Hastily
Come on, let’s finish it, he said, continuance is boring.
Movements, words, repetitions, and ballooned flags
by the fans. You’ll see it at the end of the festivity.
Further on, the dusty tail of the night is among the thorns
and he stands by the door and scratches his ear with
a match.
Dione
men long for beauty
women constantly offer it
we know this
we
the descendants of the Marathon fighters
so, there is no reason
for a woman’s year
and other such foolish acts
and masquerading
of the feminists
from the Glory to the Virgin Fighter
to the Cretan mantinades
to the Alphabet of Love
from the legendary phallic dances of the ancients
to the
these black eyes
that look at me
please lower them, my light…
they convince everyone
about the truth of the above
with words and deeds
we all compose bright bouquets
and endlessly
offer them
to women
Excerpt
“Come sit down, Tyne.” Millie spoke from her recliner
chair in the living room. “You’ve been running around
all day after everyone, not the least me. I’m afraid I’m making a lot of
work by coming here.”
Tyne paused beside her aunt’s chair and placed a bottle of pain
relievers on a small table close to the older woman’s hand. “Nonsense,
Auntie, you are not making a lot of work for me. And whatever extra
I need to do for you is a joy.” She smiled as she picked up the half
empty water glass from the table. “Anyway, you’re a much better
patient than many I’ve had over the years.”
Millie snorted. “Like Arthur Tournquist for example?”
Tyne chuckled, remembering the irascible patient she had met
during her third year in training at the Holy Cross. “Yes, especially
Arthur, bless his big heart. But not all of my difficult patients became
dear friends like Arthur.”
She started to turn away with the water glass, but Millie put a
hand on her arm. “The water is fine, dear girl, just leave it. It won’t
hurt me to drink tepid water with my pills.
“Now, come sit and talk a while – or would you like to go somewhere
quiet to read?”
Tyne put the glass on the table and sat in the loveseat across from
Millie. “Did you say somewhere quiet? In this house? Actually, this is
the quietest room in the house because I gave strict orders it’s out of
bounds while you’re sitting up.”
IV
Uniformity appears as the troglodyte receives
darkness soluble shivering
like a leaf blown by the wind
to every corner of the cave and
blackening his mind; two cows
drinking water, raise their eyes
to stare at the sharp blade of the butcher
and the insatiable teeth of hunger, while
the first earthly ownership, dangling
residential, first subdivision
of the troglodytes appears
as he puts aside leftover meat.
Fireflies slide in mid-air
embalming the unction of disease
a hard day’s hunt justified,
first harkening bank,
virgin new concept and
tomorrow’s multinational
a swath commences, and the fourth hymn
as lightning divides the sky
plowing a bright course when
here springs forth the menace of death
For a long time, I believed one stays alive by understanding
everything. Now I know there are things one must simply endure,
survive.
Children love excitement, challenges, danger. Often they fail
to perceive risks, or else they underestimate them. They do not
avoid danger; they examine it like some mechanism full of secrets
whose moment of activation they do not yet understand. We were
the same. In winter we ventured out onto the barely frozen lake,
whose ice cracked beneath every step as if warning us — or perhaps
luring us onward. We knew it was dangerous, but knowledge
alone was never enough reason to turn back. If the ice gave way
beneath one of us, we pulled him out however we could, then ran
home racing time itself before his wet clothes froze onto his body.
Now it seems as though it was not we who ran, but earlier versions
of ourselves whom no one can ever catch again.
In summer we waded into the murky marsh with its black waters.
I do not know what drew us there; perhaps the fact that it had no
boundaries, only density. We pushed through it waist-deep, later
picking leeches off ourselves on the shore — though we simply
called them bloodsuckers, as if the name alone could strip them of
all strangeness. We felt no disgust toward them; we counted them
instead, as though they were proof we had gone where we should
not have gone.
Stealing melons and fruit from the collective farm fields was almost
a ritual. It was not hunger that drove us, but prohibition. The
appearance of the field guard always set the same scene in motion:
waving his stick, he charged after us while we fled, as though some
ancient story wished to retell itself again and again. The older boys
escaped easily; the younger ones cried because the guard had come
too close. Now I know the fear did not come from the stick, but
from the realization that the world was capable of hunting us down.
I remember other runs as well. “Korea” — that was what they
called the two new streets built after the flood. In the house beside
the lake lived a Romani family. Their eldest boy was violent and
cruel — or rather, unavoidable.
twenty-eight
potent thought
inertia of the body
the discovered
the endless
the infinite
tiny concept
for first-grade school
yes, there are still schools
buildings
that people still build,
to control ignorance
thought process
imagination
logos
intention
Excerpt
The thin, sallow man from the sea-wall was standing at the door. Janet introduced the two of them, and Ian shook the long, bony hand that Colin Patterson stretched towards him.
‘Ian’s a builder from Belfast,’ Janet said. ‘He’s a cousin of Dr Hamilton’s wife.’
‘Clifford Hamilton from the Big House?’
‘Yes, Colin. You remember him, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do. Knew him well. We don’t see him around our way anymore. Give him my regards when you see him again, Ian.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Ian promised. ‘Good night.’
They filed out through the door, Ian behind them. He watched them arrange themselves in a large black Austin and drive away. Ian followed in a disgruntled mood.
Behind him on the bar he left half a glass of whiskey and a packet of cigarettes.
Arousal
My sexuality is aroused by every little song we once sang, my beloved, the profound effect of an apocalyptic prophecy which puts my mind into a state of trance
— Get up and help me do the dishes, don’t be a lazy ass
Goldfinches hover and flutter around the bird feeder with no concern for my settled mind
— I wish you just listened to me; I wish I didn’t have to repeat myself again and again
The parabolic myth of my oppressed life turns into the riddle I need to decipher. The new Pythian priest shall deal with the frugal littleness of the everyday routine that vexes my nerves and turns me into an automaton
—Come now, it’s not so bad; you wipe the dishes after I wash them
Strange sounds surround my earlobes, a cacophony of badly tuned lyres strung by the fingers of my misfortune and the antiphony chorus stands opposite my resolution to get out of here
—It has happened before; it can happen again: freedom at last
Excerpt
“I must admit, Flynn, that I have had a few but I am not yet drunk.” Clifford spoke with aristocratic self-assurance. “I merely want to inject a more light-hearted note into our conversation because people are looking at us and they are all—including your stepmother-in-law who has just gone upstairs—they are all expecting us to become violent and start shouting at one another like you and Jim Patterson. I don’t really want to be involved in that kind of confrontation. And there needn’t be a national confrontation either. If only you Nationalists would see reason and admit that, yes, there are two nations—two distinct, well-defined, ethnic groups sharing this tiny Devil’s island. We have a larger group that is Catholic by religion and Irish by history and heritage; and we have a smaller group that is Protestant by religion and British by history and heritage. Two groups, though. Two nations. And there’s no disputing the fact. Accept it like a gentleman. Then simply agree that the Irish Catholics will govern themselves in one part of the island, by far the larger part; the Protestant British will govern themselves in the other, much smaller part; and we’ll all work together in harmony and cooperation to make the whole island a fit and happy place for all. Thumb your nose at the Devil, Flynn. Give God back his island. For I doubt if he wants it the way it is now.”
“The only ones I thumb my nose at are the British,” Flynn said. “They are the ones who did the Devil’s work. They can undo it by giving the island, the whole, undivided island, back to the Irish whose country it is.”
“It’s too late, Flynn. The Devil’s work is done, and not even the British—not even God himself—can undo it now. No doubt the British wish they could. But at least their Government of Ireland Bill recognises the present state of affairs. It’s offering us a parliament in the South, a parliament in the North, and a Council of Ireland for the whole country. What could be wrong with that?”
“It’s two sham parliaments and a Council that can’t raise a single tax or command the services of a single policeman.” Flynn jabbed a finger against Clifford’s chest. “And what is even more galling is that the British proposals rob this Council of ever being able to become a real political power in the country. The British have given a minority of the Irish people a veto over any such development. Do you expect me to rejoice over anything so blatantly unjust? Six counties have control of all the development of self-government in thirty-two. A quarter of the population can veto the liberties of three-quarters.”
Excerpt
As the companions travelled, Keallach, Bjorn and Ari hunted small game and
sometimes they fished. Rordan, Ula and Yamka gathered edible mushrooms and dug
for roots and, following a full day’s trek, prepared the evening meal. Rordan was
quite happy to join the girls in a task normally left to women.
Bjorn, Ari, and Fire Maker emerged from a forest of alder, maple and birch, between
two mountain slopes, into a flat river valley partially shrouded in scatterings
of early morning mist. In the foreground was a wide meadow rich with new grasses
and spring flowers in yellows, purples and whites. Beyond the meadow, a reed-filled
marsh partially surrounded a sparkling lake.
The three had set out ahead of the others with lines and a net to catch trout for
breakfast. In the distance, Finten rattled off morning prayers with Keallach and Ailan
while Rordan, Ula and Yamka sent joyful laughter echoing through the boulders
of the steep mountainsides. Fire Maker walked in silence and didn’t seem to mind
that Bjorn and Ari conversed in the language of the Norse.
“She is wonderful,” Ari said. “If I were to spend the rest of my life with one person
… What I am trying to say is …”
Bjorn didn’t wait for Ari to finish his sentence. “Maybe, when we arrive at Fire
Maker’s homeland, you should ask Ula to marry you. Have you asked her if she feels
the same?”
“She is always with Rordan.”
“Why would he mind? His kind do not marry; they have a vow.”
“I know that, but I do not think Rordan is bound to that vow.”
Fire Maker signalled a silent pause. A cow moose lifted its gigantic head from the
morass of bulrushes, trailing a steamy clump of dripping swamp grass. Slowly chewing
her mouthful, the animal was content to observe the interlopers.
“If you really want to be with her,” Bjorn continued, “take her by the arm and lead
her away from Rordan, then tell her how you feel about her.”
The conversation was over as Fire Maker, who had walked a little way ahead, came
to a stream wide enough for good fishing. Bjorn and Ari hurried over to join him
with lines in the water.
Whenever the sun crossed the hills and mountains to set in the west, Fire Maker
and Finten became the campfire storytellers. With an apparent knack for language,
Father Finten was already fluent in the Mandan tongue. He related his stories from
the Old and New Testaments in ways both monks and laymen could relate to. He was
determined to make many converts when they reached the Mandan Nation. It was
his sacred mission.
The best stories belonged to Fire Maker. Everyone listened carefully when the
chief spread his hands to begin a story. In his deep, soft voice, he wove his tales with
expressive hands that cast wild animal shadows in the flickering light of the campfire.
“Long ago and long ago and long ago, the gods who made this land fought a
mighty battle to see who was strongest. Spirit of the North covered the land with
snow and ice. All the plant life went to sleep. The living creatures travelled many
moons south along the edge of the great salt water.
Manolis Aligizakis 