MAY-DAY IN KALAMATA

In Kalamata, where the harvests are Purple and crimson for the currant-bin, When merchants close their shutters with a jar, The young night-gallant twangs his brown guitar, And first begins the merry May-day din. All night they strum the mandolins and lutes; Glyco, the jolly merchant of the fruits, Sings to accordion: “O nux kalé!” In Kalamata on the first of May. Morning comes. See the church across the street Its doorway wreathed! See Anastasia pass, Twining her pretty shoulders with the sweet Mountain-born orchids, brought on tireless feet By lads from Sparta o’er Taÿgetos. All night they strum the lute, and mandolin, Georgio, the dark-eyed, plays the violin, Sings under balconies: “O nux kalé!” In Kalamata on the first of May. The cottage-doors are hung with poppy-wreaths, To keep away the evil spirits: hats Are garlanded with oleander. Leaves Fair, golden-braided Marianthé weaves Into a veil for her long sunny plaits. All night they sound the flutes and castanets; Mitchu, in pompommed shoes, fingers the frets, Quaffs resin-wine,—“Aha—! O nux kalé!” In Kalamata on the first of May. To the Platea, all the booths astir; Mulberry vendors clad in goat-skins come; Here are embroidered bags and fragrant myrrh, And silver-handled knives; and the drum-whirr Beats like a heart throb in the village hum. All night they play the rough accordion; The sailors from the “skala,” to a man, March, drunk with mastika, along the quay, In Kalamata on the first of May. Along the railroad all the stations fill With children garlanded; the peasant throngs Sing at car windows. From a laurel hill, Rings “Zito” with the happy springtime thrill, While rose-crowned maidens chant their merry songs. All night they play the violin and drum; And to the windows tawdry women come Bright-eyed and bold, to hear: “O nux kalé!” In Kalamata on the first of May. May-day, down all the silver-olive plain, Along the mountain trail, and torrent track, May-day on ships on blue Messenian Main, On locomotives, where the young Greek swain Hangs lily wreaths upon his engine stack! All night I hear the zither; the guitar Maddens my northern pulses, and from far, Far up the mountainside: “O nux kalé!” Wakes Kalamata on the first of May.