1865, and is one of the oldest church buildings in Sarawak (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2024)
Today’s Prayers (Friday 25 July 2025, Saint James the Apostle):
The theme this week (20 to 26 July) in Pray with the World Church, the prayer diary of the Anglican mission agency USPG (United Society Partners in the Gospel), is ‘Diversity in Sarawak’ (pp 20-21). I introduced this theme last Sunday with reflections from Sarawak and the Diocese of Kuching.
The USPG prayer diary today (Friday 25 July 2025, Saint James the Apostle) invites us to pray:
We give thanks for the ethnic and cultural diversity of the Diocese of Kuching, and we pray that this diversity may enrich community life in Sarawak and throughout Malaysia.
The Collect:
Merciful God,
whose holy apostle Saint James,
leaving his father and all that he had,
was obedient to the calling of your Son Jesus Christ
and followed him even to death:
help us, forsaking the false attractions of the world,
to be ready at all times to answer your call without delay;
through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord,
who is alive and reigns with you,
in the unity of the Holy Spirit,
one God, now and for ever.
Post Communion Prayer:
Almighty God,
who on the day of Pentecost
sent your Holy Spirit to the apostles
with the wind from heaven and in tongues of flame,
filling them with joy and boldness to preach the gospel:
by the power of the same Spirit
strengthen us to witness to your truth
and to draw everyone to the fire of your love;
through Jesus Christ our Lord.
The Full Moon over the Parthenon and the Acropolis in Athens earlier this month
Patrick Comerford
I was pondering earlier last week on how my collection of Greek CDs and music, which had expanded over the years, has gone to other – and, hopefully, better – homes, and how, now that I am without a CD player, I find I am listening to Greek music and Greek songs online on a variety of platforms, still trying to sing along to lyrics often adapted from Greek poetry but that sadly suffer from bad translations into English. .
It was not merely a wistful desire to recreate the sounds and sentiments of regular and constant return visits to Crete; I also imagined in my heart that listening to and trying to sing along with the words of Greek songs and poetry would help improve my fluency and pronunciation as I continued to try (to little avail, I now admit) to work on my spoken Greek.
Over the years, I continued to accumulate more CDs to add to that collection. But as time passed, I found I no longer had a CD player, and certainly would not know where to find a tape deck. In time, my love of Greek music and poetry led to Professor Panos Karagiorgos inviting me to write the foreword to his Ελληνικα Δημοτικα Τραγουδια, Greek Folk Songs, published in Thessaloniki last year.
Those frail efforts to give a kick-start to my tawdry efforts to learn spoken and idiomatic Greek also included trying to read and listen to modern Greek poetry. But my volumes of Greek poetry seems to have gone in the same direction of my collection of Greem music. So I was pleased in recent days to come across once again one of my favourite modern Greek poems, Moonlight Sonata () by Yannis Ritsos.
Yannis Ritsos (1909-1990), the poet of the Greek left, is considered one of the four greatest Greek poets of the 20th century, alongside Kostis Palamas (1859-1943), Giorgos Seferis (1900-1971) and Odysseus Elytis (1911-1996). The French poet Louis Aragon once described him as ‘the greatest poet of our age.”
Ritsos published 120 collections of poems, nine volumes of prose, and several translations of Russian and Eastern European poetry. Many of his poems have been set to music by the Greek composer Mikis Theodorakis. His poetry was banned at times in Greece for its left-wing politics and sympathies. His great works include Tractor (1934), Pyramids (1935), Epitaphios (1936) and Vigil (1941/1953). Although his poems are marked by their strong political content, one of the exceptions is his Moonlight Sonata:
I know that each one of us travels to love alone,
alone to faith and to death.
I know it. I’ve tried it. It doesn’t help.
Let me come with you.
Yannis Ritsos was born in Greece in the old walled town of Monemvassia on 1 May 1909, the last child in a noble, land-owning family. During his youth his family was devastated by economic ruin after his father went bankrupt, the unexpected early death from tuberculosis of both his mother and his eldest brother, and his father’s lengthy spells in a psychiatric unit. Yannis Ritsos spent four years between 1927 and 1931 in a sanatorium with tuberculosis. The experience of these tragic events marks his work and shaped him as a poet and as a revolutionary.
Ritsos lived most of his life in Athens. In his early 20s, he became involved in left-wing politics, and he spent many years in detention, in prison and in internal exile.
He published his first collection of poetry, Tractors, in 1934, follwed by Pyramids in 1935. These two collections achieved a fragile balance between faith in the future and personal despair. His epic poem Epitaphios (1936) uses the shape of the traditional popular poetry to express in clear and simple language its moving message of fraternity, solidarity and hope in the future. Later, the setting of Epitaphios by Mikis Theodorakis in 1960 sparked a cultural revolution in Greece.
The Metaxas regime tried to silence Ritsos from August 1936, and his Epitaphios was burnt publicly. But he continued writing. The Song of my Sister (1937), Symphony of the Spring (1938), and The Lady of the Vineyards (1945-1947), inspired the Seventh Symphony by Theodorakis (1983-1984), also known as Symphony of the Spring.
After World War II, during the Greek civil war, Ritsos fought against the fascists, and spent four years in various detention camps, including Lémnos, Ayios Ephstratios and Makronissos. Despite this, he published his collection Vigil (1941-1953), and a long poetic chronicle of that terrifying decade: Districts of the World (1949-1951), the basis of another later composition of Theodorakis.
Romiossini (Greek-ness), first published only in 1954 and set into music by Theodorakis in 1966, is a proud and shattering hymn to the glory of a once-humiliated Greece and its freed people.
His mature works include The Moonlight Sonata (1956), The Stranger (1958), The Old Women and the Sea (1958), The Dead House (1959-1962) and a set of monologues inspired by mythology and the ancient tragedies: Orestes (1962-1966) and Philoctetes (1963-1965).
Between 1967 and 1971, the military junta deported Ritsos to Yaros and Leros before sending him to Samos. But he continued writing: Persephone (1965-1970), Agamemnon (1966-1970), Ismene (1966-1971), Ajax (1967-1969) and Chrysothemis (1967-1970) – both written during his internal island exile – Helena (1970-1972), The Return of Iphigenia (1971-1972) and Phaedra (1974-1975).
Ritsos also wrote also several short poems that reflected his people’s living nightmare. In the 1980s, he also wrote novels. Nine books are united under the title of The Iconostasis of the Anonymous Saints (1983-1985), which has been translated in three volumes by my good friend, Amy Mims (Athens: Kedros, 1996-2001), who has also published a critical biography of Ritsos in Greece.
The poems in his last book, Late in the night (1987-1989), are filled with sadness and the conscience of losses, but preserve a sense of hope and creativity.
During the last decades of his life, he was active in the peace movement. He received the Lenin Peace Prize in 1977 and the International Peace Prize in 1979. In 1986, he was a founder with Theodorakis of the Greek-Turkish Friendship Society. Shortly before his death, he declared: ‘Man’s inclination is towards well-being, happiness and peace. There must be peace throughout the world because you cannot yourself be at peace when your brother is being wronged.’
Ritsos was unsuccessfully proposed nine times for the Nobel Prize for Literature. When he won the Lenin Peace Prize, he declared: ‘This prize – it’s more important for me than the Nobel.’
Despite his often tragic view of life, Ritsos was not pessimistic: ‘I love life, and especially I love beauty.’ He died in Athens 35 years ago on 11 November 1990.
The Acropolis under the moonlight on a summer night (Photograph: Patrick Comerford; click on image for full-screen view)
Moonlight Sonata: the setting
After its publication almost 70 years ago in 1956, Moonlight Sonata won the National Poetry Prize of Greece. It was soon translated into French by Aragon, who first introduced Ritsos to literary Europe. It has been translated into English by Peter Green and Beverley Ardsley of Austin, Texas (1993), and by Marjorie Chambers of Queen’s University Belfast (2001), and is included in many anthologies.
The scene is set in a dark, decaying, haunted family mansion in the Plaka in Athens, full of memories, old furniture and collected bric-a-brac, its plaster flaking off and its floorboards lifting and cracking. Because this crumbling house appears to be close to the steps of the Church of Aghios Nikólaos Rangava, I imagine the crumbling mansion described by Ritsos is similar to the crumbling mansion that was once home to the great Irish-born Philhellene, Sir Richard Church. The former glory of this house and her failure to maintain it have become major burdens for the Woman in the Black, who is the narrator of this poem.
The Woman in Black might be an early version of Ismene or Elektra. She lives with a gnawing loneliness and is losing her battle against age and death. Yet in her acute erotic awareness of the young male visitor in the house, she prefigures the more intense eroticism of Phaedra. Trapped in her house of memories, she longs to escape the cloying house and her past and to embrace some real human connections, to embrace the present and the future. Constantly her refrain ends sadly with the persistent line: Άφησε με να έρθω μαζί σου … ‘Let me come with you.’
But can there ever be an escape from the past?
Η Σονάτα Του Σεληνόφωτος (Γιάννης Ρίτσος) - Moonlight Sonata (Yannis Ritsos)
«Ανοιξιάτικο βράδυ. Μεγάλο δωμάτιο παλιού σπιτιού. Μια ηλικιωμένη γυναίκα, ντυμένη στα μαύρα, μιλάει σ' έναν νέο. Δεν έχουν ανάψει φως. Απ' τα δύο παράθυρα μπαίνει ένα αμείλικτο φεγγαρόφωτο. Ξέχασα να πω ότι η Γυναίκα με τα Μαύρα έχει εκδώσει δύο-τρεις ενδιαφέρουσες ποιητικές συλλογές θρησκευτικής πνοής. Λοιπόν, η Γυναίκα με τα Μαύρα μιλάει στον Νέο:
Άφησέ με να έρθω μαζί σου. Τι φεγγάρι απόψε!
Είναι καλό το φεγγάρι, – δε θα φαίνεται
που άσπρισαν τα μαλλιά μου. Το φεγγάρι
θα κάνει πάλι χρυσά τα μαλλιά μου. Δε θα καταλάβεις.
Άφησέ με να έρθω μαζί σου …
Όταν έχει φεγγάρι μεγαλώνουν οι σκιές μες στο σπίτι,
αόρατα χέρια τραβούν τις κουρτίνες,
ένα δάχτυλο αχνό γράφει στη σκόνη του πιάνου
λησμονημένα λόγια δε θέλω να τ ακούσω. Σώπα.
Άφησε με να έρθω μαζί σου
λίγο πιο κάτου, ως την μάντρα του τουβλάδικου,
ως εκεί που στρίβει ο δρόμος και φαίνεται
η πολιτεία τσιμεντένια κι αέρινη, ασβεστωμένη με φεγγαρόφωτο,
τόσο αδιάφορη κι άυλη
τόσο θετική σαν μεταφυσική
που μπορείς επιτέλους να πιστέψεις πως υπάρχεις και δεν υπάρχεις
πως ποτέ δεν υπήρξες, δεν υπήρξε ο χρόνος κι η φθορά του.
Άφησε με να έρθω μαζί σου …
Θα καθίσουμε λίγο στο πεζούλι, πάνω στο ύψωμα,
κι όπως θα μας φυσάει ο ανοιξιάτικος αέρας
μπορεί να φανταστούμε κιόλας πως θα πετάξουμε,
γιατί, πολλές φορές, και τώρα ακόμη, ακούω τον θόρυβο του φουστανιού μου
σαν τον θόρυβο δύο δυνατών φτερών που ανοιγοκλείνουν,
κι όταν κλείνεσαι μέσα σ αυτόν τον ήχο του πετάγματος
νιώθεις κρουστό το λαιμό σου, τα πλευρά σου, τη σάρκα σου,
κι έτσι σφιγμένος μες στους μυώνες του γαλάζιου αγέρα,
μέσα στα ρωμαλέα νεύρα του ύψους,
δεν έχει σημασία αν φεύγεις ή αν γυρίζεις
κι ούτε έχει σημασία που άσπρισαν τα μαλλιά μου,
(δεν είναι τούτο η λύπη μου η λύπη μου
είναι που δεν ασπρίζει κι η καρδιά μου).
Άφησε με να έρθω μαζί σου …
Το ξέρω πως καθένας μοναχός πορεύεται στον έρωτα,
μοναχός στη δόξα και στο θάνατο.
Το ξέρω. Το δοκίμασα. Δεν ωφελεί.
Άφησε με να έρθω μαζί σου …
Τούτο το σπίτι στοίχειωσε, με διώχνει –
θέλω να πω έχει παλιώσει πολύ, τα καρφιά ξεκολλάνε,
τα κάδρα ρίχνονται σα να βουτάνε στο κενό,
οι σουβάδες πέφτουν αθόρυβα
όπως πέφτει το καπέλο του πεθαμένου
απ' την κρεμάστρα στο σκοτεινό διάδρομο
όπως πέφτει το μάλλινο τριμμένο γάντι της σιωπής απ' τα γόνατά της
ή όπως πέφτει μιά λουρίδα φεγγάρι στην παλιά, ξεκοιλιασμένη πολυθρόνα.
Κάποτε υπήρξε νέα κι αυτή, – όχι η φωτογραφία που κοιτάς με τόση δυσπιστία –
λέω για την πολυθρόνα, πολύ αναπαυτική, μπορούσες ώρες ολόκληρες να κάθεσαι
και με κλεισμένα μάτια να ονειρεύεσαι ό,τι τύχει
– μιάν αμμουδιά στρωτή, νοτισμένη, στιλβωμένη από φεγγάρι,
πιο στιλβωμένη απ' τα παλιά λουστρίνια μου που κάθε μήνα τα δίνω
στο στιλβωτήριο της γωνίας,
ή ένα πανί ψαρόβαρκας που χάνεται στο βάθος λικνισμένο απ' την ίδια του ανάσα,
τριγωνικό πανί σα μαντίλι διπλωμένο λοξά μόνο στα δύο
σα να μην είχε τίποτα να κλείσει ή να κρατήσει
ή ν' ανεμίσει διάπλατο σε αποχαιρετισμό.
Πάντα μου είχα μανία με τα μαντίλια,
όχι για να κρατήσω τίποτα δεμένο,
τίποτα σπόρους λουλουδιών ή χαμομήλι μαζεμένο στους αγρούς με το λιόγερμα
ή να το δέσω τέσσερις κόμπους σαν το αντικρινό γιαπί
ή να σκουπίζω τα μάτια μου, – διατήρησα καλή την όρασή μου,
ποτέ μου δεν φόρεσα γυαλιά. Μιά απλή ιδιοτροπία τα μαντίλια …
Τώρα τα διπλώνω στα τέσσερα, στα οχτώ, στα δεκάξι
ν' απασχολώ τα δάχτυλά μου.
Και τώρα θυμήθηκα
πως έτσι μετρούσα τη μουσική σαν πήγαινα στο Ωδείο
με μπλε ποδιά κι άσπρο γιακά, με δύο ξανθές πλεξούδες
– 8, 16, 32, 64, –
κρατημένη απ' το χέρι μιας μικρής φίλης μου ροδακινιάς όλο φως και ροζ λουλούδια,
(συγχώρεσέ μου αυτά τα λόγια κακή συνήθεια) – 32, 64, – κι οι δικοί μου στήριζαν
μεγάλες ελπίδες στο μουσικό μου τάλαντο. Λοιπόν, σου λεγα για την πολυθρόνα –
ξεκοιλιασμένη – φαίνονται οι σκουριασμένες σούστες, τα άχερα –
έλεγα να την πάω δίπλα στο επιπλοποιείο,
μα που καιρός και λεφτά και διάθεση – τι να πρωτοδιορθώσεις ; –
έλεγα να ρίξω ένα σεντόνι πάνω της, – φοβήθηκα
τ' άσπρο σεντόνι σε τέτοιο φεγγαρόφωτο. Εδώ κάθισαν
άνθρωποι που ονειρεύτηκαν μεγάλα όνειρα, όπως κι εσύ κι όπως κι εγώ άλλωστε,
και τώρα ξεκουράζονται κάτω απ' το χώμα δίχως να ενοχλούνται απ' τη βροχή ή το φεγγάρι.
Άφησε με να έρθω μαζί σου …
Θα σταθούμε λιγάκι στην κορφή της μαρμάρινης σκάλας του Αϊ-Νικόλα,
ύστερα εσύ θα κατηφορίσεις κι εγώ θα γυρίσω πίσω
έχοντας στ' αριστερό πλευρό μου τη ζέστα απ' το τυχαίο άγγιγμα του σακακιού σου
κι ακόμη μερικά τετράγωνα φώτα από μικρά συνοικιακά παράθυρα
κι αυτή την πάλλευκη άχνα απ' το φεγγάρι που 'ναι σα μια μεγάλη συνοδεία
ασημένιων κύκνων –
και δε φοβάμαι αυτή την έκφραση, γιατί εγώ
πολλές ανοιξιάτικες νύχτες συνομίλησα άλλοτε με το Θεό που μου εμφανίστηκε
ντυμένος την αχλύ και την δόξα ενός τέτοιου σεληνόφωτος,
και πολλούς νέους, πιο ωραίους κι από σένα ακόμη, του εθυσίασα,
έτσι λευκή κι απρόσιτη ν' ατμίζομαι μες στη λευκή μου φλόγα, στη λευκότητα του σεληνόφωτος,
πυρπολημένη απ' τ' αδηφάγα μάτια των αντρών κι απ' τη δισταχτικήν έκσταση των εφήβων,
πολιορκημένη από εξαίσια, ηλιοκαμένα σώματα, άλκιμα μέλη γυμνασμένα στο κολύμπι, στο κουπί, στο στίβο, στο ποδόσφαιρο
(που έκανα πως δεν τα 'βλεπα)
– ξέρεις, καμιά φορά, θαυμάζοντας, ξεχνάς, ό, τι θαυμάζεις,
σου φτάνει ο θαυμασμός σου, –
θε μου, τι μάτια πάναστρα, κι ανυψωνόμουν σε μιαν αποθέωση αρνημένων άστρων
γιατί, έτσι πολιορκημένη απ' έξω κι από μέσα,
άλλος δρόμος δε μου 'μενε παρά μονάχα προς τα πάνω ή προς τα κάτω.
– Όχι, δε φτάνει.
Άφησε με να έρθω μαζί σου …
Το ξέρω η ώρα είναι πια περασμένη. Άφησέ με,
γιατί τόσα χρόνια, μέρες και νύχτες και πορφυρά μεσημέρια, έμεινα μόνη,
ανένδοτη, μόνη και πάναγνη,
ακόμη στη συζυγική μου κλίνη πάναγνη και μόνη,
γράφοντας ένδοξους στίχους στα γόνατα του Θεού,
στίχους που, σε διαβεβαιώ, θα μένουνε σα λαξευμένοι σε άμεμπτο μάρμαρο
πέρα απ' τη ζωή μου και τη ζωή σου, πέρα πολύ. Δε φτάνει.
Άφησε με να έρθω μαζί σου …
Τούτο το σπίτι δε με σηκώνει πια.
Δεν αντέχω να το σηκώνω στη ράχη μου.
Πρέπει πάντα να προσέχεις, να προσέχεις,
να στεριώνεις τον τοίχο με το μεγάλο μπουφέ
να στεριώνεις τον μπουφέ με το πανάρχαιο σκαλιστό τραπέζι
να στεριώνεις το τραπέζι με τις καρέκλες
να στεριώνεις τις καρέκλες με τα χέρια σου
να βάζεις τον ώμο σου κάτω απ' το δοκάρι που κρέμασε.
Και το πιάνο, σα μαύρο φέρετρο κλεισμένο. Δε τολμάς να τ' ανοίξεις.
Όλο να προσέχεις, να προσέχεις, μην πέσουν, μην πέσεις. Δεν αντέχω.
Άφησε με να έρθω μαζί σου …
Τούτο το σπίτι, παρ όλους τους νεκρούς του, δεν εννοεί να πεθάνει.
Επιμένει να ζει με τους νεκρούς του
να ζει απ' τους νεκρούς του
να ζει απ' τη βεβαιότητα του θανάτου του
και να νοικοκυρεύει ακόμη τους νεκρούς του σ' ετοιμόρροπα κρεββάτια και ράφια.
Άφησε με να έρθω μαζί σου …
Εδώ, όσο σιγά κι αν περπατήσω μες στην άχνα της βραδιάς,
είτε με τις παντούφλες, είτε ξυπόλυτη,
κάτι θα τρίξει, – ένα τζάμι ραγίζει ή κάποιος καθρέφτης,
κάποια βήματα ακούγονται, – δεν είναι δικά μου.
Έξω, στο δρόμο μπορεί να μην ακούγονται τούτα τα βήματα, –
η μεταμέλεια, λένε, φοράει ξυλοπάπουτσα, –
κι αν κάνεις να κοιτάξεις σ' αυτόν ή τον άλλον καθρέφτη,
πίσω απ' την σκόνη και τις ραγισματιές,
διακρίνεις πιο θαμπό και πιο τεμαχισμένο το πρόσωπό σου,
το πρόσωπο σου που άλλο δε ζήτησες στη ζωή παρά να το κρατήσεις
καθάριο κι αδιαίρετο.
Τα χείλη του ποτηριού γυαλίζουν στο φεγγαρόφωτο
σαν κυκλικό ξυράφι – πώς να το φέρω στα χείλη μου;
όσο κι αν διψώ, – πως να το φέρω; – Βλέπεις;
έχω ακόμη διάθεση για παρομοιώσεις, – αυτό μου απόμεινε,
αυτό με βεβαιώνει ακόμη πως δεν λείπω.
Άφησε με να έρθω μαζί σου …
Φορές-φορές, την ώρα που βραδιάζει, έχω την αίσθηση
πως έξω απ' τα παράθυρα περνάει ο αρκουδιάρης
με τη γριά βαρειά του αρκούδα
με το μαλλί της όλο αγκάθια και τριβόλια
σηκώνοντας σκόνη στο συνοικιακό δρόμο
ένα ερημικό σύννεφο σκόνη που θυμιάζει το σούρουπο
και τα παιδιά έχουν γυρίσει σπίτια τους για το δείπνο και δεν τ' αφή – νουν πιαν να βγουν έξω
μ' όλο που πίσω απ' τους τοίχους μαντεύουν το περπάτημα της γριάς αρκούδας –
κι η αρκούδα κουρασμένη πορεύεται μες στη σοφία της μοναξιάς της,
μην ξέροντας για πού και γιατί –
έχει βαρύνει, δεν μπορεί πια να χορεύει στα πισινά της πόδια
δεν μπορεί να φοράει τη δαντελένια σκουφίτσα της να διασκεδάζει τα παιδιά,
τους αργόσχολους, τους απαιτητικούς,
και το μόνο που θέλει είναι να πλαγιάσει στο χώμα
αφήνοντας να την πατάνε στην κοιλιά,
παίζοντας έτσι το τελευταίο παιχνίδι της,
δείχνοντας την τρομερή της δύναμη για παραίτηση,
την ανυπακοή της στα συμφέροντα των άλλων, στους κρίκους των χειλιών της, στην ανάγκη των δοντιών της,
την ανυπακοή της στον πόνο και στη ζωή
με τη σίγουρη συμμαχία του θανάτου – έστω κι ενός αργού θανάτου –
την τελική της ανυπακοή στο θάνατο με τη συνέχεια και τη γνώση της ζωής
που ανηφοράει με γνώση και με πράξη πάνω απ τη σκλαβιά της.
Μα ποιος μπορεί να παίξει ως το τέλος αυτό το παιχνίδι;
Κι η αρκούδα σηκώνεται πάλι και πορεύεται
υπακούοντας στο λουρί της, στους κρίκους της, στα δόντια της,
χαμογελώντας με τα σκισμένα χείλη της στις πενταροδεκάρες που της
ρίχνουνε τα ωραία κι ανυποψίαστα παιδιά
(ωραία ακριβώς γιατί είναι ανυποψίαστα)
και λέγοντας ευχαριστώ. Γιατί οι αρκούδες που γεράσανε
το μόνο που έμαθαν να λένε είναι: ευχαριστώ, ευχαριστώ.
Άφησέ με να έρθω μαζί σου …
Τούτο το σπίτι με πνίγει. Μάλιστα η κουζίνα
είναι σαν το βυθό της θάλασσας. Τα μπρίκια κρεμασμένα γυαλίζουν
σα στρογγυλά, μεγάλα μάτια απίθανων ψαριών,
τα πιάτα σαλεύουν αργά σαν τις μέδουσες,
φύκια κι όστρακα πιάνονται στα μαλλιά μου – δεν μπορώ να τα ξεκολλήσω ύστερα,
δεν μπορώ ν' ανέβω πάλι στην επιφάνεια –
ο δίσκος μου πέφτει απ' τα χέρια άηχος, – σωριάζομαι
και βλέπω τις φυσαλίδες απ' την ανάσα μου ν' ανεβαίνουν, ν' ανεβαίνουν
και προσπαθώ να διασκεδάσω κοιτάζοντές τες
κι αναρωτιέμαι τι θα λέει αν κάποιος βρίσκεται από πάνω και βλέπει αυτές τις φυσαλίδες,
τάχα πως πνίγεται κάποιος ή πως ένας δύτης ανιχνεύει τους βυθούς;
Κι αλήθεια δεν είναι λίγες οι φορές που ανακαλύπτω εκεί, στο βάθος του πνιγμού,
κοράλλια και μαργαριτάρια και θυσαυρούς ναυαγισμένων πλοίων,
απρόοπτες συναντήσεις, και χτεσινά και σημερινά μελλούμενα,
μιαν επαλήθευση σχεδόν αιωνιότητας,
κάποιο ξανάσαμα, κάποιο χαμόγελο αθανασίας, όπως λένε,
μιαν ευτυχία, μια μέθη, κι ενθουσιασμόν ακόμη,
κοράλλια και μαργαριτάρια και ζαφείρια,
μονάχα που δεν ξέρω να τα δώσω – όχι, τα δίνω,
μονάχα που δεν ξέρω αν μπορούν να τα πάρουν – πάντως εγώ τα δίνω.
Άφησέ με να έρθω μαζί σου …
Μια στιγμή, να πάρω τη ζακέτα μου.
Τούτο τον άστατο καιρό, όσο να 'ναι, πρέπει να φυλαγόμαστε.
Έχει υγρασία τα βράδια, και το φεγγάρι
δε σου φαίνεται, αλήθεια, πως επιτείνει την ψύχρα;
Άσενα σου κουμπώσω το πουκάμισο – τι δυνατό το στήθος σου,
– τι δυνατό φεγγάρι, – η πολυθρόνα, λέω κι όταν σηκώνω το φλιτζάνι απ' το τραπέζι
μένει από κάτω μιά τρύπα σιωπή, βάζω αμέσως την παλάμη μου επάνω
να μην κοιτάξω μέσα, – αφήνω πάλι το φλιτζάνι στη θέση του,
και το φεγγάρι μια τρύπα στο κρανίο του κόσμου – μην κοιτάξεις μέσα,
έχει μια δύναμη μαγνητική που σε τραβάει – μην κοιτάξεις, μην κοιτάχτε,
ακούστε με που σας μιλάω – θα πέσετε μέσα. Τούτος ο ίλιγγος ωραίος, ανάλαφρος θα πέσεις, –
ένα μαρμάρινο πηγάδι το φεγγάρι,
ίσκιοι σαλεύουν και βουβά φτερά, μυστιριακές φωνές – δεν τις ακούτε;
Βαθύ-βαθύ το πέσιμο,
βαθύ-βαθύ το ανέβασμα,
το αέρινο άγαλμα κρουστό μες στ' ανοιχτά φτερά του,
βαθειά-βαθειά η αμείλικτη ευεργεσία της σιωπής, –
τρέμουσες φωταψίες της άλλης όχθης, όπως ταλαντεύεσαι μες στο ίδιο σου το κύμα,
ανάσα ωκεανού. Ωραίος, ανάλαφρος
ο ίλιγγος τούτος, – πρόσεξε, θα πέσεις. Μην κοιτάς εμένα,
εμένα η θέση μου είναι το ταλάντευμα – ο εξαίσιος ίλιγγος. Έτσι κάθε απόβραδο
έχω λιγάκι πονοκέφαλο, κάτι ζαλάδες …
Συχνά πετάγομαι στο φαρμακείο απέναντι για καμμιάν ασπιρίνη,
άλλοτε πάλι βαριέμαι και μένω με τον πονοκέφαλό μου
ν' ακούω μες στους τοίχους τον κούφιο θόρυβο που κάνουν οι σωλήνες του νερού,
ή ψήνω έναν καφέ, και, πάντα αφηρημένη,
ξεχνιέμαι κ ετοιμάζω – δυο ποιος να τον πιει τον άλλον; –
αστείο αλήθεια, τον αφήνω στο περβάζι να κρυώνει
ή κάποτε πίνω και τον δεύτερο, κοιτάζοντας απ' το παράθυρο τον πράσινο γλόμπο του φαρμακείου
σαν το πράσινο φως ενός αθόρυβου τραίνου που έρχεται να με πάρει
με τα μαντίλια μου, τα στραβοπατημένα μου παπούτσια, τη μαύρη τσάντα μου, τα ποιήματα μου,
χωρίς καθόλου βαλίτσες – τι να τις κάνεις;
Άφησέ με να έρθω μαζί σου …
Α, φεύγεις; Καληνύχτα. Όχι, δε θα έρθω. Καληνύχτα.
Εγώ θα βγω σε λίγο. Ευχαριστώ. Γιατί, επιτέλους, πρέπει
να βγω απ' αυτό το τσακισμένο σπίτι.
Πρέπει να δω λιγάκι πολιτεία, – όχι, όχι το φεγγάρι –
την πολιτεία με τα ροζιασμένα χέρια της, την πολιτεία του μεροκάματου,
την πολιτεία που ορκίζεται στο ψωμί και στη γροθιά της
την πολιτεία που μας αντέχει στη ράχη της
με τις μικρότητες μας, τις κακίες, τις έχτρες μας,
με τις φιλοδοξίες, την άγνοιά μας και τα γερατειά μας, –
ν' ακούσω τα μεγάλα βήματά της πολιτείας,
να μην ακούω πια τα βήματα σου
μήτε τα βήματα του Θεού, μήτε και τα δικά μου βήματα. Καληνύχτα …
(Το δωμάτιο σκοτεινιάζει. Φαίνεται πως κάποιο σύννεφο θα έκρυψε το φεγγάρι. Μονομιάς, σαν κάποιο χέρι να δυνάμωσε το ραδιόφωνο του γειτονικού μπαρ, ακούστηκε μια πολύ γνωστή μουσική φράση. Και τότε κατάλαβα πως όλη τούτη τη σκηνή τη συνόδευε χαμηλόφωνα η “Σονάτα του Σεληνόφωτος,” μόνο το πρώτο μέρος. Ο νέος θα κατηφορίζει τώρα μ' ένα ειρωνικό κι ίσως συμπονετικό χαμόγελο στα καλογραμμένα χείλη του και μ' ένα συναίσθημα απαιλευθέρωσης. Όταν θα φτάσει ακριβώς στον Αη-Νικόλα, πριν κατέβει τη μαρμάρινη σκάλα, θα γελάσει, - ένα γέλιο δυνατό, ασυγκράτητο. Το γέλιο του δε θ' ακουστεί καθόλου ανάρμοστα κάτω απ' το φεγγάρι. Ίσως το μόνο ανάρμοστο να είναι το ότι δεν είναι καθόλου ανάρμοστο. Σε λίγο ο Νέος θα σωπάσει, θα σοβαρευτεί και θα πει: “Η παρακμή μιάς εποχής.” Έτσι, ολότελα ήσυχος πια, θα ξεκουμπώσει πάλι το πουκάμισό του και θα τραβήξει το δρόμο του. Όσο για τη γυναίκα με τα μαύρα, δεν ξέρω αν βγήκε τελικά απ το σπίτι. Το φεγγαρόφωτο λάμπει ξανά. Και στις γωνίες του δωματίου οι σκιές σφίγγονται από μιαν αβάσταχτη μετάνοια, σχεδόν οργή, όχι τόσο για τη ζωή, όσο για την άχρηστη εξομολόγηση. Ακούτε; Το ραδιόφωνο συνεχίζει.)»
The translation by Peter Green and Beverly Bardsley in The Fourth Dimension (London: Anvil Press Poetry, 1993) reads:
Moonlight Sonata
A spring evening. A large room in an old house. A woman of a certain age, dressed in black, is speaking to a young man. They have not turned on the lights. Through both windows the moonlight shines relentlessly. I forgot to mention that the Woman in Black has published two or three interesting volume of poetry with a religious flavour. So, the Woman in Black is speaking to the Young Man:
Let me come with you. What a moon there is tonight!
The moon is kind – it won’t show
that my hair turned white. The moon
will turn my hair to gold again. You wouldn’t understand.
Let me come with you …
When there’s a moon the shadows in the house grow larger,
invisible hands draw the curtains,
a ghostly finger writes forgotten words in the dust
on the piano – I don’t want to hear them. Hush.
Let me come with you
a little farther down, as far as the brickyard wall,
to the point where the road turns and the city appears
concrete and airy, whitewashed with moonlight,
so indifferent and insubstantial
so positive, like metaphysics,
that finally you can believe you exist and do not exist,
that you never existed, that time with its destruction never existed.
Let me come with you …
We’ll sit for a little on the low wall, up on the hill,
and as the spring breeze blows around us
perhaps we’ll even imagine that we are flying,
because, often, and now especially, I hear the sound of my own dress
like the sound of two powerful wings opening and closing,
and when you enclose yourself within the sound of that flight
you feel the tight mesh of your throat, your ribs, your flesh,
and thus constricted amid the muscles of the azure air,
amid the strong nerves of the heavens,
it makes no difference whether you go or return
and it makes no difference that my hair has turned white
(that is not my sorrow – my sorrow is that my heart too does not turn white).
Let me come with you …
I know that each one of us travels to love alone,
alone to faith and to death.
I know it. I’ve tried it. It doesn’t help.
Let me come with you …
This house is haunted, it preys on me –
what I mean is, it has aged a great deal, the nails are working loose,
the portraits drop as though plunging into the void,
the plaster falls without a sound
as the dead man’s hat falls from the peg in the dark hallway
as the worn woolen glove falls from the knee of silence
or as moonbeam falls on the old, gutted armchair.
Once it too was new – not the photograph that you are starting at so dubiously –
I mean the armchair, very comfortable, you could sit in it for hours
with your eyes closed and dream whatever came into your head
– a sandy beach, smooth, wet, shining in the moonlight,
shining more than my old patent leather shoes that I send each month to the shoeshine shop on the corner,
or a fishing boat’s sail that sinks to the bottom rocked by its own breathing,
a three-cornered sail like a handkerchief folded slantwise in half only
as though it had nothing to shut up or hold fast
no reason to flutter open in farewell. I have always has a passion for handkerchiefs,
not to keep anything tied in them,
no flower seeds or camomile gathered in the fields at sunset,
nor to tie them with four knots like the caps the workers wear on the construction site across the street,
nor to dab my eyes – I’ve kept my eyesight good;
I’ve never worn glasses. A harmless idiosyncracy, handkerchiefs.
Now I fold them in quarters, in eighths, in sixteenths
to keep my fingers occupied. And now I remember
that this is how I counted the music when I went to the Odeion
with a blue pinafore and a white collar, with two blond braids
– 8, 16, 32, 64 –
hand in hand with a small friend of mine, peachy, all light and picked flowers,
(forgive me such digressions – a bad habit) – 32, 64 – and my family rested
great hopes on my musical talent. But I was telling you about the armchair –
gutted – the rusted springs are showing, the stuffing –
I thought of sending it next door to the furniture shop,
but where’s the time and the money and the inclination – what to fix first? –
I thought of throwing a sheet over it – I was afraid
of a white sheet in so much moonlight. People sat here
who dreamed great dreams, as you do and I too,
and now they rest under earth untroubled by rain or the moon.
Let me come with you …
We’ll pause for a little at the top of St. Nicholas’ marble steps,
and afterward you’ll descend and I will turn back,
having on my left side the warmth from a casual touch of your jacket
and some squares of light, too, from small neighbourhood windows
and this pure white mist from the moon, like a great procession of silver swans –
and I do not fear this manifestation, for at another time
on many spring evenings I talked with God who appeared to me
clothed in the haze and glory of such a moonlight –
and many young men, more handsome even than you, I sacrificed to him –
I dissolved, so white, so unapproachable, amid my white flame, in the whiteness of moonlight,
burnt up by men’s voracious eyes and the tentative rapture of youths,
besieged by splendid bronzed bodies,
strong limbs exercising at the pool, with oars, on the track, at soccer (I pretended not to see them),
foreheads, lips and throats, knees, fingers and eyes,
chests and arms and thighs (and truly I did not see them)
– you know, sometimes, when you’re entranced, you forget what entranced you, the entrancement alone is enough –
my God, what star-bright eyes, and I was lifted up to an apotheosis of disavowed stars
because, besieged thus from without and from within,
no other road was left me save only the way up or the way down. – No, it is not enough.
Let me come with you …
I know it’s very late. Let me,
because for so many years – days, nights, and crimson noons – I’ve stayed alone,
unyielding, alone and immaculate,
even in my marriage bed immaculate and alone,
writing glorious verses to lay on the knees of God,
verses that, I assure you, will endure as if chiselled in flawless marble
beyond my life and your life, well beyond. It is not enough.
Let me come with you ...
This house can’t bear me anymore.
I cannot endure to bear it on my back.
You must always be careful, be careful,
to hold up the wall with the large buffet
to hold up the table with the chairs
to hold up the chairs with your hands
to place your shoulder under the hanging beam.
And the piano, like a closed black coffin. You do not dare to open it.
You have to be so careful, so careful, lest they fall, lest you fall. I cannot bear it.
Let me come with you …
This house, despite all its dead, has no intention of dying.
It insists on living with its dead
on living off its dead
on living off the certainty of its death
and on still keeping house for its dead, the rotting beds and shelves.
Let me come with you …
Here, however quietly I walk through the mist of evening,
whether in slippers or barefoot,
there will be some sound: a pane of glass cracks or a mirror,
some steps are heard – not my own.
Outside, in the street, perhaps these steps are not heard –
repentance, they say, wears wooden shoes –
and if you look into this or that other mirror,
behind the dust and the cracks,
you discern – darkened and more fragmented – your face,
your face, which all your life you sought only to keep clean and whole.
The lip of the glass gleams in the moonlight
like a round razor – how can I lift it to my lips?
however much I thirst – how can I lift it – Do you see?
I am already in a mood for similes – this at least is left me,
reassuring me still that my wits are not failing.
Let me come with you …
At times, when evening descends, I have the feeling
that outside the window the bear-keeper is going by with his old heavy she-bear,
her fur full of burrs and thorns,
stirring dust in the neighborhood street
a desolate cloud of dust that censes the dusk,
and the children have gone home for supper and aren’t allowed outdoors again,
even though behind the walls they divine the old bear’s passing –
and the tired bear passes in the wisdom of her solitude, not knowing wherefore and why –
she’s grown heavy, can no longer dance on her hind legs,
can’t wear her lace cap to amuse the children, the idlers, the importunate,
and all she wants is to lie down on the ground
letting them trample on her belly, playing thus her final game,
showing her dreadful power for resignation,
her indifference to the interest of others, to the rings in her lips, the compulsion of her teeth,
her indifference to pain and to life with the sure complicity of death – even a slow death –
her final indifference to death with the continuity and knowledge of life
which transcends her enslavement with knowledge and with action.
But who can play this game to the end?
And the bear gets up again and moves on
obedient to her leash, her rings, her teeth,
smiling with torn lips at the pennies the beautiful and unsuspecting children toss
(beautiful precisely because unsuspecting)
and saying thank you. Because bears that have grown old
can say only one thing: thank you; thank you.
Let me come with you …
This house stifles me. The kitchen especially
is like the depths of the sea. The hanging coffee pots gleam
like round, huge eyes of improbable fish,
the plates undulate slowly like medusas,
seaweed and shells catch in my hair – later I can’t pull them loose –
I can’t get back to the surface –
the tray falls silently from my hands – I sink down
and I see the bubbles from my breath rising, rising
and I try to divert myself watching them
and I wonder what someone would say who happened to be above and saw these bubbles,
perhaps that someone was drowning or a diver exploring the depths?
And in fact more than a few times I’ve discovered there, in the depths of drowning,
coral and pearls and treasures of shipwrecked vessels,
unexpected encounters, past, present, and yet to come,
a confirmation almost of eternity,
a certain respite, a certain smile of immortality, as they say,
a happiness, an intoxication, inspiration even,
coral and pearls and sapphires; only I don’t know how to give them – no, I do give them;
only I don’t know if they can take them – but still, I give them.
Let me come with you …
One moment while I get my jacket.
The way this weather’s so changeable, I must be careful.
It’s damp in the evening, and doesn’t the moon
seem to you, honestly, as if it intensifies the cold?
Let me button your shirt – how strong your chest is
– how strong the moon – the armchair, I mean – and whenever I lift the cup from the table
a hole of silence is left underneath. I place my palm over it at once
so as not to see through it – I put the cup back in its place;
and the moon’s a hole in the skull of the world – don’t look through it,
it’s a magnetic force that draws you – don’t look, don’t any of you look,
listen to what I’m telling you – you’ll fall in. This giddiness,
beautiful, ethereal – you will fall in –
the moon’s marble well,
shadows stir and mute wings, mysterious voices – don’t you hear them?
Deep, deep the fall,
deep, deep the ascent,
the airy statue enmeshed in its open wings,
deep, deep the inexorable benevolence of the silence –
trembling lights on the opposite shore, so that you sway in your own wave,
the breathing of the ocean. Beautiful, ethereal
this giddiness – be careful, you’ll fall. Don’t look at me,
for me my place is this wavering – this splendid vertigo. And so every evening
I have little headache, some dizzy spells.
Often I slip out to the pharmacy across the street for a few aspirin,
but at times I’m too tired and I stay here with my headache
and listen to the hollow sound the pipes make in the walls,
or drink some coffee, and, absentminded as usual,
I forget and make two – who’ll drink the other?
It’s really funny, I leave it on the windowsill to cool
or sometimes drink them both, looking out the window at the bright green globe of the pharmacy
that’s like the green light of a silent train coming to take me away
with my handkerchiefs, my run-down shoes, my black purse, my verses,
but no suitcases – what would one do with them?
Let my come with you …
Oh, are you going? Goodnight. No, I won’t come. Goodnight.
I’ll be going myself in a little. Thank you. Because, in the end, I must
get out of this broken-down house.
I must see a bit of the city – no, not the moon –
the city with its calloused hands, the city of daily work,
the city that swears by bread and by its fist,
the city that bears all of us on its back
with our pettiness, sins, and hatreds,
our ambitions, our ignorance and our senility.
I need to hear the great footsteps of the city,
and no longer to hear your footsteps
or God’s, or my own. Goodnight.
The room grows dark. It looks as though a cloud may have covered the moon. All at once, as if someone had turned up the radio in the nearby bar, a very familiar musical phrase can be heard. Then I realize that “The Moonlight Sonata”, just the first movement, has been playing very softly through this entire scene. The Young Man will go down the hill now with an ironic and perhaps sympathetic smile on his finely chiselled lips and with a feeling of release. Just as he reaches St. Nicolas, before he goes down the marble steps, he will laugh – a loud, uncontrollable laugh. His laughter will not sound at all unseemly beneath the moon. Perhaps the only unseemly thing will be that nothing is unseemly. Soon the Young Man will fall silent, become serious, and say: “The decline of an era.” So, thoroughly calm once more, he will unbutton his shirt again and go on his way. As for the woman in black, I don’t know whether she finally did get out of the house. The moon is shining again. And in the corners of the room the shadows intensify with an intolerable regret, almost fury, not so much for the life, as for the useless confession. Can you hear? The radio plays on:
Looking with eyes and listening with ears … street art in Rathmines, Dublin (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2024)
Patrick Comerford
We are continuing in Ordinary Time in the Church and this week began with the Fifth Sunday after Trinity (Trinity V, 20 July 2025).
Before today begins, I am taking some quiet time this morning to give thanks, for reflection, prayer and reading in these ways:
1, today’s Gospel reading;
2, a reflection on the Gospel reading;
3, a prayer from the USPG prayer diary;
4, the Collects and Post-Communion prayer of the day.
‘Seeing they do not perceive, and hearing they do not listen, nor do they understand’ (Matthew 13: 8) … street art in Iraklion (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2025)
Matthew 13: 10-17 (NRSVA):
10 Then the disciples came and asked him, ‘Why do you speak to them in parables?’ 11 He answered, ‘To you it has been given to know the secrets of the kingdom of heaven, but to them it has not been given. 12 For to those who have, more will be given, and they will have an abundance; but from those who have nothing, even what they have will be taken away. 13 The reason I speak to them in parables is that “seeing they do not perceive, and hearing they do not listen, nor do they understand.” 14 With them indeed is fulfilled the prophecy of Isaiah that says:
“You will indeed listen, but never understand,
and you will indeed look, but never perceive.
15 For this people’s heart has grown dull,
and their ears are hard of hearing,
and they have shut their eyes;
so that they might not look with their eyes,
and listen with their ears,
and understand with their heart and turn –
and I would heal them.”
16 But blessed are your eyes, for they see, and your ears, for they hear. 17 Truly I tell you, many prophets and righteous people longed to see what you see, but did not see it, and to hear what you hear, but did not hear it.’
‘They … listen with their ears, and understand with their heart and turn’ (Matthew 13: 15) … ‘Reflections of Bedford’, a sculpture by Rick Kirby on Silver Street (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2024)
This morning’s reflection:
In the Gospel reading at the Eucharist yesterday (Matthew 13: 1-9), the quotation from Jesus began and ended with the word ‘Listen.’ In this morning’s reading, he speaks about those who seeing but do not perceive, who hearing but do not listen or understand.
Today’s reading continues from the Parables of the Kingdom and forms an interlude between the parable of the sower and its interpretation. Jesus is asked by the disciples why he speaks to the people in parables.
There seems to be an implication that Jesus is speaking clearly to his disciples, who are insiders, but in riddles to the people because they are outsiders. But this also seem to contradict the purpose of speaking in parables, which is to use helpful and familiar images to lead people to a better understanding of a deeper message. Indeed, the parable of the sower is a good example.
Perhaps once again we are dealing with the difference between ‘insiders’ and ‘outsiders’. The ‘insiders’ are those who give Jesus a ready hearing. Naturally, they are more open to hearing about the ‘mysteries’ of the Kingdom and to assimilating what they hear. The ‘outsiders’, on the other hand, are precisely so because they have closed minds and are not ready to listen.
Speaking of the ‘insiders’, Jesus says: ‘For to those who have, more will be given, and they will have an abundance, but from those who have nothing, even what they have will be taken away’ (verse 12). Those who have opened themselves to the Word of God will find themselves evermore enriched.
But le those who have not even begun to accept the Word will end up in an even worse predicament than the one they are in now, for they look but do not see, they listen but do not hear or understand (verse 13).
This happens, not because the parables are difficult, but because the hearers are not prepared to listen.
Jesus then quotes from the Prophet Isaiah (9: 13), who might better understood as speaking in an audibly sarcastic tone:
“You will indeed listen, but never understand,
and you will indeed look, but never perceive.
15 For this people’s heart has grown dull,
and their ears are hard of hearing,
and they have shut their eyes;
so that they might not look with their eyes,
and listen with their ears,
and understand with their heart and turn –
and I would heal them.”
I find it disturbing when I realise someone is talking at me rather than to ne, and certainly not talking with me. In a similar way it is disturbing to realise someone hears me, but is not actually listening to me.
At one stage during tense trade union negotiations many years ago, the employer’s representative responded to my presentation, saying: ‘I hear what you are saying.’
I retorted: ‘Yes, but does it just go in one ear and out the other?’
I asked for an adjournment, and from the union side we said we would return to the talks when he indicated he would not only listen to us, but engage with us and comit his side to meaningful discussions. We waited outside for 10 or 15 minutes, and felt we truly were outsiders. We were about to leave the building when we were called back inside. He had heard, and he had listened, and instead of talking to and and at us, he began to talk with us. Confidence was restored, and we soon reached a settlement.
If we are prepared to see and to listen acitvely and to be fully engaged, both actions can make radical changes in our lives, in our attitudes, in our values and priorities, in our relationships. But too many people remain effectively blind and deaf.
‘Lord God, we pray for the House of the Epiphany, bless its mission in training clergy and laity’ (USPG Prayer Diary, 24 July 2025) … the House of the Epiphany, Kuching (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2024)
Today’s Prayers (Thursday 24 July 2025):
The theme this week (20 to 26 July) in Pray with the World Church, the prayer diary of the Anglican mission agency USPG (United Society Partners in the Gospel), is ‘Diversity in Sarawak’ (pp 20-21). I introduced this theme on Sunday with reflections from Sarawak and the Diocese of Kuching.
The USPG prayer diary today (Thursday 24 July 2025) invites us to pray:
Lord God, we pray for the House of the Epiphany, bless its mission in training clergy and laity. We pray too for diocesan schools, including Saint Thomas’s and Saint Mary’s in Kuching.
The Collect:
Almighty and everlasting God,
by whose Spirit the whole body of the Church
is governed and sanctified:
hear our prayer which we offer for all your faithful people,
that in their vocation and ministry
they may serve you in holiness and truth
to the glory of your name;
through our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ,
who is alive and reigns with you,
in the unity of the Holy Spirit,
one God, now and for ever.
The Post-Communion Prayer:
Grant, O Lord, we beseech you,
that the course of this world may be so peaceably ordered
by your governance,
that your Church may joyfully serve you in all godly quietness;
through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Additional Collect:
Almighty God,
send down upon your Church
the riches of your Spirit,
and kindle in all who minister the gospel
your countless gifts of grace;
through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Collect on the Eve of James:
Merciful God,
whose holy apostle Saint James,
leaving his father and all that he had,
was obedient to the calling of your Son Jesus Christ
and followed him even to death:
help us, forsaking the false attractions of the world,
to be ready at all times to answer your call without delay;
through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord,
who is alive and reigns with you,
in the unity of the Holy Spirit,
one God, now and for ever.
‘Lord God, we pray for … diocesan schools, including Saint Thomas’s and Saint Mary’s in Kuching’ (USPG Prayer Diary, 24 July 2025) … Saint Mary’s School, Kuching (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2024)
I was writing at the weekend about William Stanley (1474-1552) of Comberford Hall, between Lichfield and Tamworth, and how I came across his will in the Bodleian Libraries in Oxford, where it is part of the Weld Family Papers, including papers of the Stanley, Heveningham, Simeon, Weld and Eyre families, dating from 1293 to 1809.
William Stanley was the second son of Sir Humphrey Stanley of Pipe Hall and Dame Ellen Lee. He came to live at Comberford Hall when he married the much younger Margaret Comberford (1494-1568), daughter of Thomas Comberford of Comberford and Dorothy FitzHerbert. She was a sister of Humphrey Comberford, of Comberford Hall and Master of the Guild of Saint Mary and Saint John the Baptist in 1530; Richard Comberford, the putative ancestor of the Comerfords of Kilkenny and Wexford; Henry Comberford, Precentor of Lichfield Cathedral; and John Comberford of Wednesbury.
William and Margaret had probably married late in life, when he was in his late 50s and she was in her 30s, and they were the parents of an only daughter Dorothy Stanley (1530-1587), who married her cousin Christopher Heveningham (1540-1574) of Pipe Hall. Yet, despite this late marriage and having only one child, the descendants of William Stanley and Margaret Comberford continued to live in the Lichfield area for many generations and for centuries long after they died.
The lines of descent from William and Margaret are tangled, confusing and difficult to unravel. But they tell tales of a failed court battles to recover family estates at Pipe, near Lichfield; the intrigues of a schemer who had his wife’s cousins locked up in the Bethlehem Asylum, the original Bedlam in London; illegitimate children written out of their aunt’s will; and the spiralling decline into poverty of descendants of a oncle landed family who became leather workers and tailors in Lichfield, and fell into oblivion in subsequent generations, eventually employed as low-paid housemaids in the Cathedral Close.
These are stories of recusancy in the Elizabethan and Jacobean era, of royalists who lost their estates, of soldier’s lost children brought from Ireland to live in Lichfield, and of young men who went into exile in the West Indies, Jamaica and Virginia. These are stories of downward social mobility, but they also show how the descendants of the Comberford family in the Stanley, Heveningham and Wakelin families, persisted in living in the Lichfield area for 350 years or more after the death of William Stanley of Comberford Hall.
Comberford Hall, east of Lichfield and north of Tamworth … William Stanley was living at Comberford when he made his will in 1552 (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2025)
William Stanley and Margaret Comberford had probably married late in life, when he was in his late 50s and she was in her 30s, and they were the parents of an only daughter Dorothy.
Dorothy Stanley (1530-1587), who married her cousin Christopher Heveningham (1540-1574), daughter of Mary Moyle and Erasmus Heveningham. Dorothy and Christopher were the parents of Dorothy Heveningham and Sir Walter Heveningham, of Aston and Pipe, and the descendants of these lines of the Stanley and Comberford families continued to live in the Lichfield area for many generations.
The Heveningham family in Staffordshire is traced back to Erasmus Heveningham of the manor of Aston in Staffordshire and his wife Mary Moyle. Erasmus came to Staffordshire from Ketteringham in Norfolk and he inherited by marriage the Staffordshire estates of Sir John Stanley of Pipe, her maternal grandfather.
Their only child was:
Christopher Heveningham, acquired in 1565 from John Stanley and Jane his wife, a 300-acre estate at Clifton Camvile. He died in 1574, but made no will. He married Dororthy, daughter and only child of William Stanley of Comberford Hall. William Stanley was a brother of John Stanley, father of Isabel, whose daughter Mary Moyle married Erasmus Heveningham – meaning Christopher married his grandmother's first cousin.
Dorothy’s mother, Margaret Comberford , wife of William Stanley, was a daughter of Thomas Comberford of Comberford and his wife Dorothy, daughter of Ralph Fitzherbert of Norbury, Derbyshire.
Dorothy was named in 1581 as one of ‘the most obstinate and dangerous recusants’ in Staffordshire. She paid a fine of £10 a year for herself and her ‘servant’ Katherine Comberford in 1586, when they faced legal penalties for their recusancy. Katherine Comberford was a close family relation, for Dorothy’s mother (Margaret, wife of William Stanley) was a daughter of Thomas Comberford of Comberford and Dorothy (Fitzherbert) of Norbury.
John Comberford of Wednesbury, in his will dated 23 April 1559, left to ‘Cristall Hennyngham’ a black damask gown and left monetary bequests to his sister Margaret Stanley and his niece Dorothy Heveningham.
Dorothy and Christopher Heveningham were the parents of:
1, Walter Heveningham, of whom next. 2, William Heveningham. 3, Erasmus Heveningham. 4, Mary, married Anthony Fitzherbert, strengthening the links with the Comberford family. 5, Dorothy married (as his second wife) Sir Henry Townsend of Count, Shropshire.
The eldest son of Dorothy and Christopher Heveningham:
Sir Walter Heveningham (ca 1552-1636), of Pipe, was about 11 when his father died. He was the High Sheriff of Staffordshire (1609). He married Anne Fitzherbert of Norbury, strengthening the ties of kinship with the Comberford family. He died in 1636. They were the parents of an only son and three daughters:
1, Nicholas Heveningham, only son, of whom next. 2, Mary, who married (1) Richard Brereton of Malpas, Cheshire; and (2) Sylvester Plunket. 3, Margaret, born 1591, married Christopher Horton of Catton, Derbyshire, in Lichfield Cathedral in 1610. 4, Elizabeth.
The only son of Sir Walter Heveningham and Anne Fitzherbert was:
Nicholas Heveningham (ca 1583-1627). He was educated at Balliol College, Oxford, and died 20 December 1627. He married Elizabeth Bowes, a descendant of the Stanley family of Elford, and they were the parents of three sons:
1, Walter Heveningham (1609-1691), born at Pipe Hall near Lichfield in 1609. He was a Roman Catholic, and was a royalist during the Civil War. He died in Aston, November 1691. He married Mary Middlemore of Edgbaston, also from a Royalist and Recusant family. They had no sons as male heirs, but had two daughters:
• 1a, Mary (1646-1694) married Walter Fowler, and had no children.
• 2a, Bridget, the eventual sole heiress, married Sir James Simeon, who retained Pipe Hall and the Heveningham estates near Lichfield in the face of bitter legal disputes that eventually brought about the financial and social ruin of the Heveningham family. Bridget and James Simeon had three children: Sir Edward Simeon, 2nd Baronet; Sir James Simeon, 3rd Baronet; and Margaret, who married Humphrey Weld of Lulworth Castle, Dorset. The estates of Aston and Pipe Hall then passed to the Weld family. 2, Simon Heveningham (ca 1617-1699), of whom next. 3, Christopher Heveningham, of Pipe, educated went to Trinity College, Oxford (BA 1632, MA 1635). He fought as a royalist during the civil war, and died unmarried.
The ‘Site of the First Bethlehem Hospital 1247-1676’ near Liverpool Street Station, London (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)
The second son of Elizabeth (Bowes) and Nicholas Heveningham:
Simon Heveningham (ca 1617-1699). He was born ca 1617. Unlike the Puritan and Whig Heveninghams of Suffolk, the Staffordshire branch were Cavaliers, and mostly ‘Recusants’. Pipe Hall was plundered by Roundhead soldiers about the time that Heveningham Church was desecrated by Puritan fanatics. Simon married Katherine Alport and they were the parents of three sons and a daughter:
1, John Heveningham, born after 1658; died 1689-1691 in the Bethlehem Asylum (Bedlam), London. 2, Henry Heveningham, born after 1658; died 25 November 1701 in the Bethlehem Asylum (Bedlam), London. 3, Christopher Heveningham (1658-1737), of whom next. 4, Dorothy, living unmarried in 1691.
The three brothers, John, Henry and Christopher, were educated abroad as Roman Catholics. When they returned to England, Sir James Simeon, who had married their first cousin Bridget, had John and Henry committed to the Bethlehem Asylum or Bedlam, London, to prevent them claiming the Heveningham estate that his wife had inherited. John died within a few weeks and Henry died 10 or 12 years later. Simeon also sent the third brother Christopher to the West Indies, where he remained many years and was said to be dead.
However, Christopher returned to England and conformed to the Church of England. This third son of Simon Heveningham was:
Christopher Heveningham (1658-1737). He was born in Lichfield ca 1658, and along with his two older brothers, was educated abroad as a Roman Catholic. After returning to England, he settled in Lichfield and his name is found in the poll-books of Lichfield down to 1718.
He married Mary Brooke, only daughter and heir of William Brooke of Elford in Meryvale Church, near Atherstone, on 28 November 1692. She too was descended from the Stanley family of Elford.
Christopher Heveningham dissipated his wife’s fortune in his legal attempts to recover the Heveningham estates from the Simeon family. Shortly before their marriage, on 11 and 12 November 1692, Mary Brooke mortgaged The Holms and other lands attached to Elford Mills, to Samuel White of Middleton, Warwickshire, as security for repaying £63 on 13 November 1694.
Within five years, in a deed dated 15 April 1699, Samuel White’s interest was transferred to William Lovelace of Clifton Campville. In this deed, Christopher Heveningham is described as late of Elford, now of Burton upon Trent, and Mary his wife as daughter and heir of the late William Brooke, late of Haselour, Staffordshire, 'nephew and heir of John Brooke of Harleston, Staffordshire.
In a final deed, dated 10 May 1700, Isaac Hawkins of Burton upon Trent and William Lovelace assign their interest in the property mortgaged by Christopher and Mary Heveningham, including the Holms, Elford Mills and other lands in Elford, to John Goldsmith of Lichfield, milliner, and Ellinor his wife. By then, Christopher Heveningham was living in Lichfield.
The Johnson memorial in Saint Michael’s, Lichfield … Christopher Heveningham was a juror at the trial of Michael Johnson in 1718 (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)
Christopher and his son Henry were on the panel from which the jury was selected in 1718 for the trial in Lichfield of Michael Johnson, father of Samuel Johnson, although only Christopher was selected.
He has been described as ‘a rolling stone’ who wasted his wife’s inheritance in unprofitable litigation, and as consequence his children and their descendants lived in more humble circumstances. He seems to be the ancestor of many Heveningham, Henningham and Wakelin families who continued to live for generations in Lichfield, Wolverhampton and the South Staffordshire and Birmingham areas.
Towards the end of his life, Christopher Heveningham moved to Tenford, near Cheadle, Staffordshire, where he bought a house from Edward Hale. He made his will on 23 November 1737 and it was proved in the Lichfield Diocesan Court on 3 March 1738. The inventory totals £25 6s 11d. His wife Mary had died in 1721 was buried from Saint Mary’s Church, Lichfield, on 4 April 1721.
Saint Mary’s Church, Lichfield, at night … many members of the Heveningham family were baptised and buried from here (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2025)
Mary and Christopher Heveningham were the parents of five sons and a daughter:
1, Ann Heveningham (1692-1692), born in Elford, and died in infancy in Elford. 2, Henry Heveningham (1693-1748), of Spade Green on Abnall’s Lane, Lichfield, of whom next. 3, Walter Heveningham (1694-1734), fellmonger (leather trade), of Lichfield, born 1695, baptised in Elford 11 January 1695. He died in 1734 and was buried at Saint Michael’s, Lichfield, on 19 June 1734. His will is dated 7 April 1734 and was proved in Lichfield on 7 February 1735. 4, Christopher Heveningham (1698-1748), of whom after his brother Henry. 5, Brooke Heveningham (1700-1703), baptised at Saint Mary’s, Lichfield, on 11 January 1700, buried in June 1703.
6, Henrietta Maria, born Lichfield 170, baptised in Saint Chad’s 11 January 1701. She married (1) John Rumbold of Eccleshall, near Stafford,12 April 1722; (2) William Picken of Eccleshall, 2 July 1732. 7, Brooke Heveningham (1703-1773), of Lichfield and Tenford, near Cheadle. He was born in Lichfield in 1703, and baptised on 1 June 1703 in Saint Mary’s. He was left his father’s personal estate, including the messuage at Tenford. He died in 1773 and was buried on 25 April 1773 at Saint Mary’s.
The eldest son of Mary and Christopher Heveningham:
Henry Heveningham (1693-1748) was baptised at Elford on 8 February 1693. He was married three times: (1), Mary Ledward, married in Saint Mary’s, Lichfield, on 13 February 1715, died 1716, buried 23 June 1716 at Saint Michael’s, Lichfield; (2), Dorothy (‘Dorillio’) Walters in Saint Michael’s, Lichfield, on 16 February 1717, died 1734, buried at Saint Michael’s, 20 June 1734; (3), Mary Perry (1693-1768), ca 1730.
At the end of his days, Henry Heveningham was living in Woodhouses, west of Lichfield. Woodhouses, with neighbouring Burntwood and Ediall, was part of Saint Michael’s Parish Lichfield, and Pipe Hall manor house is in Woodhouses. Henry died in 1748 and was buried at Hammerwich on 4 February 1748.
His widow later moved to Highgate, near London, and in her will, dated 7 January 1763, she left all her property to her daughter Mary Heveningham, including seven acres in Saint Michael’s Parish, Lichfield.
Henry’s children seem to have included:
1, John Heveningham. 2, Charles Heveningham (1737-1782), mercer and draper, of Dam Street, Lichfield, of whom later. 3, Thomas Heveningham (ca 1743-1823), mercer and draper, of North Street, Wolverhampton. He was twice married: (1) Elizabeth Reeve in Saint Michael’s, Lichfield, on 11 April 1774; (2) Sara Fleeming in Kingswinford, Staffordshire, on 31 March 1791. He died in Wolverhampton on 23 April 1823, and his widow Sara died in 1833. In all, he was the father 19 children, and their descendants are scattered widely.
Other sources say Henry was also the father of:
1, Edward Heveningham, who died in 1758 and was buried in Saint Chad’s, Lichfield, 26 August 1758; his only son, also Edward Heveningham, had no children; his daughter Mary was buried at Saint Chad’s on 2 May 1753. 2, John Heveningham, living in 1764, and identified with the father of John Heveingham of Chesterfield County, Virginia, who made his will on 18 December 1809.
The second named son of Mary and Henry Heveningham was:
Charles Heveningham (1737-1782), mercer and draper, of Dam Street, Lichfield. He was born in Lichfield in 1737, and it is said he spent part of his childhood in Pipe Hall. He was a Roman Catholic. He married Mary Robinson in Appleby, Leicestershire, on 6 June 1771. He died in Lichfield and was buried at Saint Michael’s on 6 May 1782; his wife Mary died in 1820, and was buried at Saint Michael’s on 25 October 1820.
Mary (Robinson) and Charles Heveningham were the parents of:
1, Charles Heveningham (1772-1800), born in Lichfield 9 July 1772, died in Jamaica 1800, in the same year as his mother. 2, Elizabeth Heveningham (1774-1823), born in Lichfield 18 August 1774, died 1823. She married in Saint Philip’s Church, Birmingham, ca 1800 to William Warner of Kitwell Hall, Worcestershire. Their daughter Margaret (born 6 June, 1827) married as her third husband Sir John Judkin-Fitzgerald (1787-1860), 2nd Baronet, of Lisheen, Co Tipperary. 3, Henry Heveningham (1776-1807), born Lichfield 7 June 1776, died unmarried in Manchester 1807, buried at Bridgewater Street Wesleyan Chapel on 5 July 1807. 4, Mary Heveningham (1777-1849). 5, John Heveningham ( 1778-1785), buried 10 April 1785 at Saint Michael’s, Lichfield.
6, George Heveningham (1782-1782), died an infant, buried 29 September 1782 in the same grave as his father.
Saint Michael’s Church, Greenhill, Lichfield … many members of the Heveningham family are buried in the churchyard (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2023)
The third son of Mary and Christopher Heveningham was:
Christopher Heveningham (1698-1748), currier in the leather trade, of Lichfield. He was born in Elford and was baptised on 6 December. 1698. He married Mary Saxelby (1694-1744) of Abbot’s Bromley. He lived in Lichfield and his name appears in the poll books in Lichfield in 1721 and 1727.
Mary died in Lichfield in 1744 and was buried at Saint Michael’s on 22 April 1744; Christopher Heveningham died in Lichfield in 1748 and was buried on 28 February 1748 at Saint Michael’s. They seem to have been the parents of three sons and two daughters:
1, Edward Heveningham (1721-1760), born in Lichfield in 1721, and baptised in Saint Mary’s 21 April 1721. He joined the army and some accounts say he moved to America in 1747 and may have descendants living in the US. Other accounts say he married Mary …, and settled with her and their sons Edward and John in the hamlet of Woodhouses west of Lichfield in 1759, a daughter Anne having died in Lichfield in 1758. Edward died in 1760, and was buried at Saint Chad’s on 30 June 1760. 2, Thomas Heveningham, apprenticed to his father Christopher, a currier, and was living after 1754. 3, Joseph Heveningham (1729-1765) of Lichfield, possibly Joseph Henningham who married Mrs Mary Harris in Saint Martin’s Church, Birmingham, on 7 June 1789. 4, Mary (1727-1806), born in Lichfield in 1727 and baptised on 1 March 1727 in Saint Mary’s. She and her sister Arabella later went to live with the Weld family at Lulworth Castle, Dorset. She married the Revd Daniel William Remington, later a canon of Lichfield Cathedral, in Hall Green Chapel, Yardley, Birmingham, on 15 March 1754. She died in Lichfield on 21 February 1806. Her husband was the Vicar of Saint Mary’s, Lichfield, and Sub-Chanter of Lichfield Cathedral. 5, Arabella Heveningham (d 1820) of the Cathedral Close, Lichfield. In her will dated 7 September 1814, she mentions her niece Mary White, and Mary White’s son, Thomas Henry White.
The third child and second son of Mary and Christopher Heveningham was:
Joseph Heveningham (1729-1765), born in Lichfield 1729 and baptised in Saint Mary’s 20 December 1729. Joseph may have followed his elder brother, Edward into the army. He died in Lichfield in 1765. A pencilled note or marginal entry in a Heveningham pedigree in the William Salt Library, Stafford, says he was the father of Arabella Heveningham. Her mother’s name is unknown, no marriage has been found for Joseph, and the 1851 census shows that Arabella was born in Ireland.
Arabella Heveningham (1765-1854), of The Close, Lichfield. She was born in Ireland ca 1764/1765. Both Arabella Heveningham (d 1820) and Canon Edward Remington (d 1832) of Lichfield left legacies to Arabella and her children.
In her will, the elder Arabella Heveningham, who died in 1820, left an annuity for life of £20 16s 0d, paying an income of 8 shillings a week, to Arabella Wakelin (formerly Arabella Heveningham) of Lichfield, widow, and left legacies to her three daughters Mary, Ann and Susanna, and bequests to her sons by Thomas Wakelin.
Bore Street, Lichfield, at night … Arabella and Thomas Wakelin lived on Bore Street (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2025)
The younger Arabella Heveningham married Thomas Wakelin (1770-1802) in 1788, when the Revd Edward Remington officiated at their wedding. Thomas was the son of George Wakelin of Wolverhampton and Susanna White of Stowe, Lichfield. He was a tailor, breeches maker and glover and lived in Bore Street, Lichfield.
Arabella and Thomas Wakelin were the parents of seven children, three sons who received bequests of £5 each and four daughters, of whom three received bequests of £10 each in the will of her aunt Arabella Heveningham:
1, Mary Wakelin, born in Lichfield 1789, baptised Saint Mary’s, 25 October 1789; she married John Burgess in Saint Mary’s, Lichfield, on 18 January 1809. 2, Elizabeth Wakelin, born Lichfield 1791, baptised Saint Mary’s, 3 October 1791, believed to have died young. 3, Francis Thomas Wakelin (1793-1853) of Lichfield, of whom next. 4, Ann Wakelin, born Lichfield 1795, baptised Saint Mary’s, 11 November 1795, she married Philip Thompson in Saint Mary’s, Lichfield, on 24 July 1814. 5,Thomas Wakelin (1798-post 1861), tailor, of Lichfield. Born in Lichfield in 1798, baptised Saint Mary’s 8 April 1798. He was admitted a freeman of Lichfield before William Morgan, Senior Bailiff, Thomas Bown, Master, and John Larkin, Warden, on 13 July 1826. He later lived in Birmingham. He married Sarah Hughes of Tamworth in Saint Martin’s, Birmingham, in 1822, and they were the parents of five daughters and five sons. 6, Susanna Wakelin, born Lichfield 1800, baptised Saint Mary’s, 27 July 1800. 7, Samuel Wakelin born Lichfield 1802, baptised Saint Mary’s, 16 May 1802.
After her husband Thomas Wakelin died in 1802, Arabella (Heveningham) Wakelin was the mother of three further children born between 1806 and 1811. Although their father’s name is not known, she gave them the Wakelin name when they were baptised:
8, Charles Augustus Wakelin, born Lichfield 1806, baptised Saint Michael’s, 18 February, 1806. He may have married Sara Wright. 9, Caroline Wakelin, born Lichfield ca 1808-1811, baptised, Saint Michael’s, 29 August 1811, with her brother Louis. 10, Louis Wakelin (1811-1863) born Lichfield 1811, baptised Saint Michael’s, 29 August 1811, with his sister Caroline. He was married twice: (1) Ann Smith, in Saint George’s, Birmingham, 29 July 1832; (2) Mary Smith, in Birmingham, 27 December 1847. He was living on Stowe Street, Lichfield, in 1851, with his mother.
When Arabella was about 70, she married Sampson Robinson (1776-1850) of the Swan (now Swan Cottage), Blithbury, as his second wife in Mavesyn Ridware, Staffordshire, on 30 June 1835. After he died, she was living with her son Louis and his family in Stowe Street, Lichfield, at the time of the 1851 census, when she says she was born in Ireland. When Arabella died on 4 March 1854, she is described as an Inn Keeper, although it is not known at which inn Arabella was the inn keeper.
The Guildhall, Lichfield … Francis Thomas Wakelin was admitted a Freeman in 1817(Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2024)
The eldest son of Arabella (Heveningham) and Thomas Wakelin was:
Francis Thomas Wakelin (1793-1853), tailor, of Lichfield. He was born in Lichfield in 1793 and was baptised in Saint Mary’s, Lichfield, on 29 April 1793. Francis inherited £5 from his great aunt, Arabella Heveningham, in 1820, and he inherited £50 from the Revd Edward Remington in 1832.
He an apprentice to Thomas Worrall of Lichfield, a tailor and a freeman of the Company of Tailors, for seven years. He was admitted to the Taylor’s Company, Lichfield, on 24 July 1817, before George Dodson and Dr Francis Sachaverell Darwin, Bailliffs of Lichfield, and Stephen Simpson, Town Clerk. He was a journeyman tailor and lodging at 89 Stowe Street, Lichfield, in 1851. He died in 1853. He married Ann Taylor (1795-1844) in Aston Juxta, Birmingham, on 26 December 1815, and they were the parents of three sons eight daughters, including:
1, Susanna Wakelin (1820-1854), a lady’s maid with the Mott family in the Close, Lichfield. John Mott (1787-1869), who rebuilt No 20 on the Cathedral Close, was Sheriff of Lichfield in 1836 and Mayor of Lichfield in 1850. 2, Francis Wakelin (1822-1889), baptised in Lichfield 6 January 1822, died in Walsall 1889. He married Jane Withnall and they were the parents of Elizabeth (Whitehead), Bertha (Pople) and Herbert Wakelin. 3, Arthur Wakelin (1824-1895), born in Lichfield, 23 September 1824, died 22 August 1895 aged 70 in West Bromwich. He married Mary Ann Wheelwright in Lichfield on 23 September 1848, and they were the parents of Evangeline Maria (Wakelin) Bowerman. 4, Sarah Wakelin (born Lichfield 1831), was a housemaid with the Mott family in the Close, Lichfield.
I am quite sure that through these families there are descendants of the Comberford family who continue to live in the Lichfield area.
The Cathedral Close in Lichfield (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2025)
Sources and references include:
The Visitations of Staffordshire and Warwickshire.
Michael Greenslade, Catholic Staffordshire 1500-1850 (Gracewing, 2006).
