Athos Triptych

William F. Wyatt

I

God damn them all!! It’s bad enough right now.
I’m old, the pains in my feet are getting worse,
and the fathers here aren’t what they used to be.
But now there are those boats!! A road!! A bus!!
Thrill-seekers coming here to stare and gawk at us,
who then go back to the world and report with show
and pride: “I’ve been to Athos and seen life there—
there are no (titter, titter) women allowed you know—
just look at me, how holy, how liberal, refined.”
God damn them all!! It takes a lot of time to learn
to talk to God, to understand his mind.
But they don’t are, they’re lazy, spoiled, and weak.
A bunch of whelps came up a while ago,
nice lads it seemed—I humored them along,
even asked advice and help about my feet.
“Patera, you’ve been here fifty years, so why’d
you come here then and why’d you stay? Please tell.”
“It was the fumes of gasoline that drove me here,
and fumes of gasoline that keep me till as well.”
The fools!! The louts!! Gasoline fumes indeed!
There were no cars in Kozani back in ’35,
No fumes. But that’s the answer they get and need.
They meant: “How come you put up with all this stuff?
What keeps you here? How come you suffer through
the days, the prayers—haven’t you had enough?”
They have no time to learn or wit to see—
the body toils in pain but the spirit’s free.

II

The fool!! The fake!! The fraud!! He’s been put here
for fifty years, and all he does is gripe
about his God-damn feet and how they hurt.
We ask about his life, we want to know
what drive a man to give up all outside
to spend his days in cells and fields and prayer.
“Gasoline fumes” he says. Good God!! There were
no fumes where he came from. He’s just a bum,
a lazy bum and ignorant as well, who wants
a place to stay, a bed and food, a regimen,
so he won’t have to think or work too hard.
His life is really easy, cushy, simplified.
And we out there must work and slave to keep
the likes of him alive and fed and housed.
If that’s religion, I want no part of it.
A model of spirituality, you say? No thanks.
I’d rather spend my days beneath a car
communing with crank shafts and changing oil
than rot up here like him—just old and lame
I came up here to find the truth, to learn.
I’m young, my feet don’t hurt, I want to live,
I want to know what life is all about.
And I have learned from the likes of this old fraud;
he’s taught me all I need about his God:
I’ve got a body and it has needs as well—
This mountain where lazy bums like him can dwell,
to them can seem a haven, to me it’s hell.

III

My friends, we come out here in evening’s calm
to this, God’s space, developed by man’s skill
To talk of God and try to grasp his will,
so that, through it, we may our ways reform.
We’re here to talk and think in reverence.
“Patera, I want to know, it makes no sense,
how can it be, both in New York and here
St. George works miracles—at the very same time of day?”
My son, I do not know, and do not care.

There are mysteries in this world, that’s one, let’s say.
But look you here, suppose I knew, what then?
How would we be better off, what would we gain?
The answer would satisfy your mind perhaps,
but would it improve your heart? Watch out, my son,
for vanity creeps in that way, and once begun
leads next to pride and insolence. The devil traps
us as best he can. His task our faith to dim,
to make us think we’re God and don’t need Him.
Watch out for pride, consult your heart, your belief
in all ways strengthen, develop humanity;
heed not the devil, practice humility,
and view the world and man through the eyes of faith.
There are many things we cannot understand—
believe them controlled and guided by God’s hand.
The world will then seem fair and bright,
your fellow man you’ll appreciate aright,
and God will enfold you in his warming light.

Library at Ephesus, Turkey.

Photograph by Abigail Tarbox. Used by permission.

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