Of Colored Glass by C.P. Cavafy

I am very moved by one detail

in the coronation at Vlachernai of John Kantakuzinos

and Irini, daughter of Andronikos Asan.

Because they had only a few precious stones

(our afflicted empire was extremely poor)

they wore artificial ones: numerous pieces of glass,

red, green, or blue. I find

nothing humiliating or undignified

in those little pieces of colored glass.

On the contrary, they seem

a sad protest against

the unjust misfortune of the couple being crowned,

symbols of what they deserved to have,

of what surely it was right that they should have

at their coronation—a Lord John Kantakuzinos,

a Lady Irini, daughter of Andronikos Asan.

Translated by Edmund Keeley/Philip Sherrard

Πολύ με συγκινεί μια λεπτομέρεια
στην στέψιν, εν Βλαχέρναις, του Ιωάννη Καντακουζηνού
και της Ειρήνης Aνδρονίκου Aσάν.
Όπως δεν είχαν παρά λίγους πολυτίμους λίθους
(του ταλαιπώρου κράτους μας ήταν μεγάλ’ η πτώχεια)
φόρεσαν τεχνητούς.  Ένα σωρό κομμάτια από υαλί,
κόκκινα, πράσινα ή γαλάζια. Τίποτε
το ταπεινόν ή το αναξιοπρεπές
δεν έχουν κατ’ εμέ τα κομματάκια αυτά
από υαλί χρωματιστό. Μοιάζουνε τουναντίον
σαν μια διαμαρτυρία θλιβερή
κατά της άδικης κακομοιριάς των στεφομένων.
Είναι τα σύμβολα του τι ήρμοζε να έχουν,
του τι εξ άπαντος ήταν ορθόν να έχουν
στην στέψι των ένας Κυρ Ιωάννης Καντακουζηνός,
μια Κυρία Ειρήνη Aνδρονίκου Aσάν. 

Giorgos Sikeliotis / Γιώργος Σικελιώτης

Nikos Gabriel Pentzikis: a Reflection by Dr. Christos Yannaras

            Nikos Gabriel Pentzikis is particularly notable for his ecclesiastical realism in both his paintings and his writings.  He was a ‘modernist,’ adopting the anti-novel in the form of an interior monologue, a stream of associations with weak logical connections but with coherent successions of personal experiences and intense symbolism.  This form allowed Pentzikis to dwell on the experiential relationship with the particular, where the personal element of the relationship consciously transcends the aesthetic for the sake of the experiential immediacy of the symbolism.

By using such language Pentzikis rids his spiritual experience of any idealism.  This purification enabled him to appropriate popular ecclesiastical experience in its material and practical expression: buildings, texts, icons, and daily customs.  He identifies the Greek Orthodox tradition with its material expression of popular piety, the details of a popular faith insignificant to the "objective" observer.

For example, Greek Church buildings for Pentzikis are not simply an aesthetic interpretation of theological symbolism.  They express the relationship between the artist – and every believer – and the tangible reality of creation, which is ultimately a relationship with the Creator.  Even the hymns are not simply poetic expression of metaphysical truth but express a dense feeling of erotic experience of communion with the persons of Christ, the Theotokos, and the saints.  The physical sense of this communion is the central motif linking the chain of recollections in Pentzikis’ monologue.

Orthodoxy and the West

(pg. 261 & 262, trans. By Peter Chamberas and Norman Russell. HCHC Press, 2006)

A Place of Healing for the Soul: Patmos

http://www.amazon.com/Place-Healing-Soul-Patmos/dp/0871138506/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

In Byzantine art...

In Byzantine art, poetry, painting, and music, life appears stylized. In other words, the human body, clothes and ornaments, furniture, inside and outside spaces, houses and streets, trees and animals, are presented not for the value which they may have in the present but as intermediaries that help us perceive another life. Through the centuries we came to identify the other life with the world of the ideas, which gave way, after the French Revolution, to various monistic conceptions and has become for us shadowy and ambiguous. . . . But the other life is not a question of ideas; and if Europe has forgotten this in its wasting of the moral resources of faith, we, who during four hundred years of slavery, preserved ourselves only by the conventions of our worship, after the fall of vain ornamentation in Byzantium, are in a position to know it, since we have witnessed the resurgence of our life as freedom, without any ideological rhetoric. By simply persevering, our life was able to refill the framework which we received from our myth.

-N.G. Pentzikis

Remembrance of the dead by N.G. Pentzikis (A fragment)

The dead change the whole aspect of the city.  Everywhere you go, memory produces in you hallucinations of the smell of incense and of frankincense.  You are afraid revenants will come out… For the repose of the dead the priest at the cenotaph is reading the names.  Paper with names on it covers the top of the narrow credence table, under the “spitted lamb”, the Christ of His final humiliation.

The Birth by Tasos Leivaditis

Birth

On another night I heard him crying next door.  I knocked and went in.  

He showed me a small wooden cross on top of the bedside table. ‘You see’, 

he said to me, ‘compassion is born’.  I then bowed my head and I too cried,

         

for centuries and centuries would go by and we would not have anything 

more beautiful to say than that.

H Γέννηση

Ένα άλλο βράδυ τον άκουσα να κλαίει δίπλα. Χτύπησα την πόρτα και μπήκα. Μου ‘δειξε πάνω στο κομοδίνο ένα μικρό ξύλινο σταυρό. “Είδες – μου λέει – γεννήθηκε η ευσπλαχνία”. Έσκυψα τότε το κεφάλι κι έκλαψα κι εγώ. Γιατί θα περνούσαν αιώνες και αιώνες και δε θα ‘χαμε να πούμε τίποτα ωραιότερο απ’ αυτό.

Nikos Xylouris & Giannis Markopoulos - Pirasmos (1976)

Θεόφιλος Χατζημιχάλης / Theophilos Hatzimichalis

The King of Asini by George Seferis (Part 2 of 2)

And the poet lingers, looking at the stones, and asks himself

does there really exist

among these ruined lines, edges, points, hollows and curves

does there really exist

here where one meets the path of rain, wind and ruin

does there exist the movement of the face, shape of the tenderness

of those who’ve waned so strangely in our lives,

those who remained the shadow of waves and thoughts with the sea’s boundlessness

or perhaps no, nothing is left but the weight

the nostalgia for the weight of a living existence

there where we now remain unsubstantial, bending

like the branches of a terrible willow tree heaped in unremitting despair

while the yellow current slowly carries down rushes uprooted in the mud

image of a form that the sentence to everlasting bitterness has turned to stone:

the poet a void.

Shieldbearer, the sun climbed warring,

and from the depths of the cave a startled bat

hit the light as an arrow hits a shield:

‘’Ασíνην τε. . .’Ασíνην τε. . .’. If only that could be the king of Asini

we’ve been searching for so carefully on this acropolis

sometimes touching with our fingers his touch upon the stones.

                                                      Asini, summer ’38—Athens, Jan. ’40

George Seferis, "THe King of Asini" from Collected Poems (George Seferis). Translated, edited, and introduced by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard. Copyright © 1995 by George Seferis.  

Κι ὁ ποιητὴς ἀργοπορεῖ κοιτάζοντας τὶς πέτρες κι ἀνάρωτιέται
ὑπάρχουν ἄραγε
ἀνάμεσα στὶς χαλασμένες τοῦτες γραμμὲς
τὶς ἀκμὲς τὶς αἰχμὲς τὰ κοῖλα καὶ τὶς καμπύλες
ὑπάρχουν ἄραγε
ἐδῶ ποὺ συναντιέται τὸ πέρασμα τῆς βροχῆς τοῦ ἀγέρα καὶ τῆς φθορᾶς
ὑπάρχουν, ἡ κίνηση τοῦ προσώπου τὸ σχῆμα τῆς στοργῆς
ἐκείνων ποὺ λιγόστεψαν τόσο παράξενα μὲς στὴ ζωή μας
αὐτῶν ποὺ ἀπόμειναν σκιὲς κυμάτων καὶ στοχασμοὶ μὲ τὴν ἀπεραντοσύνη τοῦ πελάγου
ἢ μήπως ὄχι δὲν ἀπομένει τίποτε παρὰ μόνο τὸ βάρος
ἡ νοσταλγία τοῦ βάρους μιᾶς ὕπαρξης ζωντανῆς
ἐκεῖ ποὺ μένουμε τώρα ἀνυπόστατοι λυγίζοντας
σὰν τὰ κλωνάρια τῆς φριχτῆς ἰτιᾶς σωριασμένα μέσα στὴ διάρκεια τῆς ἀπελπισίας
ἐνῶ τὸ ρέμα κίτρινο κατεβάζει ἀργὰ βοῦρλα ξεριζωμένα μὲς στὸ βοῦρκο
εἰκόνα μορφῆς ποὺ μαρμάρωσε μὲ τὴν ἀπόφαση μιᾶς πίκρας παντοτινῆς.
Ὁ ποιητὴς ἕνα κενό.

Ἀσπιδοφόρος ὁ ἥλιος ἀνέβαινε πολεμώντας
κι ἀπὸ τὸ βάθος τῆς σπηλιᾶς μία νυχτερίδα τρομαγμένη
χτύπησε πάνω στὸ φῶς σὰν τὴ σαΐτα πάνω στὸ σκουτάρι:
«Ἀσίνην τε Ἀσίνην τε…». Νἄ ῾ταν αὐτὴ ὁ βασιλιὰς τῆς Ἀσίνης
ποὺ τὸν γυρεύουμε τόσο προσεχτικὰ σὲ τούτη τὴν ἀκρόπόλη
ἀγγίζοντας κάποτε μὲ τὰ δάχτυλά μας τὴν ὑφή του πάνω στὶς πέτρες.

 Ἀσίνη,

καλοκαίρι ῾38 – Ἀθήνα, Γεν. ῾40

The King of Asini by George Seferis (Part 1 of 2)

TRANSLATED BY EDMUND KEELEY AND PHILIP SHERRARD

’Ασíνην τε. . . — Iliad

All morning long we looked around the citadel

starting from the shaded side there where the sea

green and without lustre — breast of a slain peacock —

received us like time without an opening in it.

Veins of rock dropped down from high above,

twisted vines, naked, many-branched, coming alive

at the water’s touch, while the eye following them

struggled to escape the monotonous see-saw motion,

growing weaker and weaker.

On the sunny side a long empty beach

and the light striking diamonds on the huge walls.

No living thing, the wild doves gone

and the king of Asini, whom we’ve been trying to find for two years now,

unknown, forgotten by all, even by Homer,

only one word in the Iliad and that uncertain,

thrown here like the gold burial mask.

You touched it, remember its sound? Hollow in the light

like a dry jar in dug earth:

the same sound that our oars make in the sea.

The king of Asini a void under the mask

everywhere with us everywhere with us, under a name:

‘’Ασíνην τε. . .’Ασíνην τε. . .’

                                          and his children statues

and his desires the fluttering of birds, and the wind

in the gaps between his thoughts, and his ships

anchored in a vanished port:

under the mask a void.

Behind the large eyes the curved lips the curls

carved in relief on the gold cover of our existence

a dark spot that you see travelling like a fish

in the dawn calm of the sea:

a void everywhere with us.

And the bird, a wing broken,

that flew away last winter

— tabernacle of life —

and the young woman who left to play

with the dog-teeth of summer

and the soul that sought the lower world gibbering

and the country like a large plane-leaf swept along by the torrent of the sun

with the ancient monuments and the contemporary sorrow.

Ἀσίνην τε… ΙΛΙΑΔΑ

Κοιτάξαμε ὅλο τὸ πρωὶ γύρω-γύρω τὸ κάστρο
ἀρχίζοντας ἀπὸ τὸ μέρος τοῦ ἴσκιου ἐκεῖ ποὺ ἡ θάλασσα
πράσινη καὶ χωρὶς ἀναλαμπή, τὸ στῆθος σκοτωμένου παγονιοῦ
Μᾶς δέχτηκε ὅπως ὁ καιρὸς χωρὶς κανένα χάσμα.
Οἱ φλέβες τοῦ βράχου κατέβαιναν ἀπὸ ψηλὰ
στριμμένα κλήματα γυμνὰ πολύκλωνα ζωντανεύοντας
στ ἄγγιγμα τοῦ νεροῦ, καθὼς τὸ μάτι ἀκολουθώντας τις
πάλευε νὰ ξεφύγει τὸ κουραστικὸ λίκνισμα
χάνοντας δύναμη ὁλοένα.

Ἀπὸ τὸ μέρος τοῦ ἥλιου ἕνας μακρὺς γιαλὸς ὁλάνοιχτος
καὶ τὸ φῶς τρίβοντας διαμαντικὰ στὰ μεγάλα τείχη.
Κανένα πλάσμα ζωντανὸ τ᾿ ἀγριοπερίστερα φευγάτα
κι ὁ βασιλιὰς τῆς Ἀσίνης ποὺ τὸν γυρεύουμε δυὸ χρόνια τώρα
ἄγνωστος λησμονημένος ἀπ᾿ ὅλους κι ἀπὸ τὸν Ὅμηρο
μόνο μία λέξη στὴν Ἰλιάδα κι ἐκείνη ἀβέβαιη
ριγμένη ἐδῶ σὰν τὴν ἐντάφια χρυσὴ προσωπίδα.
Τὴν ἄγγιξες, θυμᾶσαι τὸν ἦχο της; κούφιο μέσα στὸ φῶς
σὰν τὸ στεγνὸ πιθάρι στὸ σκαμμένο χώμα-
κι ὁ ἴδιος ἦχος μὲς στὴ θάλασσα μὲ τὰ κουπιά μας.
Ὁ βασιλιὰς τῆς Ἀσίνης ἕνα κενὸ κάτω ἀπ᾿ τὴν προσωπίδα
παντοῦ μαζί μας παντοῦ μαζί μας, κάτω ἀπὸ ἕνα ὄνομα:
«Ἀσίνην τε… Ἀσίνην τε…»
καὶ τὰ παιδιά του ἀγάλματα
κι οἱ πόθοι του φτερουγίσματα πουλιῶν κι ὁ ἀγέρας
στὰ διαστήματα τῶν στοχασμῶν του καὶ τὰ καράβια του
ἀραγμένα σ᾿ ἄφαντο λιμάνι-
κάτω ἀπ᾿ τὴν προσωπίδα ἕνα κενό.

Πίσω ἀπὸ τὰ μεγάλα μάτια τὰ καμπύλα χείλια τοὺς βοστρύχους
ἀνάγλυφα στὸ μαλαματένιο σκέπασμα τῆς ὕπαρξής μας
ἕνα σημεῖο σκοτεινὸ ποὺ ταξιδεύει σὰν τὸ ψάρι
μέσα στὴν αὐγινὴ γαλήνη τοῦ πελάγου καὶ τὸ βλέπεις:
ἕνα κενὸ παντοῦ μαζί μας.
Καὶ τὸ πουλὶ ποὺ πέταξε τὸν ἄλλο χειμώνα
μὲ σπασμένη φτερούγα σκήνωμα ζωῆς,
κι ἡ νέα γυναίκα ποὺ ἔφυγε νὰ παίξει
μὲ τὰ σκυλόδοντα τοῦ καλοκαιριοῦ
κι ἡ ψυχὴ ποὺ γύρεψε τσιρίζοντας τὸν κάτω κόσμο ὁ χείμαρρος τοῦ ἥλιου
μὲ τ᾿ ἀρχαῖα μνημεῖα καὶ τὴ σύγχρονη θλίψη.

Becoming Poets

"Whoever wants to become a Christian must first become a poet. That's what it is! You must suffer. You must love and suffer- suffer for the one you love. Love makes effort for the loved one. She runs all through the night; she stays awake; she stains her feet with blood in order to meet her beloved. She makes sacrifices and disregards all impediments, threats, and difficulties for the sake of the loved one. Love towards Christ is something even higher, infinitely higher. “–Saint Porphyrios

Icon by the hand of Fr. Stamatis Skliris   http://www.holyicon.org/

A Selection from the Poem “Turning” by N.G. Pentzikis

I want to talk to you but I can't

houses of the world, why are you made of stone,

why doesn't creation rise like unleavened bread

feeling the breath of the creator in the heart's beat?

Open the windows for the sun to enter

tearing down the fences built by men

so that the simple, flower-garbed hope

may rise to the top, a sign of God.

I want to sing of you, flowers of the earth

as I plunge my hand in the past of the race

through heaps of fallen dead leaves

to the stem that raises its head high.

The head that will be reaped at some moment

in the heartiest satisfaction of God —

reading it we are able to die

serene in our intimacy with another life.

Denise Harvey (Publisher)

http://deniseharveypublisher.gr/

The books you will find on this site are mainly, but not exclusively, concerned with the forms and expressions of Greek life and culture that emerged during the post-Byzantine period while still remaining deeply rooted in the spiritual inheritance of Greek Christendom. This life and culture is often identified by the enigmatic word Romiosyni, which derives from the connection of the Greeks with 'new Rome' — Constantinople — and the Eastern Roman Empire. People who dwelt within this Empire called themselves Romioi — Romans — hence Romiosyni, which in a non-nationalistic sense could be rendered as Hellenism. It is for this reason that many of books on this site have been published within the encompass of what is called 'The Romiosyni Series'. Romiosyni is a word that has both historical and emotional connotations and expresses for modern Greeks a particular aspect of their national identity. Historically, this identity was not limited to a political, racial or territorial boundary, and this sense of nationality depended more on the sharing of a certain milieu, almost a state of mind, than on anything else.

All the books on this site have been produced in Greece and particular care has been taken with regard to their design, quality and durability.

AUTHORS & TRANSLATORS

          Demetrios Capetanakis

          C. P. Cavafy

          Janet Coggin

          Juliet du Boulay

          Odysseus Elytis

          Rowena Fowler

          Th. D. Frangopoulos

          Nikos Gatsos

          Hieromonk Gregorios

          Denise Harvey

          Gail Holst

          Romilly Jenkins

          Lambros Kamperidis

          Edmund Keeley

          Edward Lear

          Tasos Leivaditis

          Zissimos Lorenzatos

          Peter Mackridge

          Barbro Noel-Baker

          Alexandros Papadiamandis

          Athanasios N. Papathanasiou

          Elder Porphyrios

          Saint Porphyrios

          John Raffan

          Fr John Raffan

          George Seferis

          George Serferis

          Philip Sherrard

          Liadain Sherrard

          Liadain Sherrard

          Denise Sherrard

          Angelos Sikelianos

          Dionysios Solomos

          Graham Speake

          Terence Spencer

          Elizabeth Theokritoff

          N. N. Trakakis

          Mary Jaqueline Tyrwhitt

          Rex Warner

          C. M. Woodhouse

          Vassa Solomou Xanthaki