"A Few Lines"
By Paul Campanis
A letter from home. Middle September, back to
school for the children.
The day is sharp and clear. My large button marigolds shine
gold. We
are a witness to the greatness of it
all. Here in Dover, MA or there in
Nisiro.
Words are a reminder of the connection between one place and the
other.
To be in a place is not to be in some other place, but with
imagination and attention we bridge the
gap. So my best place, Greece,
comes into focus.
A witness saves. Nothing is lost when care is rendered. I read Seferi
so I will know what to do. He is my Martha Stewart, my Julia
Child. He and
his his pal, Kavafi, are always fooling
around with me to get me to see
stuff.
To remember the times I saw in Greece. To think of my ancestors,
now passed.
Seferi's energy propels me to the next
shore. I am always traveling as
a proper Greek does. Maybe not physically a lot of the time
but always my
restless mind and spirit look to
excitement. I am reminded of the
dynamo,
the volcano, George Katsimbalas, the heroic
one who would never tire of
taking in Greece and then would send out gobs
of words amid the retsina, the
bread and olive he stuffed in his mouth. He would talk into the early dawn
even if no-one was there. His pals had dropped out from sheer
exhaustion.
O, Giorgo, how I think of you and laugh..
Thanks to Henry Miller and his
book.
"The Colossus of Marousi."
Anyways, Greece, I salute you this glorious day
in Dover, as I am about
to hit the pavement and do my exciting
life. And I think of George Seferi
and his mission to humanize his people, me
included. He says, look I was
looking for direction as a young man and had
to find my way like everyone
else.
He says this but can't leave it be as a regular bloke would. So he
puts it into a poem, see? That is what a witness does, you
see. He
immortalizes himself, his being so I in Dover
can go out today with a jump
in my step 'cause I gut Seferi in my corner.
I gutta go. Got work to do.
Yiassou, my love, George, George Seferi.
See you when I get home and weary, get the
supper on the table, my old body
laboring under the challenges of the day
past. See my man, is always on
duty, ready to serve me and let me witness as it is my turn
now. He
sustains me. The arthritis hurts less. A lot less. I
fly over the clouds
in his words and my culture, the one that
feeds me all of the time.
A few lines.
Ki omos eitan gluko to kuma
opou epefta paidi ke kolymbousa
ki akomi san eimoun palikari
kathos epsahna skymata sta votsala
gyrevonta rythmous
mou mylyse o Thalassinos Geros
"Eyo eimai o topos sou.
Isos na myn eimai kaneis,
alla boro na yino afto pou theleis."
Wow, my goodness. Not bad, George,
" But all and still,
the wave was
sweet, when as a child I would fall into the
water and swim, and then
somehow I grew up as I was a palikari, a
young stalwart, seeking patterns in
the pebbles, wondering as to rhythms, there
spoke to me the Sea Old Man.
I'm your place, maybe I am no-one, but I can
become that which you want."