COMERFORD WAY: Patrick Comerford’s online journal on Anglicanism, theology, spirituality, history, architecture, travel, poetry, beach walks ... and more
James Tissot (1836-1902), ‘Woe unto You, Scribes and Pharisees’ (Malheur à vous, scribes et pharisiens), opaque watercolour over graphite on gray wove paper (Photo: Brooklyn Museum)
Patrick Comerford
We are continuing in Ordinary Time in the Church Calendar and the week began yesterday with the Tenth Sunday after Trinity (Trinity X). If the Festival of Saint Bartholomew was not observed yesterday (Sunday 24 August), it may be observed today.
This is a holiday weekend in England, and today is the Summer Bank holiday that really marks the end of the summer holiday period here. 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.
Classical masks on sale near the Acropolis in Athens … the word ‘hypocrite’ comes from the Greek word for an actor who masked or hid his face (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)
Matthew 23: 13-22 (NRSVA):
[Jesus said:] 13 ‘But woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you lock people out of the kingdom of heaven. For you do not go in yourselves, and when others are going in, you stop them. 15 Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you cross sea and land to make a single convert, and you make the new convert twice as much a child of hell as yourselves.
16 ‘Woe to you, blind guides, who say, “Whoever swears by the sanctuary is bound by nothing, but whoever swears by the gold of the sanctuary is bound by the oath.” 17 You blind fools! For which is greater, the gold or the sanctuary that has made the gold sacred? 18 And you say, “Whoever swears by the altar is bound by nothing, but whoever swears by the gift that is on the altar is bound by the oath.” 19 How blind you are! For which is greater, the gift or the altar that makes the gift sacred? 20 So whoever swears by the altar, swears by it and by everything on it; 21 and whoever swears by the sanctuary, swears by it and by the one who dwells in it; 22 and whoever swears by heaven, swears by the throne of God and by the one who is seated upon it.’
A classical Greek mask in a museum in Naxos in Sicily … the word ‘hypocrite’ comes from the Greek word for an actor who masked or hid his face as he said someone else’s words (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)
Today’s Reflection:
In the Beatitudes at the beginning of Saint Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus says eight groups of people are blessed: ‘the poor in spirit … those who mourn … the meek … those who hunger and thirst for righteousness … the merciful … the pure in heart … the peacemakers … those who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness …’ (Matthew 5: 3-10).
Now, as we come close to the end of this Gospel, we come across seven groups of people who are condemned as hypocrites and against whom Jesus pronounces seven woes.
In today’s reading (Matthew 23: 13-22), we hear the first three of these seven woes: woe to you who ‘lock people out of the kingdom of heaven’ (13) … who ‘make the new convert twice as much a child of hell’ (15) … and ‘blind guides’ who swear by the ‘gold of the sanctuary’ (16-22).
We hear two further woes tomorrow (Matthew 23: 23-26): those who tithe mint, dill, and cummin but neglect the weightier matters of justice, mercy and faith; and we hear the final of the seven woes on Wednesday (Matthew 23: 27-32): a double woe on those who on the outside look righteous to others, but inside you are full of hypocrisy and lawlessness.
A ‘woe’ is an exclamation of grief, similar to what is expressed by the word alas. In pronouncing woes, Jesus is prophesying judgment on the religious leaders of the day for their hypocrisy. He calls them hypocrites, blind guides, snakes and a ‘brood of vipers’.
In some translations, notably the King James Version, there is an eighth woe in verse 14: ‘Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you devour widows’ houses and for the sake of appearance you make long prayers; therefore you will receive the greater condemnation.’ However, older manuscripts do not include this verse.
Before Jesus condemns the hypocrisy of religious leaders, they have been following him to test him and try to trick him with questions about divorce (Matthew 19: 3), his authority (Matthew 21: 23), paying taxes to Caesar (Matthew 22: 17), the resurrection (Matthew 22: 23), and the greatest commandment of the law (Matthew 22: 36).
Jesus prefaces his seven woes by explaining to the disciples that they should obey the teachings of the religious leaders – as they teach the law of God – but not to emulate their behaviour because they do not practice what they preach (Matthew 23: 3).
The first of these seven woes condemns the scribes and Pharisees for keeping people out of the kingdom of heaven: ‘But woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you lock people out of the kingdom of heaven. For you do not go in yourselves, and when others are going in, you stop them’ (Matthew 23: 13).
The missing woe in verse 14 is found in footnotes in the NRSV and many other modern translations but not in the main text. The most important authoritative early manuscripts do not include verse 14.
Although part or all of the verse is found in some versions, it is almost certainly not original. Elsewhere, Christ condemns these woeful practices (see Mark 12: 40 and Luke 20: 47), and these verse are not disputed textually.
We might ask whether some scribe long ago omitted this woe, and the omission was then repeated in several subsequent manuscripts, or whether some scribe accidentally copied a marginal note from one of the parallel accounts.
Most Biblical scholars argue for the accidental insertion theory. But the woe in verse 14 is still included in what could be described as conservative evangelical versions, albeit often with brackets around the text or a footnote.
It is absent from Codex Sinaiticus and Codex B (both early 4th century), Codex D (5th century), Codex Z (6th century), Codex L (8th century), Codex Θ, minuscule 33 and 892 (9th century), and other later manuscripts, on into the middle ages. Many early Old Latin manuscripts do not contain it, such as ita (4th century), ite (5th century), and others. The majority of the Latin Vulgate manuscripts, including all of the earliest copies, also lack the reading. The verse is missing in the earliest Syriac manuscript, the Sinaitic Palimpsest (4th century), as well as some of the later Palestinian Syriac copies. Most of the Coptic manuscripts also lack the verse, including the middle Egyptian manuscripts, the Sahidic manuscripts, and some of the Bohairic Coptic manuscripts. The Armenian and Georgian translations likewise do not contain it.
The words in Matthew 23: 14 are found in only a few relatively late Greek witnesses. These include Uncial 0233 (8th century), and some later mediaeval manuscripts and lectionaries. The verse is present here in a number of Old Latin manuscripts, including itb and itff2 (both 5th century), and others. It is also found in the late mediaeval Clementine revision of the Vulgate, the second oldest Syriac manuscript, the Curetonian Gospels (5th century), some of the later Palestinian Syriac manuscripts, and some later Bohairic Coptic manuscripts.
The words in Matthew 23: 14 in the KJV appear between verses 12 and 13 in Codex W (late 4th or early 5th century), Codex O, Σ, and Uncial 0104 (all 6th century), Uncial 0102 and 0107 (both 7th century), Codex E (8th century), Codex F, G, H, K, Y, Δ, Π, and Uncial 0133 (all 9th century), as well as the majority of mediaeval manuscripts.
It is present in this place in very few Latin manuscripts, but is the reading in most of the Syriac copies and a few Bohairic Coptic manuscripts. The verse is also found in this alternate location in the Slavonic and Ethiopic translations.
In other words, there is much older, much stronger, more diverse, and vastly more numerous evidence in favour of the words being between 12 and 13 than there is for them being between 13 and 15.
But the earliest sources lack the verse, and it was absent throughout the centuries. Where there is fairly early evidence in some of the ancient translations, in each case there is even earlier evidence without the verse. Modern scholars conclude that the earliest copies in virtually every stream of transmission lack the verse entirely. The strongest evidence indicates that the words of Matthew 23: 14 are not original to this gospel, but were added in by a later scribe.
In the second of the seven woes, Jesus condemns religious leaders for teaching their converts the same hypocrisy that they themselves practice. They ‘cross sea and land to make a single convert’, and then make ‘the new convert twice as much a child of hell as yourselves’ (Matthew 13: 15).
In the third woe, Jesus refers to the religious elite not as hypocrites but as ‘blind guides’ (verse 16) and ‘blind fools’ (verse 17). They regarded themselves as guides of the blind (see Romans 2: 19), but were blind themselves and unfit to guide others. Instead of teaching spiritual truth, they preferred to quibble over irrelevant matters and find loopholes in the rules (Matthew 23: 16-22).
We should remember that the Pharisees are very religious, pious and good people. Too often we forget that Saint Paul boasts he is a Pharisee, that among the different Jewish groups of the day the Pharisees are the closest in tradition and practice to Jesus, and that Pharisaic Judaism is the spiritual ancestor of all modern forms of Judaism today.
The Pharisees looked at the demands the religious law of the Book of Leviticus made on the priests in the Temple. This priestly class included some of Jesus’ own family, such as Zechariah, the father of Saint John the Baptist.
Purity and cleanliness were part of their role in the Temple. Before they ate or handled any sacred food, they had to wash their hands thoroughly. But these rules only applied when they were on the rota for priestly duties in the Temple. They took it in turn, and outside that turn, those rules did not apply. Nor did they apply to the people in general, the average, everyday Jew on the street or at home.
But after the people return from exile in Babylon to Jerusalem, the Pharisees see the whole people as a royal people, a holy priesthood. And to make the people conscious of how holy the whole nation is, they suggest people should take on those priestly practices, to show they are holy.
In time, this becomes so accepted that people who do not bother washing their hands ritually before they eat are seen as being hypocrites if, at the same time, they are supposed to be holy and religious people.
The word hypocrite comes from classical Greek drama. This word (ὑποκριτής, hypokrités) was used for an actor who on stage puts on a mask and speaks the words of someone else. The actor with the mask could have subtitles with a disclaimer: ‘These are not my words, I am only using the words of Sophocles, Euripides, Aristophanes … or one of the other great playwrights.’
In Athens in the 4th century BCE, the orator Demosthenes ridiculed his rival Aeschines, who had been a successful actor before taking up politics, as a ῠ̔ποκρῐτής (hypokrités) whose skill at impersonating characters on stage made him untrustworthy as a politician. This negative view of the hypokrités, combined with the Roman disdain for actors, shaded into the originally neutral ὑπόκρισις (hypokrisis) or hypocrisy.
It is this later sense of hypokrisis as ‘play-acting’ or assuming a counterfeit persona that gives us the modern word hypocrisy with all its negative connotations.
So, a hypocrite was an actor, a pretender, a dissembler, a hypocrite puts on a mask and says something that represents someone else’s ideas, but that he does not necessarily believe himself.
Jesus is saying that the Pharisees are using someone else’s words but do not necessarily understand why those rules and regulations came about.
We should beware when piety gets in the way of fulfilling the heart of the law: loving God with all your heart, mind, soul, and strength, and loving your neighbour as yourself. Let us beware when our piety separates us from others, for then it also separates us from God.
Classical masks from the theatre in Athens on display in the Acropolis Museum … the word ‘hypocrite’ comes from the Greek word for an actor who masked or hid his face (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)
Today’s Prayers (Monday 25 August 2025):
The theme this week (24 to 30 August) in Pray with the World Church, the prayer diary of the Anglican mission agency USPG (United Society Partners in the Gospel), is been ‘From Strangers to Neighbours’ (pp 32-33) This theme was introduced yesterday with a programme update from the Right Revd Antonio Ablon, Chaplain of Saint Catherine’s Anglican Church, Stuttgart, Germany.
The USPG Prayer Diary today (Monday 25 August 2025) invites us to pray:
Loving God, you walked with the exiled and the displaced. Be with all migrants, refugees, and political exiles, especially those struggling with uncertainty, loneliness, and rejection. May they find strength in your presence and hope in their journey.
The Collect of the Day:
Let your merciful ears, O Lord,
be open to the prayers of your humble servants;
and that they may obtain their petitions
make them to ask such things as shall please you;
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.
The Post-Communion Prayer:
God of our pilgrimage,
you have willed that the gate of mercy
should stand open for those who trust in you:
look upon us with your favour
that we who follow the path of your will
may never wander from the way of life;
through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Additional Collect:
Lord of heaven and earth,
as Jesus taught his disciples to be persistent in prayer,
give us patience and courage never to lose hope,
but always to bring our prayers before you;
through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Actors promoting a theatrical performance of classical drama in the square at Monastiraki in Athens … the word ‘hypocrite’ comes from the Greek word for an actor who masked or hid his face (Photograph; Patrick Comerford)
The blue-domed churches of Santorini in a poster at Souv-Lucky Day in Midsummer Place, Milton Keynes (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2025)
Patrick Comerford
I was discussing the other evening how the Greek word εκκλησία (ekklesia) is used in the New Testament to speak of the church as an institution or organisation, as opposed to a church as a building or place of worship and liturgy.
The word εκκλησία (ekklesia), is used in Greek for the Church as an institution, so that, for example, the Church of Greece is Ἐκκλησία τῆς Ἑλλάδος (Ekklēsía tē̂s Helládos), the Church of Crete is Εκκλησία της Κρήτης (Ekklēsía tē̂s Kritis), and the Church of Cyprus is Ἐκκλησία τῆς Κύπρου (Ekklisia tis Kyprou).
But separate words are used in Greek when we speak of the church as a local church, a parish church or building, as opposed to, say, a church in a monastery.
As for those other two words used in modern Greek for the church as a building, ναός (naos) and ἱερός (ieros), I promised to look at them separately.
The Parthenon on the Acropolis in Athens … the word ναός (nāós) refers to the sanctuary in a temple housing a statue of the deity, while ιερός (hieros) means the entire precincts of a temple (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)
The word ναός (nāós) was used in classical Greek for a temple. The word means ‘dwelling’, and these temples were built to house statues of the deities within sanctuaries. The temple interiors were not meeting places as the sacrifices and rituals dedicated to the deity took place outside them, within the wider precinct of the sanctuary. Temples were also used to store votive offerings.
A sanctuary or cell of a temple like this, where the statue or image of the god was placed, was also called δόμος (domos) σηκός (sekos), the dwelling or enclosure, to distinguish it from τό ἱερόν (ieron), the whole temple or the entire consecrated enclosure.
In the Septuagint Greek version of the Bible, the word ναός (naós), ναοῦ (naou), ὁ ναίω (naíō, to dwell) is used to translate the Hebrew word הֵיכָל (hekhál), which is used for the Temple in Jerusalem, but only for the sacred edifice or sanctuary itself, consisting of the Holy Place and the Holy of Holies.
And so, the Biblical use of the ναός (naós) refers to: the Temple in Jerusalem, but only the sacred edifice (or sanctuary) itself, consisting of the Holy Place and the Holy of Holies; any heathen temple or shrine; and, metaphorically, for the spiritual temple consisting of the saints of all ages joined together by and in Christ.
This distinction is found in the New Testament (see, for example, Matthew 23: 16-35, 27: 40; Mark 14: 58, 15: 29, 38; Luke 1: 9-22, 23: 45; John 2: 19-21; 1-19). The word ναός (naós) is used specifically of the Holy Place where the priests officiated, and also in the visions in Revelation of the temple of the ‘New Jerusalem’.
But it is also used in the Acts of the Apostles: ‘The God who made the world and everything in it, he who is Lord of heaven and earth, does not live in shrines (ναοῖς, naois) made by human hands made by human hands’ (Acts 17: 24); and to refer to miniature silver temples modelled after the temple of Artemis of Ephesus, ‘A man named Demetrius, a silversmith who made silver shrines (ναούς, naous) of Artemis, brought no little business to the artisans’ (Acts 19: 24).
The word also appears in four Pauline letters, (I Corinthians 3: 16-17, 6: 19; II Corinthians 6: 16; Ephesians 2: 21; and II Thessalonians 2: 4).
On the other hand, in Biblical references, the word ιερός (hieros) refers to a sacred place and to the entire precincts of a temple, such as the Temple in Jerusalem, and embraces both the sanctuary itself and the surrounding courts, porticoes, and colonnades, while naos denotes the central sanctuary itself.
Delphi and the ruins of the Temple of Apollo (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)
The word ιερός (hieros) occurs 71 times throughout the New Testament.
Saint Matthew records Jesus’ early life framed by temple activity: during his public ministry, he healed in the temple (Matthew 21: 14), taught there (Matthew 21: 23), and drove out the money changers (Matthew 21: 12).
Saint Mark parallels these events, adding Christ’s refusal to allow merchandise to pass through the courts (Mark 11: 16) and his extended teaching ‘every day’ (Mark 11: 27).
Saint Luke places his presentation (Luke 2: 27) and later his youthful exchanges with the teachers in the Temple (Luke 2: 46). He emphasises Jesus’ steadfast pattern: ‘Every day he was teaching in the temple’ (Luke 19: 47), spending nights on the Mount of Olives but returning at dawn (Luke 21: 37-38).
John’s Gospel highlights two cleansings (John 2: 14-15; implied John 2: 19-21) and recalls Jesus ‘walking in the temple, in the portico of Solomon’ (John 10: 23). John 7-8 depicts prolonged debate during the Feast of Tabernacles, climaxing with the claim, ‘before Abraham was, I am’, after which he left the Temple (John 8: 59).
In the Acts of the Apostles, following Pentecost, the apostles continue to gather ‘day by day, as they spent much time together in the temple’ (Acts 2: 46). A lame man is healed ‘at the gate of the temple called the Beautiful Gate’ (Acts 3: 2), the apostles ‘stand in the temple and tell the people the whole message about this life’ (Acts 5: 20). Saint Paul’s vows (Acts 21: 26), prayers (Acts 22: 17), and later accusations (Acts 24: 12, 18) show the hieron as both mission field and flash-point of persecution.
The Church of the Four Martyrs in Rethymnon opened 50 years ago in 1975, and is known in Greek as Ιερός Ναός Αγίων Τεσσάρων Μαρτύρων (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2025)
In general usage in Greek today, the two words are combined together, as Ιερός Ναός, often abbreviated simply as IN. So, my local parish church when I am staying in Rethymnon in Crete is the Church of the Four Martyrs, which opened 50 years ago in 1975, and it is known formally in Greek as Ιερός Ναός Αγίων Τεσσάρων Μαρτύρων.
In previous years, when I stayed in the linked asuburban areas of Platanias and Tsemes over a span of five or six years, they formed one parish district with two churches, ο Ιερός Ναός της Αγίας Τριάδος (the Church of the Holy Trinity) and ο Ιερός Ναός του Αγίου Νεκταρίου (the Church of Nektarios).
Back in the 1990s, during long lingering holidays in Piskopiano in Crete, my local church was the Iερός Ναός Μεταμορφώσεως του Σωτήρος (the Church of the Transfiguration of the Saviour).
The Church of the Holy Trinity in Platanias, east of Rethymnon (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2025)
I referred in my earlier posting to the etymology and Greek origins of the word ‘church’ in English, and its original meaning ‘of the Lord.’ Of course, there are other words for a church in Greek.
The word παρεκκλήσι (parekklísi) may refer to a chapel, often a side chapel or separate chapel with a monastery complex, while κηδεία is used for a funeral chapel.
The word καθολικόν (katholikon) can describe the cathedral of a diocese; the major church building in a monastery corresponding to a conventual church in western monastic foundations; or large church in a city certain important feasts are celebrated rather than in the local parish church.
The name katholikon derives from the fact that it is (usually) the largest church where all gather together to celebrate the major feast days of the liturgical year. A katholikon may have special architectural features, such as a kathedra (episcopal throne), or both an esonarthex (inner-narthex) and exonarthex (outer narthex), used for special services such as the Paschal Vigil or Vespers. An Eastern Orthodox diocese may have several katholikons, but only one is the bishop’s cathedral.
The Church of the Transfiguration (Iερός Ναός Μεταμορφώσεως του Σωτήρος) rises high above the mountain-side village of Piskopianó above Hersonissos in Crete (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2024)
‘It is forbidden to enter the church indecently dressed (women in pants, shorts, etc). Issued by the church’ … a less-than-welcoming sign at a church in Rethymnon (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2024)
‘Let the little children come to me, and do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of heaven belongs’ (Matthew 19: 14) … what does the future hold for the children on our streets? (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)
Patrick Comerford
We are continuing in Ordinary Time in the Church Calendar and tomorrow is the Ninth Sunday after Trinity (Trinity IX).
The football season begins in earnest today, and I am hoping to find an appropriate place see Aston Villa’s opening game, a home fixture against Newcastle United, whch kicks off at 12:30.
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.
Melina Mercouri’s dream was of an ‘idealised place / Where a child might grow tall with European-ness, at home and in love’ (Thomas McCarthy) … the statue of Melina Mercouri near the Acropolis in Athens (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)
Matthew 19: 13-15 (NRSVA):
13 Then little children were being brought to him in order that he might lay his hands on them and pray. The disciples spoke sternly to those who brought them; 14 but Jesus said, ‘Let the little children come to me, and do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of heaven belongs.’ 15 And he laid his hands on them and went on his way.
Melina Mercouri singing ‘The Children of Piraeus’
Today’s Reflection:
In this morning’s Gospel reading at the Eucharist, when ‘little children’ are brought to Jesus, he reminds the disciples that it is ‘to such as these that the kingdom of heaven belongs’, and he then blesses them.
The phrase used here twice for ‘little children’ is one word, παιδία (padía). It is a term of endearment, ‘my dear children,’ but it is also used, alongside a similar word τεκνία (teknía), in I John as a term of familiar address or endearment for adult members of the church – our equivalent today of men addressing their friends as ‘lads’, ‘boys’ or ‘guys’.
At the height of the financial crisis in Greece in 2015, I saw a parent on a protest in Athens with a T-shirt asking: «Γονεις χωρις δουλεια πωσ θα ζησουν τα παιδια», ‘If the parents don’t have jobs, how will the children survive?’
That evening, as Greeks prepared to vote in a referendum on their nation’s future, I wondered what was going to happen to the children of Greece after that Sunday? And I found myself thinking about the song ‘The Children of Piraeus’, written in Greek by Manos Hatzidakis as Τα Παιδιά του Πειραιά (Ta Pediá tou Pireá), and first sung by Melina Mercouri in the film Never on Sunday (1960), directed by Jules Dassin and starring Melina Mercouri.
The original song title Τα Παιδιά του Πειραιά is usually translated as ‘The Children of Piraeus’. But in Greek the word παιδιά (paidiá) can also have the same meaning as kids, guys or men.
Never on Sunday (Ποτέ Την Κυριακή, Pote Tin Kyriaki) is a Greek black-and-white romantic comedy film starring Melina Mercouri, who was one of the potent figures in resistance to the colonels’ junta in Greece more than half a century ago.
The title song of the film won the Academy Award for Best Original Song in 1960, a first for a foreign-language picture. The song won Manos Hatzidakis an Academy Award for Best Original Song and became a worldwide hit. But Hatzidakis, whose family was from Rethymnon, did not attend the Academy Award ceremony in 1961, and refused to collect his award, saying the film with a prostitute as its protagonist reflected negatively on Athens and misrepresented Athens.
The original Greek lyrics by Hadjidakis, as well as the translations in German, French, Italian and Spanish sing of the Children of Piraeus, the port city of Athens – do not mention ‘Never on Sunday’, which is only found in the English lyrics. The lyrics to the English version of the song were written by Billy Towne, with five versions reaching the UK Singles Chart.
In the original song, the main female character of the film, Illya (played by Melina Mercouri), sings of her joyful life in Piraeus:
If I search the world over
I’ll find no other port
Which has the magic
Of my Port Piraeus.
Although she earns her living as a prostitute, she longs to meet a man who is just as full of joie de vivre as she is. A love-smitten American, Homer Thrace (Jules Dassin), and a handsome Greek-Italian dockhand, Tonio (George Foundas), compete to win her heart and find they are learning lessons about the secret of happiness and life itself.
The film made Melina Mercouri an international star, won her an Academy Award and introduced Greek bouzouki music to the rest of the world. In the original soundtrack, the bouzouki solo sections were played by Giorgos Zampetas, one of the greatest bouzouki artists of the rebetiko era of Greek music. He began his career as a songwriter in 1952, and was popular in Greece throughout the 1950s and 1960s.
Melina Mercouri was also an acclaimed classical actor. She played the title role in Phaedra (Φαίδρα), an adaptation by Margarita Lymberaki of Hippolytus, the tragic drama by Euripides about how the wilful actions of parents can have devastating and deathly consequences for their children.
The film is set in Paris, London and the Greek island of Hydra. The music was composed by Mikis Theodorakis and her recording of Αστέρι μου φεγγάρι μου (Asteri mou, Fengari mou, ‘My Star, My Moonlight’) remains a popular song in Greece.
Melina Mercouri became one of the potent figures in resistance to the oppressive junta of the colonels in Greece following their coup in 1967. Melina and Jules fled Greece and in 1970 they were accused of financing a plot to overthrow the regime. The charges were dropped but the interior minister, Colonel Stylianos Pattakos, revoked her Greek citizenship and confiscated her property.
When she was stripped of her citizenship, she said: ‘I was born a Greek and I will die a Greek. Pattakos was born a fascist and he will die a fascist.’
Later, she was a founding member of PASOK and became a prominent politician. She was elected to Parliament for Piraeus, became Minister of Culture in Andreas Papandreou’s cabinet, and devoted much of her career to demanding the return of the Parthenon Marbles from the British Museum to Athens.
The title of her autobiography, I was born a Greek, comes from her celebrated riposte when her Greek citizenship was revoked by the colonels.
In his poem ‘Athens 2005’, the poet Thomas McCarthy who was born in Cappoquin, Co Waterford, writes of
… Melina Mercouri’s dream, her idealised place
Where a child might grow tall with European-ness, at home and in love
From the Shannon river to the Danube Volga, or Vistula; consoled
By culture for all the horrors of war and exile …
It is a dream for children that is a reminder that it is ‘to such as these that the kingdom of heaven belongs’.
Melina Mercouri sings ‘My Star, My Moonlight’, composed by Mikis Theodorakis for Phaedra
Today’s Prayers (Saturday 16 August 2025):
The theme this week (10 to 16 August) in Pray with the World Church, the prayer diary of the Anglican mission agency USPG (United Society Partners in the Gospel), has been ‘Serving God in the Gulf’ (pp 26-27). This theme was introduced last Sunday with reflections from Joyaline Rajamani, Administrator at the Church of the Epiphany, Doha, Anglican Church in Qatar.
The USPG Prayer Diary today (Saturday 16 August 2025) invites us to pray reflecting on these words:
Heavenly Father, we lift up the Church of the Epiphany and all Christian communities in Qatar. Help them to be instruments of your love, fostering harmony and coexistence, and reflecting your kingdom on earth.
The Collect of the Day:
Almighty Lord and everlasting God,
we beseech you to direct, sanctify and govern
both our hearts and bodies
in the ways of your laws
and the works of your commandments;
that through your most mighty protection, both here and ever,
we may be preserved in body and soul;
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:
Strengthen for service, Lord,
the hands that have taken holy things;
may the ears which have heard your word
be deaf to clamour and dispute;
may the tongues which have sung your praise be free from deceit;
may the eyes which have seen the tokens of your love
shine with the light of hope;
and may the bodies which have been fed with your body
be refreshed with the fullness of your life;
glory to you for ever.
Additional Collect:
Lord God,
your Son left the riches of heaven
and became poor for our sake:
when we prosper save us from pride,
when we are needy save us from despair,
that we may trust in you alone;
through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Collect on the Eve of Trinity IX:
Almighty God,
who sent your Holy Spirit
to be the life and light of your Church:
open our hearts to the riches of your grace,
that we may bring forth the fruit of the Spirit
in love and joy and peace;
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.
Christ with the children … a stained glass window in the Comberford Chapel in Saint Editha’s Church, Tamworth (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)
How do you see Christ? Who is Christ for you? (see Matthew 16: 13) … a damaged Byzantine fresco in the Museum of Christian Art in Iraklion, Crete (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)
Patrick Comerford
We are continuing in Ordinary Time in the Church Calendar and the week began with the Seventh Sunday after Trinity (Trinity VII, 3 August 2025). Yesterday was the Feast of the Transfiguration (6 August) and the 80th anniversary of the atomic bombing of Hiroshima on 6 August 1945.
Today, the calendar of the Church of England in Common Worship recalls John Mason Neale (1818-1866), Priest and Hymn Writer. 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.
The keys of Saint Peter seen at Saint Peter Mancroft Church in Norwich (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2024)
Matthew 16: 13-23 (NRSVA):
13 Now when Jesus came into the district of Caesarea Philippi, he asked his disciples, ‘Who do people say that the Son of Man is?’ 14 And they said, ‘Some say John the Baptist, but others Elijah, and still others Jeremiah or one of the prophets.’ 15 He said to them, ‘But who do you say that I am?’ 16 Simon Peter answered, ‘You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.’ 17 And Jesus answered him, ‘Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah! For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father in heaven. 18 And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it. 19 I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.’ 20 Then he sternly ordered the disciples not to tell anyone that he was the Messiah.
21 From that time on, Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering at the hands of the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed, and on the third day be raised. 22 And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him, saying, ‘God forbid it, Lord! This must never happen to you.’ 23 But he turned and said to Peter, ‘Get behind me, Satan! You are a stumbling-block to me; for you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.’
The Acropolis at night, standing on a large rocky outcrop above Athens (Photograph: Patrick Comerford; click on image for full-screen view)
This morning’s reflection:
This Gospel reading includes Christ’s words to the Apostle Peter: ‘I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church …’ (Matthew 16: 18, NRSVA). The debates about the interpretation of this one phrase and the following words have not only divided Christians in the past but have stopped us from discussing the full implications of a very rich passage, full of many meanings.
The reading is set in the district of Caesarea Philippi, then a new Hellenistic city west of Mount Hermon, on the slopes of what are known today as the Golan Heights. The city was built on the site of Paneas, which was known for its shrine to the god Pan.
Herod the Great built a temple of white marble there in honour of Caesar in 20 BCE. Herod’s son Philip inherited the site 18 years later and named it Caesarea Philippi, to honour Caesar as a living god and himself.
The cave at Caesarea Philippi was seen as a gate to the underworld, where fertility gods lived during the winter. The rock was filled with niches for these idols, and the water of the cave was seen as a symbol of the underworld through which the gods travelled from the world of death to the world of life.
Christ is alone with the disciples at Caesarea Philippi when he asks them who do people say that he is.
Herod thinks that Jesus is ‘John the Baptist’ (verse 14), although John had already been beheaded. Elijah was expected to return at the end of time. Jeremiah foretold rejection and suffering. Perhaps Herod is being portrayed as truly believing in the context of the cave and rock at Caesarea Philippi that the god-like figures can travel from the world of death to the world of life.
But Christ does not ask who does Herod say he is, or who do other people say he is. These are less important questions than who do the disciples say he is. Is he a prophet, a spokesman for God, a harbinger of suffering and rejection? Or, is he something more than all these?
Simon Peter offers an insight and answer of his own: ‘You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God’ (verse 16).
The Theatre of Dionysus on the southern slopes of the Acropolis … the ekklesía or assembly of the citizens Athens met twice a year (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)
Understanding the vocabulary
Christ acknowledges this vital insight, saying Peter is blessed (μακάριος, makários), as people in the Beatitudes are singled out as being blessed (see Matthew 5: 3-11). This is an insight that comes not from human knowledge but through revelation from God the Father (verse 17).
Then, in a word play, Christ tells Simon Peter he is Πητρος (Petros), his nickname Peter, and on this petra, rock, are the foundations of the Church (ἐκκλησία, ekklesía), the assembly in which all are equal.
The distinction between the word used for Peter, Πητρος (petros), the Greek for a small pebble, and a different Greek word, πητρα (petra), meaning a giant rock, existed in Attic Greek in the classical days, but not in Koine Greek, the Greek spoken at the time of Christ or at the time Saint Matthew’s Gospel was being writen. Πητρος (Petros) was the male name derived from a rock, while πητρα (petra) was a rock, a massive rock like Petra in Jordan.
Other words related to these concepts include λιθος (lithos), used for a small rock, a stone, or even a pebble – it is the Greek word that gives us words like lithograph and megalithic, meaning Great Stone Age – and πάγος (pagos), which in Ancient Greek means ‘big piece of rock.’
In classical Athens, the ekklesía (ἐκκλησία) was the assembly of the citizens in the democratic city state in classical Athens. The citizens of Athens met as equals twice a year at the Theatre of Dionysus, on the southern slopes of the Acropolis. The Acropolis is the highest point in Athens. It stands on an extremely rocky outcrop and on it the ancient Greeks built several significant buildings. The most famous of these is the Parthenon. This flat-topped rock rises 150 metres (490 ft) above sea level and has a surface area of about 3 hectares (7.4 acres).
The Septuagint uses this word ekklesíafor the Hebrew qahal or congregation (see Deuteronomy 4: 10, 9: 10, 18: 16, 31: 30; II Samuel 7; I Chronicles 17). The Hebrew word is still used by Jews to described the synagogue as the people or community rather than the synagogue as a building. Matthew is the only one of the four gospels to use this term.
There are only two places in the four Gospels where Christ uses the word for the Church that is found in this Gospel reading, the word εκκλησία (ekklesia): the first use of this word is in this reading (Matthew 16: 18), when Christ relates the Church to a confession of faith by the Apostle Peter, the rock-solid foundational faith of Saint Peter.
His second use of this word is not once but twice in one verse in Matthew 18: 17. It is a peculiar word for Christ to use, and yet he only speaks of the Church in these terms on these two occasions.
In total, the word εκκλησία (ekklesia) appears 114 times in the New Testament: four verses in the Acts of the Apostles, 58 times in the Pauline epistles, twice in the Letter to the Hebrews, once in the Epistle of James, three times in III John, and in 19 verses in the Book of Revelation. But Christ only uses the word twice, in these incidents in Saint Matthew’s Gospel.
Hades (ᾍδης or Ἅιδης) was the Greek god of the dead and his name had become synonymous with the underworld or the place of the dead. Death shall not destroy the Church, whether we see this as the death of Christ, the death of Peter and the other disciples, or our own, individual death.
Christ gives Peter the keys, the ability to unlock the mysteries of the Kingdom, or the symbol of authority in the Church. To ‘bind’ and ‘loose’ are rabbinical terms for forbidding and permitting in a juridical sense. They were used earlier in the story of the Canaanite or Syrophoenician woman in the district of Tyre and Sidon (Matthew 15: 21-28), a story that would normally be the Gospel reading on the Wednesday of this week, but replaced by the Feast of the Transfiguration yesterday (6 August).
Christ sternly orders the disciples not to tell anyone that he is the Messiah (verse 20).
The Hill of the Areopagos and the Agora of Athens seen from the Acropolis (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)
Building on the rock:
Immediately north-west of the Acropolis, the Areopagus is another prominent, but relatively smaller, rocky outcrop. In classical Athens, it functioned as the court for trying deliberate homicide. It was said Ares (Mars) was put on trial here for deicide, the murder of the son of the god Poseidon. In the play The Eumenides (458 BCE) by Aeschylus, the Areopagus is the site of the trial of Orestes for killing his mother.
Later, murderers sought shelter there in the hope of a fair hearing. There too the Athenians had an altar to the unknown god, and it was there the Apostle Paul delivered his most famous speech and sermon, in which he identified the ‘unknown god’ with ‘the God who made the world and everything in it, he who is Lord of heaven and earth’ (Acts 17: 24), for ‘in him we live and move and have our being’ (verse 28).
This is the most dramatic and fullest reported sermon or speech by Saint Paul. He quotes the Greek philosopher Epimenides, and he must have known that the location of his speech had important cultural contexts, including associations with justice, deicide and the hidden God.
The origin of the name of the Areopagus is found in the ancient Greek, πάγος (pagos), meaning a ‘big piece of rock’, in contrast to λιθος (lithos), a small rock, a stone, or even a pebble.
Breathtaking sights such as the Acropolis and the Areopagus reveal how culturally relevant it was for Christ to talk about the wise man building his house on a rock rather than on sand (Matthew 7: 24-26). Ordinary domestic buildings might have been built to last a generation or two, at most. But building on rock, building into rock, building into massive rock formations like the Acropolis, was laying the foundations for major works of cultural, political and religious significance that would last long after those who had built them had been forgotten.
And so, when Christ says to Peter in this reading that the Church is going to be built on a rock, he is talking about the foundations for a movement, an institution, a place of refuge and sanctuary, an organisation, a community that is going to have a lasting, everlasting significance.
In the past, Christians have got tied up in knots in silly arguments about this Gospel story. Some of us shy away from dealing with this story, knowing that in the past it was used to bolster not so much the claims of the Papacy, but all the packages that goes with those claims. In other words, it was argued by some in the past that the meaning of this passage was explicit: if you accepted this narrow meaning, you accepted the Papacy; if you accepted the Papacy, then you also accepted Papal infallibility, Papal claims to universal jurisdiction, and Papal teachings on celibacy, birth control, the immaculate conception and the assumption of the Virgin Mary.
And that is more than just a leap and a jump from what is being taught in this Gospel reading. But to counter those great leaps of logic, Protestant theologians in the past put forward contorted arguments about the meaning of the rock and the rock of faith in this passage. Some have tried to argue that the word used for Peter, Πητρος (Petros), is the word for a small pebble, but that faith is described with a different word, πητρα (petra), meaning a giant rock, the sort of rock on which the Greeks built the Acropolis or carved out the Areopagus.
But they were silly arguments. The distinction between these words existed in Attic Greek in the classical days, but not in the Greek spoken at the time of Christ or at the time Saint Matthew was writing his Gospel. Πητρος (Petros) was the male name derived from a rock, πητρα (petra) was a rock, a massive rock like Petra in Jordan or the rocks of the Acropolis or the Areopagus, and the word lithos (λιθος) was used for a small rock, a stone, or even a pebble.
Saint Peter is a rock, his faith is a rock, a rock that is solid enough to provide the foundations for Christ’s great work that is the Church.
The Apostle Peter and the Apostle Paul holding the church in unity … an early 18th century icon in the Museum of Christian Art in Iraklion, Crete (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)
Rock-solid faith
How could Saint Peter or his faith be so great? This is the same Peter who wanted Christ to send away the desperate Canaanite woman because ‘she keeps shouting at us’ (Matthew 15: 21-28).
This is the same Peter who earlier was among the disciples who wanted to send away the crowd and let them buy food for themselves (Matthew 14: 15).
This is the same Peter who seems to get it wrong constantly. Later in this Gospel, he denies Christ three times at the Crucifixion (Matthew 26: 75). After the Resurrection, Christ has to put his question three times to Peter before Peter confesses that Christ knows everything, and Christ then calls him with the words: ‘Follow me’ (John 21: 15-19).
Saint Peter is so like me. He trips and stumbles constantly. He often gets it wrong, even later on in life. He gives the wrong answers, he comes up with silly ideas, he easily stumbles on the pebbles and stones that are strewn across the pathway of life.
But eventually, it is not his own judgment, his own failing judgment that marks him out as someone special. No. It is his faith, his rock solid faith.
Despite all his human failings, despite his often-tactless behaviour, despite all his weaknesses, he is able to say who Christ is for him. He has a simple but rock-solid faith, summarised in that simple, direct statement: ‘You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God’ (verse 16).
Peter’s faith is a faith that proves to be so rock-solid that you could say it is blessed, it is foundational. Not gritty, pebbly, pain-on-the-foot sort of faith. But the foundational faith on which you could build a house, carve out a temple or monastery, or a place to seek justice and sanctuary, rock-solid faith that provides the foundation for the Church.
There are other people in the Bible and in Jewish tradition who are commended for their rock-solid faith, including Abraham and Sarah (see Isaiah 51: 1f). It is the sort of faith that will bring people into the Church, and even the most cunning, ambitious, evil schemes, even death itself, will not be able to destroy this sort of faith (verse 18).
Throughout the Bible, as people set out on great journeys of faith, their new beginning in faith is marked by God giving them a new name: Abram becomes Abraham, Jacob becomes Israel, Saul becomes Paul, and Simon son of Jonah is blessed with a new name too as he becomes Cephas or Peter, the rock-solid, reliable guy, whose faith becomes a role model for the new community of faith, for each and every one of us.
Why would Christ pick me or you? Well, why would he pick a simple fisherman from a small provincial town?
It is not how others see us that matters. It is our faith and commitment to Christ that matters. God always sees us as he made us, in God’s own image and likeness, and loves us like that.
The faith that the Church must look to as its foundation, the faith that we must depend on, that we must live by, is not some self-determined, whimsical decision, but the faith that the Apostles had in the Christ who calls them, that rock-solid, spirit-filled faith in Christ, of which Saint Peter’s confession this morning is the most direct yet sublime and solid example.
Apostolic faith like Saint Peter’s is the foundation stone on which the Church is built, the foundation stone of the new Jerusalem, with Christ as the cornerstone (Ephesians 2: 20; Revelation 21: 14).
It does not matter that Saint Peter was capable of some dreadful gaffes and misjudgements. I am like that too … constantly.
Saint Peter and Saint Paul depicted in a fresco in the Church of the Four Martyrs in Rethymnon in Crete (Photograph: Patrick Comerford)
Today’s Prayers (Thursday 7 August 2025):
The theme this week (3 to 9 August) in Pray with the World Church, the prayer diary of the Anglican mission agency USPG (United Society Partners in the Gospel), is ‘Indigenous Wisdom’ (pp 24-25). This theme was introduced on Sunday with reflections from Dr Paulo Ueti, Theological Advisor and Regional Manager for the Americas and the Caribbean, USPG.
The USPG Prayer Diary today (Thursday 7 August 2025) invites us to pray:
Heavenly Father, convict us of our responsibility as Christians: to safeguard creation, to stand with the oppressed, to seek justice.
The Collect:
Lord of all power and might,
the author and giver of all good things:
Graft in our hearts the love of your name,
increase in us true religion,
nourish us with all goodness,
and of your great mercy keep us in the same;
through Jesus Christ 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:
Lord God,
whose Son is the true vine and the source of life,
ever giving himself that the world may live:
may we so receive within ourselves
the power of his death and passion
that, in his saving cup,
we may share his glory and be made perfect in his love;
for he is alive and reigns, now and for ever.
Additional Collect:
Generous God,
you give us gifts and make them grow:
though our faith is small as mustard seed,
make it grow to your glory
and the flourishing of your kingdom;
through Jesus Christ our Lord.
‘Lord God, whose Son is the true vine and the source of life’ … grapes ripening on the vine at the Hedgehog Vintage Inn in Lichfield (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2025)
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:
