During college, I spent three summers studying in Greece.
(Where else would a Classical language and Philosophy major study?)
I was fortunate to have scholarships all three times.
So. . . . to take a break from politics in this blog–I’m not going to explore how austerity in Greece has really hurt this and many other archeology sites–I thought I’d
torture share a poem I wrote while working on an archeology dig in Santorini, during the summer of 2001.
Ancient Akrotiri is sometimes postulated as Atlantis, but better known as the Greek equivalent to Pompeii, is on the southern end of the crescent-shaped island, and we (students) would spend our breaks mesmerized by the Aegean, trying to make out Crete in the distance.
During one of the breaks, I sipped water, ate my τυρóπιτα, or tyropita, and scrawled this in my notebook, quoting the kindly director of the project, who was also our professor:
Lost in Excavation
“Excavation is Destruction” –Archaeologist Cristos Doumas
Sunburned-dust covers animal bones,
golden beads from a necklace,
and shards of brightly colored tinted glass,
shells from a nourishing ocean feast
And the haunting human bones…
We will be nameless,
Unknown to our children. Defined as
Merely bones and genetic codes,
males and females in
sickness and health.
Who will remember,
who will remind the children—
that these human bones
once simultaneously bore
the beauty and burden of living flesh?
that the remnants of bones
breathed in the heat, the intoxicating perfume of summer,
saw the clear waves of heat roll across the sandy beach
and the first frost of winter
glisten on the olive leaves?
heard the chiming crickets and squealing donkeys?
Who will remember,
who will remind them that these
dry, brittle, marrow-less bones
smelled the refreshing salt tang of the Mediterranean
and savored the first bites of
harvested grapes in autumn…? and our
feelings—the vicissitudes of life—cannot be fully discovered,
through nucleic acids…
Forgotten loves, fears,
melancholia, euphoria—all are
buried and lost,
for the paper
on which we attempt
to record these emotions
disintegrates in the harsh climate.
Shall these heights and depths
of previous lives
or will the child,
while gently scrubbing our bones,
removing the caked soil and grit,
be a little more gentle, considerate—
perhaps even a little more contemplative—
while laying our long life-abandoned bones to dry
in the rays of the same sun
that was once dimmed by flesh…