Τhe Greek military junta ripped to shreds

April 21 2017 marked 50 years since the military Junta came to power in Greece. To commemorate that catastrophe in modern Greek history, I would like to offer a translation of the last poem that Seferis wrote. It was published posthumously in To Vima in August 1974, days after the Junta fell, although it was written in March 1971.

The poem, entitled On Gorse for reasons that become clear when you read the poem, is set in a specific location and on a particular date in the calendar. The location is the temple dedicated to Poseidon at Cape Sounio, south of Athens. Sounio has deep roots in Greek culture: it is mentioned in the Odyssey and looks out towards the island of Salamis, site of the great victory of the Greek city-state fleet over the Persians in 480BC. In the poem the temple resonates still with all this history and associations.

In the liturgical calendar the Feast of the Annunciation, when the Angel Gabriel announced to Mary that she would conceive a child and become the mother of Jesus, falls on March 25. This date is also Greek Independence Day, a public holiday commemorating the start of the War of Independence against the Ottomans. During the Junta, Independence Day was celebrated with military parades, particularly in Athens. But in this poem, we are away from all the pomp and bombast of the regime, in a place deeply connected with Greek history and culture, on a day celebrated in Christianity as an event when good news and hope came into the world.

Like the statement condemning the regime he made to the BBC two years earlier, Seferis’s poem condemns the Junta indirectly, this time through Plato’s report of the murder of an ancient Greek tyrant.

“On gorse…”

Sounio was beautiful on that day
The Feast of the Annunciation
once again in the Spring.

A few green leaves around
the rust coloured stones
the red earth and the gorse bushes
revealing their great thorns ready and waiting
and their yellow flowers.

From a distance the ancient columns, strings of a harp,
reverberate still.

The calm before the storm.
– What could remind me of that Aridaios?
A word in Plato, I think, lost in the recesses of my brain:
the name of the yellow bush
has not changed since those times.

In the evening I found the passage:
“They bound him hand and foot”, he tells us,
“they threw him on the ground and flogged him,
they dragged him apart and tore him to pieces
on the gorse thorns
and went and threw him like a rag into Tartarus.”

Thus in the nether world he paid for his crimes,
Pamphylian Aridaios, the wretched tyrant.

(31 March 1971)

 

 

 

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