Endless Story How does a lonely man die how does his soul transcend into astral genes and in the hand of God that through the ages resurrect the youth. What does his primeval memory remembers of cascading colors of painful rebirths the whistling wind that hurls messages in code to the roots of cells where life twists its edge with beaks of birds that transfer reflection and whooshing of waves. What is his identity or even his destination as naked as he is and hanging off the tunnels of time undisputed reward of eternity.
IV The drunk men rolled in the muddy road the old guerilla sang among sobs and saliva Hail to you ELAS** for Hellas until the army police took him. Sophianos was crawling next to me stinking of ouzo and yelling in the empty room I turned into a traitor for a 48 hour release expel me from your company, expel me and I held his forehead so he could throw up.
Candlestick Candlestick almost burnt drips wax over its base like stalactites turn moments to eternities you shape a well formed stanza a light thanks to burnt matches in the drawer with the white napkins unfolded occasions one for you one for her then as if it were a napkin from inspired dovetailed drawer rhyme you fold neatly and place where ideal iamb compels in the middle of the poem
So, They’ll Come One candle is enough. Its dim light will be more suitable, hospitable when the Shadows come, the Shadows of Love. One candle is enough. Tonight, the room should not have too much light. Deep in reverie, in subjection, and in the low light completely in reverie, I shall envisage the arrival of the Shadows, the Shadows of Love.
…a cut above this one or that one, and two cuts above the people who lived in the districts. In England not one of them would have any social standing at all. She wondered what their reaction would be if they knew that her father was a respected doctor in the Midlands, and that she had mingled with the town’s leading citizens before coming to Canada as a war bride. But she had no intention of telling them. She preferred things the way they were, and enjoyed her friendships with the other farmers’ wives. Most of them, however, were older than Penny. She felt a tingle of anticipation when she realized there would be a younger woman living in the Colson district, only a mile away. But then the anticipation gave way to doubt. What sort of woman would marry the man of whom Penny knew so little from sight, but so much by reputation? A reputation which painted a picture of a man whom no self-respecting woman would consider as a husband. Whether or not this reputation was deserved Penny did not know. She knew only that it was not wise to get on the wrong side of the town matrons, and Ben, apparently, had done just that. Penny kissed her son’s forehead as she ascended the back steps into the house. “We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we, sweetheart?” she said, and laughed as a giggling David reached up to grab a handful of her hair.
Glass You raised your glass looked my way Ι discerned your lips through the blonde wine I blew a kiss your way diaphanous image that touched you and for an answer you sipped your wine in such an erotic way that my skin turned fiery in its anticipation
Orpheus the Xenophobe the tears stain life have you cried so much and now your eyes are dry oh women of Hellas? there where your eyelids fell cypresses flourish and always on their tops a bird
…cheeks, his thin body and skinny legs with the handsome face and wavy hair, the strong, muscular physique of the young sailor in his dark uniform with the shiny gold buttons and the Chief Petty Officer’s cap. He knew then that Nora Carrick was his wife and not Joe Carney’s only because of a cruel intervention of Fate on his behalf. They were two young victims of a Greek-like tragedy. And yet he could not conceive of ever giving her up. She was his by God’s will, and He must have ordained it so for His own purposes. She was his too by legal right, and no one would ever take her away. Even though he knew she loved him very little, if at all, he himself would never be but deeply devoted to her, as much in love with her as she with the sailor who sat facing her across the table. In early June, almost two weeks before the expected date, Nora’s first child was born. I’m afraid that little Owen Joe, your godson, is not a very handsome little man. He most certainly does not take after his godfather. God forgive me, Joe, but he is the image of Liam. He has a little old face and a bald head. His feet and hands are much too long for the size of his little body. I think he’s going to be tall and lean like Liam. But he’s a sweet-natured little thing, smiles all the time and rarely cries. I love him, Joe. I give him all the attention I can lavish on him. He is my rescuer from insanity, for he distracts me from dwelling morbidly on the sadness of what might have been, a tendency I had developed near the end of my pregnancy and which was pulling me down like a weight around my ankles, deeper and deeper into a depression that might have driven me mad. Fortunately I escaped what they call the post-partum depression. I was strongly expecting to give in to those ‘after-birth blues’ because my mother, surprisingly enough, suffered from them badly after my own birth. But I escaped. Thanks to little Owen Joe himself. Thanks to that long, lovely letter I received from you. You will never know how much your letters mean to me. They keep open a life-line of hope, something I can hold on to in the knowledge and assurance that you love me still in spite of everything. Oh Joe, I have such sinful thoughts about Liam sometimes. I can’t stop them coming into my head and I try to dismiss them immediately, but as long as they are in my mind I enjoy the prospects that they open up. It is very sinful of me, Joe. I know it is. But I cannot help it. Liam himself has started reading up on diet and nutrition, on health and exercise and all that stuff. I saw him reading a book the other day called How To Survive Middle Age. Now he walks for an hour every day and does exercises when he gets up in the morning. He has cut down on his cups of tea and what he does drink has to be only half strength and without milk or sugar. His change of diet is a big help to…
Autumnal The big leaves fall. The sea is angry. The guard sheltered himself behind the wall so he could light his cigarette. Whatever was to be said by the cloud, the man, the broken car was at the mercy of the wind. Hou, houou, my children under the soil, old women come with dead dogs, with steel, the sewing machines are asleep inside the empty houses, the newspaper is caught on the thorns. Ohou, my children, you walked a lot. I must buy you new shoes. I brought the most beautiful woman, there in front of the lamppost. When the lights are turned on, you’ll see her gathering the black buttons of your coats off the street, the ones cut off by that wild distant irreversible gesture.
Time accepts me I experience the attraction of the bodies around me, the breath of open windows, the challenging night trains, the asphalt warn out by speed, the raging water, waterfalls, avalanches, twists in the scenes. Time accepts me holding me tightly in its dry palm and takes me through ages as if they were a Friday. Love is my everyday clothes, my free bloodstream, otherwise this body wouldn’t have any breath, glimpse, thought, rhythm, molecules – I feel it weighs me down – it travels in its dreams and how far it goes where no wing has fluttered and how childishly it strides in infinity in the then, in the there, and the will be, shrouded in a moment of dismay.
Manolis Aligizakis 