Numbers Day in and day out he calculated, added, subtracted, multiplied, divided his clients’ wealth in pieces, allotted some to the fair or unfair tax man he filled out forms, balance sheets, statement of receivables, invoices and depreciation life’s depreciation when days lessen on one column and days in the underworld increase dark schedule, millions of dollars arrayed on sheets, poor man rich man the dichotomy that people fall for then they rise once and go beyond the ephemeral wish of wealth realizing no one takes it with them when the irresistible Hades makes his unexpected appearance, the accountant, a poor man in dollars, rich in his understanding of need for food and shelter and for the odd game recalled at times when he didn’t eat all day only to reach home late at night exhausted that he could only open a can of porky beans, his supper, though he served his clients well, had exemplary work habits, they all had said at his funeral service, to which just a few showed up. No females attended, he hardly had time for a woman’s body the dutiful accountant who he was, decided to go up to Heaven, perhaps St. Peter would give him the bookkeeper’s job in the accounts of Heavenly wealth fairly or unfairly assumed.
All Cities are the Same at Dawn “All the cities are the same at dawn; they’re all alike” you told me once and I didn’t believe you. When day break arrives to their beds they all sigh the same way. And the night lovers whisper things or embrace each other before they get up and at the first light walk away with heavy footsteps. They wear clothes half undone some inn their underarm when they kiss a soft silent kiss not to awaken the one sleeping next door. And the door closes behind them most carefully, silently. The car is turned on, a sound that seems very loud in the quietness of the night and even the gas petal seems to be half asleep and heavy from being asleep or exhausted from making love all night. And the home they return to is always empty and cold. Only the blackbirds chirp in the garden. Half of the sky is lit and the day commences when you enter the shower to let the water run over it and take away the breaths and sweat of the night. All cities are the same you told me once and I didn’t believe you. Because I saw you leaving and I still wanted you in my bed, to take you in my arms, to breathe your breath one more time and to go back to my dreams. And you kissed me softly and closed the door behind you. How long has since gone? I don’t remember. How many times I closed the door behind me after I kissed someone softly on the cheek and whispered good night? How many empty streets have I driven to reach home? You were so right! All the cities of the world are alike at dawn…they all sigh, they toss and turn in bed, some empty and others full of the all night long lovemaking. Each day break one door closes slowly and one other opens and welcomes the loneliness of the traveller. Only blackbirds chirp in the garden always the same way like the day break. People change. Some leave others come. What difference does it make in which city you are?
“It’s like I told the police, Ignatius,” Liam replied. “It was early morning. And I wasn’t wearing my glasses. I did see someone running from the church, but he was disappearing over the ridge in the direction of Lisnaglass.” “Just one man?” Sweeney asked. “I saw only one,” Liam told him. “Lisnaglass is full of Unionist louts,” someone observed. “So you didn’t see who it was?” “No, I didn’t.” Liam was almost certain that the culprit he had seen running from the church was Michael Carrick, but he saw no reason why Michael, of all people, would have given Father Padraig so severe a beating and carried out such vandalism in the church. By the time the police interviewed him he had convinced himself that he had been mistaken. He had also decided that even if it had been Michael, he could not have informed against him. Michael Carrick, everyone knew, was going to marry Caitlin MacLir, and Liam could do nothing that would destroy the happiness of a woman he hopelessly fawned on, like a devoted pup. “You weren’t at the burying, Padraig,” Sweeney remarked. “No, in all conscience I felt that I was unable to be there, Ignatius,” Padraig replied. “The burying, as you called it, was not a Christian one. And the graveyard at Killyshannagh is no longer consecrated ground. As a priest I felt that I could not honestly take part. However much I loved Finn MacLir. It was not the way I wanted to see him go.” A feeling of having been cheated by God Himself strengthened insuppressibly in Padraig’s breast. “But it was Finn’s own wish.” Padraig’s words were like rocks tied to his ankles that sunk the priest in Sweeney’s estimation. You could have put on a suit, Sweeney thought, forgot you were a priest for a few hours, and come to the funeral of the man who rescued you, raised you, paid for your education. You’re a sanctimonious hypocrite, Father Padraig. You deserved that hiding. I’d love to give you one myself. Sweeney walked away, disappointed and disgusted. The general conversation in the MacLir house splintered, as those present addressed their neighbours rather than the group at large. Jim Patterson, finding himself with no one to talk to, caught the eye of Clifford Hamilton in the far corner of the dining room. Clifford, in a tailored black suit and white shirt, was leaning against the wall between the window and the bookcase. Jim Patterson crossed the crowded room and joined him. “How are you, Clifford?” “Can’t complain, Jim. How’s yourself?”
Then remembering his encounter with Frankie, he added, “Oh, and just to remind you about Wheaton, we’ve been picking up steadily there too, as you might have noticed. That’s the next one, I’m sure of it. Don’t let it go without getting in.” “I have my eyes on it, Eteo. Thanks. You’ve always followed Frankie, I know.” “Nothing but success with him, John, you know that.” “Too true there,” John agreed. “I’ll clue in some people I know to it.” “Everyone who gets in early will make a good profit if they play it right. I wouldn’t be surprised to see it in multiple dollars in a year or so,” Eteo said. “That’s my gut feeling.” “I’ll remember this, Eteo,” John replied, and with that he excused himself to walk to the washroom. Eteo headed back to his office, but before he reached it, Bradley Connors stopped him in the hallway. “I didn’t see you at the dog and pony yesterday,” Bradley said. “I had another meeting, but I sent Logan in my place. He has already briefed me on it,” Eteo lied. “I saw your son, but your presence would have been appreciated. I wanted your input on this new company.” “And as soon as I’ve studied the prospectus, you’ll have it,” Eteo promised. “By the way, stay tuned to Wheaton, Frankie’s new deal. I can only see it climbing.” “I’ve heard that from others as well. Thank you, Eteo,” he said and strolled off, looking pleased with himself. Eteo hadn’t been back in his office for more than a minute when Mario Messini called. “Want to grab a bite later?” he asked. “My treat.” “Sure,” Eteo replied. “What time?” Eteo tried to sound nonchalant, but he was surprised. “Da Carlo’s, noonish?” “See you there at noon,” Eteo confirmed, then he added, “Just us or more?” “Just us Eteo, like old times,” Mario said and cracked a laugh. At exactly twelve o’clock Eteo walked into Da Carlo’s. There was no sign of Mario, so he took a table and ordered a glass of red wine.
PORTRAIT In the street where people run incuriously indifferent to beauty, you sauntered looking as if the breeze was raising you, as if you never hated anyone. Your step was soft, a revelation, your face snow-white, a lily, and as your shining glance alighted on me that tranquil smile appeared. Like the priest of some fantastic faith or someone painted by Velasquez’s holy brush an Andalusian lord you peeked out from behind the sea of people. Once I’d met you in a noisy street, a serene ghost, fleshless, holy, you stayed on in my soul like an ethereal idol and I your fanciful believer.
Silence Unbound silence and dignified indignation balance the void between death and the softness of your lips, the endless desire I felt in our last erotic interlude —Come, help me fold these bed sheets; leave the computer for a second, it won’t cry over it Heartless Hades stabbed my heart. Arrows of banality shade my dream, and I stand alone under the doorway, arms crossed as if nothing I can say —I talk to you, and nothing registers: what’s wrong with you? High poplars conquer the last sunray before the dusk’s glowing silver face of the moon hangs over my anticipation for our erotic zenith, ripping our garments in two, flowing garlands, my hands I can’t control —Stop staring at that screen forever, you hear me? Velvety skin, your touch on my palms, and deep inside you, the mystery of darkness and the shadow of a spent man; the early hour of the evening that swirls around your soft bosom, and I embrace your hot body as if for the first time when Eros triumphed —Told you once, told you twice, get off your chair and help me clean the kitchen
…whether he had a few or a few too many. Nevertheless, the horses were always taken care of first, brushed down, watered and fed, while the groceries and supplies were being removed, before we sought the comfort of the stove and the supper table. As time went on the farmers began building sled cutters which were completely enclosed and in which they installed a small wood-burning stove. These were marvelous units, gaily painted and creatively streamlined, providing the farmers and their families with a relative degree of comfort during the long treks into town to pick up supplies, medicine, groceries and mail. On those rare occasions when she accompanied him into town or when they visited with friends or relatives Mother enjoyed the opportunity to travel in the cutter that father designed and built. Modern travel had invaded the Saskatchewan outback and now only the horses had to suffer through the winter weather.
The brothers replied: “Ad deum qui laetificat juventutem meam.” To God, Who giveth joy to my youth. Brown Bear strolled alone to the bluff overlooking the bay. High above green waters and the multicoloured maples and birch on the far islands, he saw the first arrowheads of honking geese. Three generations of large white birds announced the coming snow and stirred the arrowhead of pain in Brown Bear’s heart. “My little Namid, do you fly with Grandmother Snow Goose to the land of warm breezes? Or does your spirit dance among your sister stars? My beautiful daughter, your father’s heart still boils with anger for those who took you from your home and snatched away your mother’s joy. It’s time, I know, my little Star Dancer, to take your bundle to the resting place of our ancestors. But we cannot take you there until your brother, Running Deer, and I make peace in our hearts, or else our anger will be carried with your bones. We will not be long, my little one. Fly safely on. We will not be long.” Though Brown Bear, Corn Mother and Running Deer had supported one another as a bereaved family, Brown Bear needed to renew his own energy and that of his family, within a village healing circle. As Sachem, White Eagle would organize a cleansing sweat lodge, erected new for the occasion. The sweat lodge would be built close to the stream, dammed to create a cooling pool. This work and the organizing of a healing feast would be done by the women of the tribe. All those who wished to join the circle knew they must make their intentions known to White Eagle well ahead of time and prepare for the ceremony with fasting and sitting apart in the forest. Brown Bear invited his friend White Bear, and Running Deer invited Mountain Thrush. Kiche, Sky Spirit, also was invited out of respect for his position among the newcomers. But Father Finten declined the invitation when he learned to his horror the ceremony would take place in pagan nudity. He forbade Brother Rordan to attend, but Mountain Thrush chose not to obey his priest’s command. Although she never attended the prayers of her companion Brothers, Ula felt drawn to the Native spirituality and asked if she could be included. She wanted to be closer to Corn Mother who had been so good to her when she was ill. Ula asked White Eagle’s permission to be part of the healing circle. Bjorn and Rordan knew that they represented the evil men who had brought pain to Brown Bear and his family and to Grey Wolf for the loss of his ear and the pride of his first kill. Now they’d listen and share with respect and truth and love, and help in the healing of their new brothers and sisters. In the days leading up to the healing circle, Bjorn, Rordan and Ula spent full days sitting beneath single trees in the forest until they each came to know the individual characteristics of their tree and how it was different from every other one in the forest. The day before the circle, White Bear, Mountain Thrush, and Una, were honoured with an invitation to the sweat lodge. Drums announced the sweat lodge healing ceremony. The circular lodge, big enough for thirty or more people, was built low into the ground with a framework of twelve sturdy saplings and covered with woven reed mats and fallen leaves. The tiny door, also covered with a mat, faced east, the source of life, power and wisdom.
How Can I Say It to You How can I say it to you? I want you fresh as buds and braves now that my heart expands calm and serene, with no shadows, diaphanous and clear calling inside it your beautiful reflections. Heartwarming joy when each of you lean your heads unsuspecting towards my heart, when you’re flooded by fairies and their ephemeral beauty with the secret peaceful light of my dream.
Millennia Millennia go by like fleeting moments incising lines in the wings of eternity like sounds morphing cacophony while nature’s green garment gets intoxicated by the aroma of a lilac and spreads its infinite smile to the moon dipped in your tears. The troglodyte stands in front of the pompous high altar he still trembles in fear, while the modern shaman’s imposing figure with the glittering tiara always commands him to kneel, his slavery is a smooth curse he cannot escape. The troglodyte still commanded by the four Golden Gates of Heaven holding him prisoner of the image.
Manolis Aligizakis 