Jazz with Ella

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Excerpt

Fortunately, the glacially slow bureaucratic process kicked in and before the authorities could find a more appropriate position for him, he decided that he would confess. Apologize. Make friends with Ivana. Demonstrate that he was as pure as the driven Siberian snow. Definitely no threat to anyone’s wife. A genuine good guy.
This slow process of ingratiation had taken a lot out of him, and that was why he needed the support of the trusty Gennadi who was always there to keep him honest. But deep down, Volodya realized that the entire farce designed to keep his miserable job was only a stop-gap measure. Truly, he would never be free to play his music until he left the Soviet Union. Forever.
★
Jennifer loved Leningrad from the moment she stepped off the plane. After the drabness of Moscow and the subsequent rocky flight in an antiquated Ilyushin, even the airport terminal felt cheerful and bright as the sunlight filtered through three huge domes and splashed over hanging baskets of greenery.
As their bus travelled to the Hotel Astoria, she stared with interest at the elegant buildings, now crumbling, many still painted in sunshine yellow as decreed in a pre-revolutionary time, the lacy ironwork on the bridges that crossed a network of canals, and the tall linden trees that crowded the wide streets.
Their tour halted briefly at St. Isaac’s Cathedral situated on the same expansive square as their hotel. Natasha ushered them through the darkness of the foyer to stare at the dimly lit, centuries-old frescoes under the church dome. She pointed. “Seven types of marble were used in the construction of this cathedral—the red and white from Italy and the grey, green and black from the Ural Mountains.” The cathedral’s foundation was thick and solid, its flagstones hollowed by thousands of visitors, its wall paint blackened and peeling.
“It’s real dark and creepy, isn’t it?” said Lona from the foyer’s shadows. Her words were caught up in the acoustics and amplified. Natasha turned to glare at her.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562892

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763246

Vernal Equinox

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Sleep
I lie in our hot
July bed
silent sweat listening to
the curtain’s undulating
monologue
profound communication
between animate and
inanimate beings
who eavesdrop on the talkative the silent
taste the nectar of my lips—you said
but leave on them no shame
albeit my fiery desire

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562877

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1771710896

Neo-Hellene Poets: An Anthology of Modern Greek Poetry

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Pride
I waited for you, until the stars of dawn
appeared in the firmament
their fire dried up all my tears
and the cold hill of Lycavittos didn’t hear me
when silently I cried for the dream that died in my heart.
But now that thoughts brought you back to me
I shall wait for the star again
to tell it, holding back a tear that has appeared
in my eyes, that like a joy I held you in my embrace
warm and gleaming, my complete grief.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562959

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763955

Yannis Ritsos-Poems, Volume VI

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Same Route
A piece of red sail in the dark blue. Olive trees, posts,
plastic bags, kisses of bathers, faces, hands, and bodies
decayed in time, bitter, but interesting. Cicadas with
voices floating in space, you haven’t paid attention to
them, foreign.
Whether you pay attention or not, whether you listened
to them or not, whether you saw or not, nothing, he said.
A bitter aroma, forgotten, made of mowed grass.
Sit down, then, here on the warmed-up soil, untie, one
by one, the knots of the napkin. Eat your bread, biting
deep, beyond death. Then, the eggshells, so white and
fragile, as evening comes, creak under the feet of the old
blind man who walks serenely, led by a small turtle,
toward the temple in Kolonos.

https://draft2digital.com/book/4278093#print

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763785

An Essay on the Structure of the Human Imaginative

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Excerpt

Evidence supporting this view lies in the fact that, by extension
from the pater familias to the king, as long as this form of organisation
endured, the king was simultaneously the high priest and,
in certain cases, the god himself. This was the case, for example, in
the pre-Hellenic Minoan civilisation of Crete, where the king was
regarded as the embodiment of the deity, just as in domestic religion
this function was attributed to the ancestor. Likewise, the existence
of hereditary priestly families, such as the Eleusinian Eumolpidae
and the Kerykes or the Lycomidae of Phlya, demonstrates that
they preserved mysteries originally belonging to their own families,
transmitted intact and without any interference from public authority.
These constitute, to borrow the language of modern physics,
merely singularities–that is, phenomena opposed to the existence of
a common Greek religious doctrine–much like those logoi, or secret
narratives, scattered throughout the thousands of sanctuaries spread
across the Hellenic world.
The complete absence of a priesthood, sacred books, and rigorously
constituted religious dogmas gave rise both to a distinctive and
unique Imaginative and to a distinctive understanding of the Greek
human being in relation to the world. For this reason, Greece has
been regarded, by comparison with other ancient civilisations, as the
birthplace of the free spirit and of critical, investigative thought.
Yet although liberated from religious dogma, Greek thought did
not arise out of nothing through some miraculous event, as has too
often been claimed ever since Burnet. Like every other spiritual
manifestation of humanity, Greek thought likewise emerged from
the religious determinations of the Hellenic spirit, and certainly not
from the creations of Homer or Hesiod, whose works never possessed
the character of sacred scriptures, despite occasional attempts
to suggest otherwise.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763890

Mythography

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Reaching

Slanting orange safely
captured
in meshing
of the painter’s brush

Far away I shall reach
in the wind taking flight
over the painter’s brush
that stops before completing
length and strength of my body
amicably mixing water and
sky upheld by my arms
perplexed eyes of visitors
seeing peels of my skin
strips of cinnamon bark
revealing my new garment
of greenish tanned epidermis
taken for granted by lazy eyes
under the sun’s benevolent heat

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Blood, Feathers and Holy Men

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Excerpt

A short distance below the cave, he found Ari and Ula strolling arm-in-arm by a
stream bank filled with spring beauties in bloom. Not wishing to disturb the couple,
Rordan stooped to admire a delicate pink trillium, blooming in the dappled shade
between the roots of a budding maple. He was absorbed in the flower’s beauty when
he heard a pleasant Mandan voice behind him.
“Spring blossoms are beautiful to look at but poisonous to eat. That is how they
are protected from being eaten by the four-legged creatures.”
He turned to face Yamka, radiant in morning sunshine. “When I was little, I believed
tiny fairies held their spring festivities in the hollows between the roots of
forest giants such as this.”
Yamka held out her hand. “Walk with me. Tell me more about your tiny fairies.”
Rordan took Yamka’s hand for an instant then self-consciously let go as they both
walked away from Ari and Ula who were having their own tête-à-tête. They strolled
slowly, with many pauses to look around tree trunks and under the edges of clumps
of brush. As they searched, they discovered a cluster of fragile blooms.
There was so much beauty in the forest, and as the sun disappeared behind unexpected
clouds, Rordan and Yamka realized they were lost. Both called out to Ari and
Ula but there was no reply. Rordan knew that moss grows on the north side of tree
trunks but that knowledge was of no use when neither knew which direction they
had walked away in.
As the forest grew dark and cold, the only sensible thing to do was to find shelter
in a rocky overhang and wait for morning. They both gathered branches and leaves
into a dry space in a small cave opening partially sheltered by a fallen tree and snuggled
in for the night.
The attraction and warmth they felt toward each other was now irresistible.
After Brother Keallach left the cave, Father Finten paced angrily. Then he sat by
his belongings and pulled out the white robe Corn Mother had mistakenly presented
to Rordan. He stroked the cotton fabric and rubbed his fingers over the beadwork
crosses on the hem.
When we arrive at Fire Maker’s camp, I shall wear this robe and my ministry will
begin anew, he thought. The Brothers will be strengthened in their faith and practice
once more and together we will bring these misguided heathen to the One True God.
By the time Keallach and Ailan returned with Fire Maker and Bjorn and a goodsized
deer buck, Finten was over his anger. Ari and Ula came in next with rosy cheeks
and a basket of fresh greens but Brother Rordan and Yamka did not return. When
darkness fell, the six finally sat down to supper. A search in the dark was inadvisable.
Besides, Rordan and Yamka knew how to take care of themselves; they’d turn up in
the morning or Ari and Ula would return to where they were last seen together.
Father Finten remained awake throughout the night, not so worried about the
young couple’s survival as about the Brother’s vow of celibacy. He prayed fervently
that Brother Rordan would have the fortitude and grace to resist the evil lurking
beneath the cover of darkness.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562826

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763106

Hear Me Out

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A New Moon
0% full moon the gauge showed on my blog page.
0% a brand-spanking-new moon then!
Nonexistent and existent at the same time! 0% then, like my life!
How precious the 0% can be when you search for the 100 % of life and you don’t even settle for the 99% of it?
We split up because I missed that 1 %, because that cursed 1% was somewhere else, in a different house, in a different life.
Tonight I gazed the beautiful full of stars sky, not a single cloud and without any shred of moon to light it and imagined what the 0 % of the moon may mean…
Where was the moon tonight? Which part of the sky was illuminated by that 0 % of the moon?
And how incomplete the 99 % of the full moon may be?
How less it illuminate the sky than its 100 %?
A game of percentages is all there is after all.
But has it been like that, I wonder?
And that tightness in my stomach every time I noticed your glance turn dark?
Wasn’t that important even if it was the 1 %?
I turned my eyes toward the sky again.
I searched for the small dipper and on its edge the North Star.
My compass! The guide of my life!
Current Moon Phase, 0 % of full: NEW MOON.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562946

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763807

The Long Road

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Mirror
Light wandering over four directions
mirror ruminates on two diverging paths
one to east, one to north
go, he said, and discover your roots
go and grace your face with rain
overwhelming your eyelids while
the smiling mirror firmly transcended
your death in its darkness when
moments are lost in hours’ clothes
and mother’s tears vanish in drenched
morning, images and colourful multitudes
different pain in a black garment
lighter anguish in white garments
fear and slavery in yellow or pink
and always death lurking inside
the crevasses of a twisted mind hungry for power;
the mirror that ruminates on two paths
ferocious statue of hope stands on
highest pedestal, middle of the plaza
this deadly labyrinth, he said, and
your lonely hours under the sun
cover the legs of the horizon, foggy
light in tension vertical, slanting
wandering over four dimensions

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763939

He Rode Tall

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Excerpt

…topping up the water in the buckets, and distributing some oats,
and from the reaction of the horses, the oats were especially
appreciated.
Taking advantage of the momentary lull in conversation, Joel
knew he had to care for the gelding he had ridden that morning.
The horse had been patiently standing in the center of the alley.
First, Joel loosened the cinch strap and lifted the saddle and
blankets from the back of the horse; even after all of those years,
Joel could still recognize an Eamor saddle when he saw one. His
family never had much when he was a kid, but his dad always
made sure that they always rode Eamors. He placed the saddle
and the blankets on separate railings of what seemed to serve as
the official tack stall in the barn. Then he led the gelding into the
stall that Joel had found him in that morning and removed his
bridle. In his absence, Harry had cleaned out the gelding’s stall
and replaced the soiled bedding with fresh straw. Joel re-hung the
bridle on a nail high on a post, and he approached the gelding to
brush him down. As he groomed the sorrel gelding and waited to
see what the old hand had to say, he was reminded of two of his
favorite smells.
Sweaty horses and leather. It had been a lot of years since he
had smelled that unique combination of aromas, but there was
no doubt about the rich smell. He had smelled a lot of good
things in his life. The smell of the sea. The smell of pot. The
smell of peppermint. The smell of fresh fruit. The smell of a fine
cigar. The smell of a rich port. But none of these compared to that
of sweaty horses and leather.
It seemed as if the old hand was just about finished feeding the
horses when he muttered, “Too bad about your dad.”
“Sure is,” confirmed Joel. “I wish I was here for the funeral,
just got word the other day.”
“Don’t matter,” grunted the old native as he busied himself
about the barn. “Doesn’t make much difference once they are
gone, does it?” Joel was feeling good after hearing this.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562862

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0980897955