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A small Greek restaurant on a small Greek island. "Have a seat, old man," I said to the old man. He had just walked in. The only vacant chair left in the house was at my table. It was an early evening in late May and the tourist season was underway. The old man thanked me and sat down. He was tall and lean with two rather symmetrical wisps of white hair on either side of a bald dome. A white Vandyke beard covered his lips and chin. The cheekbones were prominent, the cheeks were drawn, but the eyes sparkled like sapphires in ivory. In fact, aside from the eyes, his facial features resembled those of a Byzantine icon. I figured the guy to be about eighty years old. The proprietor of the restaurant came over to our table and said, "Calli sperra, Petros." He and the old man spoke in Greek for a moment while I was thinking that the name Petros fit this fellow perfectly. "My name’s Bob," he said. "Bob? I thought the man called you Petros." "He did. The Greeks call me Petros, but my name’s Bob." "Why?" "Because that's the name my momma done give me," he said in a grinning deadpan fashion. I grinned back at him. "They say I look like a painting of St. Peter." "From a Byzantine icon." "Perhaps." "You do sort of." "Oh well, that's nice I suppose." He seemed very pleasant and unassuming, and despite the fact that his name was really Bob instead of Petros, I still thought he might be an interesting old specimen to get to know. The waiter brought me a Greek salad with a big slab of feta cheese on top, plus mousaka, grilled octopus, four slices of bread, a half liter carafe of chilled Retzina, and a bill. Bob had a bowl of lentil soup, a single slice of bread, a glass of water, and no bill. Maybe he and the chef had been cellmates on Alcatraz. Bob told me that he’d been living in Greece since 1962, mostly on this island called Patmos. I asked him where he was from originally and he said, "New York. Olean, New York." I told him I’d never heard of Olean, and he said most people had never heard of Olean, but that it’s located in upstate New York. Patmos is one of the Dodecanese islands—located east of Athens, north of Rhodes, and not far off the West Coast of Turkey. It is often referred to as the “Holy Island of Patmos" because it was here that St. John was inspired to write the Book of Revelations—The Apocalypse. A large monastery dominates the landscape from a hill above the harbor. The monks retain a good deal of administrative control over the island and have succeeded in preserving an aura of tranquility appropriate to its religious and historical significance. Rumor is that the monks have also succeeded in collecting a good amount of money from the pilgrims that flock to Patmos by the boatload every year. It has become a popular day stop for cruise ships that are essentially floating geriatric wards stockpiled with elderly people who often look as if they are only a year or two away from finding out just how accurate St. John's Book of Revelations really is. Next, I asked Bob what he’d been doing on this quiet little island for so many years. "I'm a writer," he said. "Sort of a poet, actually." "Sort of a poet?" "My stuff is a bit odd." I said I was a writer, too. Then, in an attempt to humor him, I told him I’d taken a correspondence course called “Soldier Poets of World War I” way back when. And still, all I really knew about poetry was that it rhymed a lot. "Well, there you are," he said. "My stuff doesn't even rhyme." "Doesn't rhyme?" "Nope, doesn't rhyme. Sorry." "Not at all? Never?" "Usually not at all, and almost never." I started to take pity on the old fellow. There he was living all by his lonesome on a little Greek island trying to be a poet, and after nearly twenty years of working at it, he still couldn't manage to put two words down on a piece of paper that sound alike. I was thinking that this poor pathetic character probably spent the prime of his life trying to sell commercial real estate in Olean, New York, and having, no doubt, failed at that because nobody knows where the hell Olean is, he decided to take a shot at poetry. Now, I don't mean to pass myself off as an expert on great literature, but I figured that maybe I could help this guy. After all, I did take those courses on Pound and the soldier poets. Apparently, those fellows were better poets than soldiers, because most of them got whacked in the trenches. Joyce Kilmer was my favorite. "I think I shall never see, anything as lovely as a tree." Tough to beat that for a good solid piece of rhyme. Critics maintain that the best poetry captures moments of our lives and makes them seem more special than they might otherwise be if we didn't pay any attention to them. Of course, nowadays, I suppose, people can use an automatic camera to accomplish the same thing. Maybe Bob couldn't afford a camera. Who knows? Anyway, as I was sitting there thinking of some helpful advice for him, I noticed that my carafe of wine was empty. All of a sudden I said to myself, hey, wait a minute. Wine . . . wine rhymes with rhyme. So, real nonchalantly I said to Bob, "You mean all this time and you can't make a rhyme? How about some wine?" "Thank you, but I think I'd rather not," he said very politely. I got the impression the poor guy never drinks. That's probably part of his problem, I thought. All poets drink for christsakes. ??? A couple of days later, Bob invited me up to his apartment. Small studio room with a small bed in one corner, a small kitchen, small bathroom, and a small back room lined with bookshelves. The whole place was a mess—which seemed to be a good sign because real poets are often rather messy people. I asked if I could read some of his work. He said sure and handed me a book with his name on the cover. I couldn't believe it. How could a fellow who writes poetry that doesn't even rhyme get published? I opened the book and started to read…. “Black, black, black. White, white, white.” That's a portion of one poem. The entire poem is five pages of black, black, black, white, white, white. What the hell is this? I thought to myself while furtively scanning the room for any sharp objects. I was beginning to get a little nervous. This guy was weird. Bob was across the room propped up against a pillow on his bed. I read some more while trying to keep an eye on him in case he made any sudden lunging movement. The words of his poems weren’t even in straight horizontal lines. They were piled up on top of each other like a child's building blocks. Who would publish this? After a short while I realized that Bob, though peculiar, wasn’t a psychopathic maniac. My concern then was with what the hell to say to him about his poetry. It made absolutely no sense whatsoever to me, but still . . . I mean, the poor guy . . . I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. I sat hunched over in a chair trying to fabricate some pleasant comment when, thankfully, Bob said, "See, I told you my stuff is a bit odd." A bit odd! Pal, this is bizarre! But, I didn't say that. What I said was, "Yeah. Well, you know, funny thing and all, but would you believe, black and white are my two favorite colors." "Oh, isn't that nice," he said. "So you like the poem?" "Well, sure. It's, as you say . . . a bit odd. Words on top of each other, not much in the line of vigorous metaphors and such, but still . . . yeah, it's kind of . . . unique. It’s definitely unique." "You really think so?" "Definitely." "Oh, that's nice…." ??? During the next two weeks it was my privilege to appreciate other aspects of Bob's uniqueness. He is a very sweet and joyful character with a boundless wellspring of compassion for all manifestations of life. Many local residents of Patmos believe he's a saint. I don't know about that. Not sure what a saint is. He explained to me that he had a very happy childhood. "I fell in love with the world when I was three years old," he said. "And I'm still exploring it from that perspective of wonderment." Late one afternoon, we sat at an outdoor café along the harbor. The water was about five meters deep—clear, crisp, and as blue as the Aegean Sea, which of course, it was. We tossed breadcrumbs into the water. They floated on the surface briefly, then sprinkled down like snowflakes into the deep. First the minnows appeared, then the . . . what do you call them, baby fish, or fish tots, little fellows about three to five inches long. Then, the big guys, a foot long and beefy—assuming it’s not improper to refer to fish as “beefy.” They all fed in a frenzy. No table manners whatsoever. Soon, geese waltzed into the fray looking like lords of the manor, plucking up any large chunks of bread. They didn’t look as ravenous as the fish. Probably a higher standard of decorum to uphold. I'd had a couple of draft beers and Bob was nursing a glass of water. “You look tired,” he said. I told him I’d had a long night. Too much booze, too little sleep. I was still feeling hung over. “Too bad there aren’t any Mexican movies around.” “I suppose there must be some connection, Bob.” “Sure. I’ve told you about the great hangover cure, haven’t I?” “Didn’t know you’d ever had a hangover?” “Oh you sweet boy. Had plenty of hangovers during the Taft Hotel days up around Harlem. Merton and the gang, myself . . . we’d have a good time every so often. Usually on Saturday nights. Wake up Sunday morning feeling like you did this morning, and we’d go off to see a Mexican movie. Didn’t understand a word of it, but didn’t understand much of anything on those days, so we figured might as well go see a Mexican movie.” “Makes sense to me.” “That’s what we thought.” “And it worked?” “Seemed to…. Anyway, we saw a lot of Mexican movies when I was at the Taft Hotel.” We sat quietly for a moment, then suddenly he said, "Oh my, aren't those lovely shadows." I responded by saying something profound like, "Eh?" "Up there." He pointed. "On the awning. Aren't they just lovely." What do you say to that? "Sure Bob. Lovely. Damnedest shadows I've ever seen." He laughed. Good sense of humor, even if he is a saint. "Speaking of lovely," I said. "How do you feel about trees?" "I like trees," he said. "Do you think they're lovely? You know, as in, ‘I think I shall never see, anything as lovely as a tree.’" It was the wrong moment for Bob to be taking a sip of water. He barely managed to swallow it without gagging…. "You like that sort of poetry?" he stammered. "Well, I mean it does rhyme. Soldier poet of World War I wrote it. Then he got shot." "Oh…." I told him that some people call him a saint. “Well, that’s nice,” he replied. “As long as they don’t call me late for breakfast.” We talked about writing. He feels his work is best appreciated when it’s listened to read aloud. Musicians hear it and think he’s one of them. Poetry is all metaphor and rhythm. Rhythm is the central nerve of a piece, whether it be a poem, a painting, a dance, or . . . a human being. Find that and build outwards from it, he says. Sometimes, when the writing isn’t flowing, he’ll start whistling a tune…. Well, it don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing…. And metaphor…? Metaphors should be natural, he says—based in Nature. She was as bright as a morning star . . . not as a neon sign. He gave me some advice regarding my own work…. “Don’t worry so much about what you write, where it should start or how it should end. Just jump in and swim. A poem, a play, a novel, a short story, whatever . . . it’s all part of one story. Eventually, you’ll see that. The only thing you must do is write, put words on paper. Keep priming the pump, every day, and the words will flow. “Be simple and sincere in everything you do. You want to write? Write just as simply and as sincerely as you can. Why? Because that’s where the truth is.” “A saint, uh?” I said to him, smiling. “Yeah . . . the pay’s not so good but you can’t beat the retirement benefits.”
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Morgan McFinn, Robert Lax, Greece, poetry, Patmos, humor, literary,
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