Pigs and Greeks

For the third day running the rain is lashing against the windows, powerful gales are shaking the shutters, assaulting a rare passer-by or whoever heroically waits at the bus stop. Just below the house the furrows on the vegetable field are saturated with rainwater, brushwood and green onion stalks lying low, looking beaten. Shrouded in thick mist, Mount Hiei smoulders like a massive pyre. Up the famous mountain, somewhere deep in the forest, right now there are wild boars braving the cold.

I imagine them being constantly on the move, alone, trudging the mud from tree to tree, sniffing, looking to shelter from the relentless squall. Recently there has been a resurgence of wild boar in and around the old capital. There have been numerous sightings, and on occasion an animal has been caught on camera, as was the case a few days ago when a well-rounded specimen roamed the grounds of Kyoto University campus.

Who can blame them? A hog is a hog. A hog longs for rummaging but unless one is a hog one does not know why. If I were a boar I’d likely do the same: I’d wallow, I’d forage, I’d drag my snout through dirt, I’d trespass, I’d raid, I’d invade.

In Greek Myth Adonis, Aphrodite’s lover, is killed by a boar. Ovid’s Metamorphoses narrates the legend in ‘Venus and Adonis (and Atalanta)’. In it Aphrodite ‘pillows her head’ on Adonis’ chest as she recounts the story of Atalanta and Hippomenes, two ‘godless lovers’ who make passionate love in a cave shrine ‘older than a human race’, where the wooden images of the ancient gods ‘averted their carved faces in horror’. For their act of sacrilege Atalanta and Hippomenes are transmuted into a pair of lions, ‘with a thorny scrub of a nuptial chamber’.

Aphrodite finishes her tale with a somewhat cryptic message for Adonis to ponder:

            Oh dear love,

            These and others like them, that disdain

            To give your hounds a run but come out looking for the hunter,

            For my sake, O dear boy, let them lie.

            Do not ruin our love with your recklessness.

                                                Ted Hughes, Tales from Ovid, p.141

Alas, soon enough the Fates interfere with the most tragic outcome:

            [Adonis’] hounds woke a wild boar in a wallow.

            When this thug burst out his boar-spear’s point

            Glanced off the bone into the hump of muscle.

            The boar deftly hooked the futile weapon

            Out of the wound and turned on the hunter,

            Overtook the boy’s panic scramble,

            Bedded its dagger tusks in under his crotch

            Then ploughed him with all its strength as if unearthing

            A tough tree’s roots, till it hurled him aside, mangled.

                                                Ted Hughes, Tales from Ovid, p.141-2

In Homer’s Odyssey, the eponymous hero was injured in the thigh as a boy during a boar hunt. The boar emerges suddenly, close by Odysseus

But first [before he could strike] the boar struck him
above the knee, and gashed much of his flesh with his tusk.

                                                Odyssey, 19; 449-450

The scar on his leg proves to be a blessing in disguise when, many years later, it leads Eurycleia to recognize Odysseus on his return to Ithaca. What also strikes me is Homer’s description of the boar before he is disturbed by the footsteps of humans and dogs: the boar lies hidden in his lair, and is completely invisible:

There a great boar lay in its closely-knit lair.
The power of wet-blowing winds could not blow through it,
nor the shining sun strike it with its rays,
nor yet did the rain penetrate it, so solid it was,
and there was a great pile of fallen leaves on it.

                                    Odyssey, 19; 439-443

My image of a boar ‘constantly on the move’ in harsh weather is then most likely incorrect, as the beast seems to be adept at securing itself inside shelters impenetrable to the elements. Well, my lesson for today: check the facts if your imagination soars a bit high.

All Hallows

Silent Witness on the telly: a man’s torso cut open in search of a dodgy bullet
as I fork my spaghetti pink-dusted with Alaskan pollock roe.

Someone goes, Our formative years are embedded in our teeth…

Now there is a sentence to jot down.

Teeth is what Kronos should have used (if he had any) instead of a sickle,

to cut off his father’s splendid balls. Nevertheless the blood

trickled down like honey upon the Cypriot shore to mix flesh with water

from which foamy Aphrodite arose.

My mate Yorghos took me to the borderline, to the strip of no-man’s-land in Lefkosia.

A rubble of concrete and burnt up houses. We stooped to peep through a hole

in the wall: on the Turkish side lookouts sat upon their posts,

armed to the teeth, smoking cigarettes, alert.

This morning this clown of a college teacher shows up wrapped head to toe

in baggy fatigues on which hundreds of frills fidget like dying anchovies. My class

had a Halloween story gaps to fill with any Halloween-ish adjective, dingbat, smudge.

One wrote: ‘Don’t be such a graveyard.’

                                     Aphrodite's Child: It's Five O'Clock

This video relates to the above poem but doesn't have much to do with Halloween am afraid, except that predominant colour is orange, and Demis Roussos looks to me like a cross between Count Dracula and Marlon Brando. Plus, if you look really carefully you will spot a geezer lurking in the background in a vampire's cloak (about one minute into the video). Very strange that setting, come to think of it. Could have it been shot on All Hallows' Eve?

Now and Then

Quintus Curtius Rufus, a Roman historian (1^st c. AD) wrote on Alexander the Great and his troubled, at least initially, founding of the city of Alexandria in Egypt: ‘There is a report, that after the king had completed the Macedonian custom of marking out the circular boundary for the future city-walls with barley-meal, flocks of birds flew down and fed on the barley’. Driving through the Republic of Macedonia this summer I wondered if the road builders of the recently-fledged country followed in the great man’s footsteps. Because the long stretches along the ‘Aleksandar Makedonski’ motorway are completely unmarked: no lines of any kind or colour. Have the birds gobbled up the barley?

Driving along the ‘motorway’, dotted with bumps and holes of all shape and size, can be a pretty scary experience, especially at night, the road being unlit save for your car’s headlights and, if lucky, moonlight. That was on the way to Greece, north-south direction. On the way back some nine days later, south-to-north, we knew better and drove in broad daylight. But the persistence of bumps and holes proved too much and eventually steered us off the main highway and onto the local ‘E-roads’, which proved to be – surprise, surprise – in no better state. Only when we got on the very local, virtually vehicle-less 125a, leading through beautiful landscapes along the Pčinja river, only then did we finally open all four windows and let in the warm summer air, scented by sundry wild flowers.

On the Macedonia-Serbian border crossing we were the only customers. Which must be why it took ages both for the Macedonian and the Serbian boys in blue to let us through after giving our passports some seriously close scrutiny. The Pelince border crossing must be one of the most romantic (if that is a suitable word for a border crossing): right in the gully, surrounded by lush forests and so, so quiet, only birdsong and the humming of river is heard.

A ten-minute drive past the border takes you to the St Prohor Pčinjski Orthodox monastery, it being the real clincher behind our original detour. The monastic complex is beautifully arranged, comprised of the St Prohor Church and the magnificent konak, the imposing residential building, sporting a unique architectural style. The place was abuzz with workers, busy with all sorts of repairs and adjustments – you could see something positive was taking place. A further proof for the care and concern for its surroundings was this wooden notice board (see if you can figure out what all the symbols stand for). Click to enlarge.

St Prohor’s life story is a story of a devout and a dedicated anchorite. According to the apparently extensive and well-preserved hagiography, Prohor was born in the first half of the 11^th century, into a wealthy and educated family. One day, elated upon hearing Matthew’s ‘He that loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me’, Prohor abandoned what remaining shreds of secularity were still fettering him, and left for the high hills, never to return. The next thirty two years (some sources say much longer) he spent living in a small cave with the mountain beasts, sleeping on the bare rock, feeding on wild fruits and grass, drinking water from the mountain spring, never setting eyes on a living human soul.

Well, almost never. The legend goes that one day a hunter hard on the heels of an injured doe, which has just found a shelter with Prohor, comes across the old man, is immediately startled and starts backing off. Prohor calls out to him and the two begin conversing. The hunter turns out to be a Byzantine military aristocrat Diogenes (which Prohor somehow already knew) and eventually Prohor prophesies Diogenes is to become the future emperor of Byzantium. Prohor also pledges Diogenes that once he becomes a king, he should duly remember the old hermit’s prophesy.

 

Decades later, Romanos IV Diogenes (1068-1071) has a dream in which the old prophet admonishes him with words: ‘Why, great Diogenes, have you forgotten your old garb and me the old hermit? Make an effort and build me at least a small temple where I could pray to God until my final days’. The Emperor, frightened, immediately sets off to the north Macedonian mountains to try and find Prohor. After many days of fruitless search, Prohor reappears in Diogenes’ dream and tells him to go to Mount Kozjak and look for a cave above which a white eagle soars, after which Diogenes finally finds the cave and in it the old man’s remains, lying intact and quite unspoiled. On the spot Diogenes builds a small church dedicated to St Luke and further down, at the Pčinja riverbank, another, a more imposing one, where St Prohor’s relics remain to this day.

                             From left to right: Diogenes IV, St Prohor, King Milutin (click to enlarge)

 

Incidentally, Diogenes’ own fate as an emperor turned out to be a sort of royal martyrdom in its own right. This from Wikipedia:

During his reign [Diogenes] was determined to halt the decline of the Byzantine military and stop Turkish incursions into the Byzantine Empire, but in 1071 he was captured and his army routed at the Battle of Manzikert, lead by the Sultan Alp Arslan.

[…] According to a number of Byzantine historians… Arslan at first had difficulty believing the dusty and tattered warrior brought before him was the Roman Emperor. He then stepped down from his seat and placed his foot on Romanos' neck. But after this sign of ritual humiliation, Arslan raised Romanos from the ground, and ordered him to be treated like a king. From then on he treated him with extreme kindness, never saying a cruel word to him in the Emperor's eight-day stay in his camp, and then released him in exchange for a treaty and the promise of a hefty ransom.

[…]In the meantime, the opposition faction scheming against Romanos IV decided to exploit the situation. While still captive [Romanos] was overthrown in a palace coup, and when released he was quickly defeated by the army led by one Andronikos Doukas. Pursued by Andronikos, [Romanos IV] was eventually forced to surrender by the garrison at Adana upon receiving assurances of his personal safety. Before leaving the fortress, he collected all the money he could lay his hands on and sent it to the Sultan as proof of his good faith, along with a message: "As emperor, I promised you a ransom of a million and a half. Dethroned, and about to become dependent upon others, I send you all I possess as proof of my gratitude".

Andronikos stipulated that Diogenes’ life would be spared if he resigned the purple and retired into a monastery. Romanos agreed, and this agreement was ratified at Constantinople. However, John Doukas reneged on the agreement, and sent men to have Romanos cruelly blinded on June 29, 1072, before sending him into exile to Prote in the Sea of Marmara. Without medical assistance, his wound became infected, and he soon endured a painfully lingering death. The final insult was given a few days before his death, when Romanos received a letter from Michael Psellos, congratulating him on the loss of his eyes. He finally died, praying for the forgiveness of his sins, and his wife Eudokia was permitted to honour his remains with a magnificent funeral.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Romanos_IV_Diogenes

Now, all these machinations have a familiar ring to it. Have the successive governments on the Balkan peninsula in recent history not been their own worst enemies? Have they not been vying for power under any excuse and at any price? Have they not been pursuing their own fat interests instead of ensuring the prosperity of their own citizens? Has this blatant disregard not led many Balkan countries to an economic as well as spiritual cesspit?

As for the spirituality and the church, well, look at Prohor’s shining example and then look at the Orthodox elite in Greece, Serbia, Russia today. In Russia, the Church has acted as Putin’s bodyguard, to paraphrase Hitchens. The highly privileged orders of Greek and Serbian monks are exempt from tax, drive expensive cars, talk on mobiles, and bicker over property and funds. One recent example:

The around 2,600 monks residing at the Vatopaidi monastery in Mount Athos defied the Greek Ministry of Finance last year when it required the so-called autonomous territory pay property taxes on its commercial property.

Mount Athos, a 300 km2 peninsula in Greece, is off limits to women and is exempt from paying VAT. Its mandate prohibits “heterodox or schismatics to live on the Holy Mountain” and states its elected Abbot “must not have been convicted of malversation of monastic property.”

Its chief operator, Abbot Ephraim, is charged with money laundering and embezzlement in a land swap that saw valuable state land traded for less valuable property held by Vatopaidi.

The Hellenic court handed him a six-month suspended sentence in February 2012.

Another monk also took the blame, as well as a former judge from the area in northern Greece where the land swaps took place.

Ephraim, who posted €300,000 bail, was released after four months of detention in Korydallos prison. The former abbot is now residing at the monastery and is not allowed to leave Mount Athos.

The Greek edition of the International Herald Tribune reported that Ephraim called his conditional release "a miracle of the Virgin."

 http://euobserver.com/economic/116962

 Talk about dignity and sainthood.

Socrates vs Socrates

As of yesterday, December 5^th, 2011, if you googled ‘Death of Socrates’ the top couple of results would not be about the famous Greek, but that of a Brazilian football hero: Sócrates Brasileiro Sampaio de Souza Vieira de Oliveira. For those of us who grew up in the early 80s playing footy in the park or the nearest parking lot, the mention of Brazilian Socrates inevitably brings back memories of one irretrievably lost sporting era when football (and most other sports) could indeed be a beautiful game, when creativity on the pitch and loyalty to clubs and fans came before financial gain. Just watch the Brazilian side on youtube at the two World Cups – Spain ’82 and Mexico ’86 respectively – the improvisation, the risk-taking, the ball-control, the whole team one well-oiled machine made up of free-spirited, individual talent. Mind you, not as individualistic as that Greek team in Monty Python’s Philosophy Football sketch (in which Socrates of all philosophers scores with that masterly diving header!).

Little did we know, those of us living outside of Brazil, that Socrates the footballer (also a qualified medical doctor) was politically active, playing a very prominent role in dismantling the Brazilian military regime, which eventually collapsed in 1985, and helping to bring in democracy and prosperity to the masses. This he did by forming the Corinthian Democracy Movement in the early 80s with the aim of spreading the powers of majority rule:

"Corinthians were a superb side at the time, winning the Sao Paulo state championship in 1982 and 1983, and their blend of stylish, attacking football married with the political campaigning of Socrates and his colleagues captured the imagination of many. To spread their message the Corinthians Democracy Movement emblazoned the clubs kits with political slogans on match days, and huge pro-democracy banners were erected at their Pacaembu stadium. The movement also attracted the support of artists and intellectuals, as the political left latched onto the power of football in spreading the message for change. In 1982, despite warnings from the Brazilian Football Confederation (CBF) not to interfere in political issues, the Corinthians Democracy Movement agreed that the club would take to the field in shirts bearing the slogan “Vote on the Fifteenth”, urging Brazilian citizens to make their voice heard in the upcoming elections."

You can read the informative article in full here: http://fiveinmidfield.com/2011/03/27/socrates-and-the-corinthians-democracy-movement-how-football-helped-to-change-a-country/

So, what do two Socrateses, the Athenian and the Brazilian, apart from their name, have in common? A few parallels (however historically unverifiable): both men were physically strong and vigorous; both were courageous – the Athenian as a hoplite war veteran, the Brazilian as a political activist as well as the on-pitch adventurer; both strove towards achieving a fairer society, albeit by the apparently opposing, or at least different, means – the Greek had issues with the Athenian democracy of his time, mistrusted the majority rule (paradoxically considered as probably the first ‘free-speech martyr’) and was rather concerned with the moral and intellectual betterment, ‘welfare of the souls’, of his fellow citizens, whereas the Brazilian Socrates was a champion of the poor and the underprivileged; and judging by their actions, both men in their final hour faced death without much fear or regret: the Greek accepting, even welcoming, the death sentence, the Brazilian apparently a victim of his bohemian lifestyle. Whatever the parallels, straight or reverse, both men, as poet Kathy Evans Bush might say, acted like human beings. Curiously enough, she takes another Greek, Nestor, ‘the grandfatherly blabbermouth’, when she cooks up a poem from Nestor’s ‘point of view’ about yet another athlete (a coincidence?), LeBron James. The poem is called ‘The Iliad’, and the final lines go

Pro teams used to practice in
The gym where I taught high school.
Chamberlain, Chet Walker, Jerry West,
I saw them all up close and in truth
The only one who acted like a human
Being was Tom Boerwinkle so let's have
A poem contest for the man from Tennessee!

[http://baroqueinhackney.com]

Greek Tragedy

Two images normally spring to mind once we hear the name of Constantine P. Cavafy: his disarmingly sensual homoerotic vignettes, and his innovative poems concerned with some of the finer, if less-famed, points in Greek history. In the light of the recent political turmoil perhaps some Greek poets/intellectuals might be wondering what kind of poems Cavafy would end up writing about, say, the bailout plan by Merkel/Sarkozy or the inner workings of the Greek parliament. For one, as Greeks’ political self-determination once again hangs in the air, Greece does seem to be standing at a crossroads of sorts – whether it be the country’s potential exit from the Euro project, or its acceptance of the austerity measures – both of which would likely lead to the advanced stages of belt-tightening. There seems to be no end in sight for the current Greek tragedy: people’s houses are being impounded, personal debts are mounting, many have lost jobs or are about to – the unemployment rate is at a record high 16%. The young and the highly educated are setting off abroad – an estimated 10% of university graduates leave the country each year. The pressing needs of the majority are financial security, careers, prosperity. Indeed it is not easy to see how Cavafy’s view ‘at a slight angle to the universe’ would help matters.

Cavafy was a poet of peripheries: his homosexuality, his Alexandrianism, his interest in the less-prominent historical figures, his imaginative reenactments of the myth. As E.M. Forster put it, not necessary unfavourably, ‘Such a writer can never be popular. He flies both too slowly and too high. Whether subjective or objective, he is equally remote from the bustle of the moment, he will never compose either a Royalist or a Venizelist Hymn. He has the strength (and of course the limitations) of the recluse, who, though not afraid of the world, always stands at a slight angle to it […]’¹. 

                                                  Cavafy Etching by David Hockney, 1967

As for me, I’d much rather read Cavafy’s poems than some disheartening report on the latest squabble in the Greek legislative assembly. Cavafy’s characters, real or imaginary, are rarely concerned with their financial stability and that alone makes them more interesting, more human. The poet’s sympathies usually rest with the downtrodden, the marginalized, protagonist lurking in the shadows, earning just enough to get by, ‘putting / the pure sensuality of his pure flesh / above his honour and reputation’ (‘Days of 1896’). In ‘Orophernis’ (1914), money, or rather a drachma coin, serves as a springboard for Cavafy’s musings on the Hellenic pride, toned down by his trademark irony. The poem is a curious amalgam of the mundane, historical fact and erotic idealization. Here are the closing lines:

His end must have been recorded somewhere only to be lost;

or maybe history passed over it

and rightly didn’t bother to notice

a thing so trivial.

The figure on this four drachma coin,

something of whose young charm can still be seen,

a ray of his poetic beauty—

this sensuous image of an Ionian boy,

this is Orophernis, son of Ariarathis.²

There is lots of material in Cavafy’s oeuvre, especially in his historical poems, for the contemporary reader to try and unpick, from which a few parallels between the then and the now could be drawn. Cavafy was particularly attracted by the Hellenistic and the Byzantine eras, often by a certain turning point in history when the Hellenistic world surrenders on the military and political front (at the same time struggling to keep its cultural and spiritual integrity), when the Greek identity, as well as survival, is at stake. It is the nation’s moments of crisis, and the effect that the crisis has on the citizens’ morale, that Cavafy is often drawn to. And more often then not it is corruption, hubris and decadence of those in charge that lead to a civilization’s downfall:

He’s lost his old fire, his courage.
Now his tired, almost decrepit body
will be his first concern. And the rest of his life he’ll spend
without worrying. So Philip says, anyway.
Tonight he’s playing a game with dice;
he’s in a mood to amuse himself.
Cover the table with roses.

[…]

Let the banquet begin. Slaves! The music, the lights!

from The Battle of Magnesia³

In 1928 Cavafy wrote In a Large Greek Colony, 200 B.C., a somewhat unusual poem in that, although no name is attached to the colony and despite the title, the issues of governing and economics addressed seem to speak directly of the 20^th century political intolerance, totalitarianism, extreme radicalism. Cavafy argues against the ‘Political Reformer’ and his enforced administrative changes in a gently ironic tone, calling for equanimity and patience instead. This poem’s strong anti-bureaucrat stance fits in nicely with today’s Eurozone predicament, and can well speak to the 21^st century reader, Greek or not Greek. Here is the poem in full:

In a Large Greek Colony, 200 B.C.E.

There is not the slightest doubt
that things in the Colony don't go as one would wish,
and though we move forward, anyway,
perhaps, as not a few think, the time has come
for us to bring in a Political Reformer.

Yet the obstacle and difficulty
is that they make a big deal
out of everything, these Reformers.
(It would be a stroke of good luck
if one never needed them.) Everything,
every little thing, they ask about and examine,
and instantly radical reforms come to mind
and they demand they be implemented without delay.

They lean toward sacrifice.
Give up that property of yours,
your owning it is risky:
such possessions are harmful to the Colonies.
Give up that income
and that coming from it,
and this third one, as a natural consequence.
They are essential, but it can't be helped;
They create an adverse liability for you.

And as they proceed in their inspection,
they find (then find again) needless things,
which they demand must go —
things that nevertheless are hard to dismiss.

And when, with good luck, they finish their work,
having ordered and pared everything down to the last detail,
they leave, taking away their rightful wages, as well.
We'll see what remains, after
so much expert surgery.

Perhaps the time had not yet come.
Let's not rush; haste is a dangerous thing.
Premature measures bring regret.
Certainly and unfortunately, there is much disorder in the Colony.
But is there anything human without imperfection?
And, anyway, look, we're moving forward.⁴

I wish more people read Cavafy. I wish more Greeks read Cavafy. If your ‘average Joe’ in Greece read a poem of Cavafy a day, who knows, it might make him want to look at the current political difficulties from a slight angle, even help one reinvent his day. 

Post Scriptum — I visited Greece on three of four occasions. My memories are sketchy. From the late 70s I remember our little cottage off the beaten track on the island of Thasos, the swarms of moths vying for space around the lightbulb above the entrance door; waking up to the sight of the long line of ants from one end of the ceiling to the other; the bee-stings all over my nine-year-old body (honey is the island’s major produce). I remember Greek men incessantly playing tavli in downtown taverns (not quite as pitiful as Cavafy’s ‘old man’), and cart-sellers shouting ‘karpouzia, karpouzia!’ (watermelons) each morning. From the late 90s I remember gangs of sinister-looking stray dogs roaming the streets of Thessaloniki, a rusted balustrade and a British-style, separate-taps basin in my seedy hotel room. I recall a sea promenade in the village of Neos Marmaras, Halkidiki, where I saw a shooting star one evening and at once sat down to write a love letter to a certain R.; I also recall a soft-cotton navy-blue hat I bought in the village, subsequently lost and have been looking for ever since.

Notes:

1 – E.M. Forster: The Poetry of C.P. Cavafy, ‘The Athenaeum’, April 1919; reprinted in Modernism, Edinburgh University Press, 1998

2 and 3 – transl. by E. Keeley / P. Sherrard

4 – transl. by Aliki Barnstone