Redemption

Excerpt

…campaigns as well as various entertaining events with the primary
goal of collecting money for the Archdiocese of Canada, which obviously
was getting richer and more powerful at the expense of the
communities.
He kept in touch with his relatives. He often wrote to them, and
he also sent them a picture or two occasionally, just to make them
feel better and let them know they didn’t have to worry about him;
he was really doing okay. Magda wrote to him and let him know she
was planning to take a trip to Vancouver sometime the next summer,
which was only six months away. His parents sent a few letters, but
Demetre and Maria wrote to him more often.
What he enjoyed most was the way the Canadians lived, their
“take it easy” attitude and their simple, pleasant outlook about life
in general. He could understand that because he knew Canadians
hadn’t gone through occupation by the Germans in the Second World
War, or the dictatorship of a junta. But what he liked about the people
the most was that they started a conversation with you at any time,
at any place, either on the street or on the bus. They could talk to you
about anything without caring whether it interested you or not.
They were mostly polite and cheerful, and they helped you if
they could. They didn’t care who you were or what you were wearing,
or how you talked, as most Canadians spoke with an accent. Hermes’
accent was profoundly distinct, so that one could tell easily he was
Greek. But it didn’t matter to them at all. He wrote all these things
to his relatives and Magda with such enthusiasm that at one time
he asked her whether she could see herself living with him in this
country. He was surprised to get a positive answer in her letter, which
came rather quickly. He was glad to hear that she had the blood of the
gypsies in her veins; she could go away from her home at any time
if the circumstances were the right ones. He enjoyed knowing that
because he was also a man who loved to travel, to move around, to
visit and discover new places and new people.

https://draft2digital.com/book/4172538#print

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763858

Blood, Feathers and Holy Men

Excerpt

“Holy sweet Jesus.” Ula realized she’d shouted and clamped a hand over her
mouth. She looked at Yamka in amazement and Yamka smiled happiness at her.
Ari spent the long evenings carving a large block of red cedar with a flint blade.
He made an inlaid hnefatafl game board, similar to the one on which he’d played
with Captain Hjálmar. He dug through the snow by the lake bed and collected black
and white pebbles for playing pieces and before the winter was over, Ari taught Ailan
the Norse tactical game, King’s Table.
Bjorn used a flint knife to whittle small animals out of wood and tried to teach
Keallach and Ailan his skill with only little success. Both Brothers usually succeeded
until one slip of the blade removed a leg or a head from his carving. Keallach also
managed to slice a finger and had to be content to sit and watch Bjorn carve for more
than a month of long days and nights.
Every morning, all winter long, Fire Maker walked the short distance to the lakefront
bundled in furs. There he stripped and took his daily plunge into the icy water.
He said it made him strong and healthy and enabled him to endure the bitter cold.
Following breakfast, he either made snowshoes or went back out to set up traplines
in the woods. He brought in beaver and mink and otter for food and skins and
showed Finten and others how to cure the pelts.
Father Finten was not creative with his hands. He hated the carvings Bjorn and
Ari made, calling them graven images. He shunned the cold and only went outside
out of absolute necessity. But Finten did seem to be able to sit for hours, eyes closed,
in contemplation and silent prayer. The Brothers obeyed his calls to community
prayer only out of habit and a sense of obligation to their religious vows. They always
escaped at the earliest opportunity, seldom remaining to meditate, sighing and
groaning through his lengthy homilies.
When a blizzard raged outside the cave, everyone gathered around the fire and
Fire Maker shared stories of life in the Mandan Nation. He never spoke of the gods
during daylight hours but only after dark because a man would go blind if he spoke
of the gods in daylight.
“When buffalo are close, and we have decided to make a run, each hunter takes a
bow and quiver of arrows and heads out into the grassland, followed by women who
will cut up the animals and bring the meat and hides back to camp. They bring long
poles and tie them together near the bottom. The women load the furs and meat
across the bottom where the poles join and pull the load so that it does not drag on
the ground. When two women pull together, that is much easier than carrying it on
their backs. Sometimes they bring the dogs to carry heavy loads of animal skins but
never the meat. The dogs always know they will be fed well when they return.”
Ari asked, “When the dogs go with the hunters, does anyone remain in camp?
What about the old people, and who looks after small children?”
“The women remaining in camp have much to do. They dry meat, tan robes, sew
moccasins, and prepare the food.”
“There must be a great feast when the hunters return.” Ailan was always thinking
of food and cooking big meals.
“There are many feasts when hunting has been good. A man who gives a feast tells
his wives to cook the best food they have. When the feast is ready, he goes outside his
lodge and shouts each guest’s name three times, telling that person to come and eat.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562826

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

Hours of the Stars

Eradinos

…Then levanter folded you in the coiled
chiton of his haste and took you to Corfu
always not quenched
teary among a thousand blessed smiles
here you’ve caught up with me waiting for you
leaning on the back of dusk and having in my hands
the peaceful sauntering of oranges and ten rain elegies.
You found me and asked me to narrate the endless
bitter story of the shepherds. Listen to the steps of the god
the doves that out of their fear fly higher and
the many cannon blasts in the castle of death
night watches, agreement of the sparrow, passing of winds.
You wander next to me with your ripped laughter
with your garment higher than your knee
as the ancient nymphs who put up tents and
sing along the water springs.
Thus you complete the miracle of transformation and
the scarlet lust becomes a movement of your long fingers
that play and tame the beasts and arouse the signs of the Zodiac
then you put Hypnos to sleep in your open palms
as the waterfalls of the night
become silent galaxies.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562939

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763408

Nostos and Algos

Question
You thought you knew him
then why the gardenia sighed
and why the clock on the wall
turned silent
and why did the jasmine refuse
to bloom?
You thought you knew him
then why did you start crying
soon as he left
and why he didn’t turn his head
to look at you
for the last time?

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763920

Entropy

The Soul of Odysseus
I invented myself
the native of immenseness
gravity exiled me here
as if life is a path of ignorance
what can I do with Odysseus now
conscious of a tribe that commits suicide
as it stands and listens to
the echo of oars on the horizon
the miracle that endlessly
collects the dust of dreams
when the untouched diaphaneity of myths
reaches us away from him and Ithaca.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DPCRLJC6

Ugga

twenty-one
Initiations, conniving
division of the land
soft rocks on your path
someone squares three stones
two down, one up
to steady it
a rectangular hole in the middle
vision
the first Mason
is born inside him:
the first window to the future

https://www.amazon.com/dp/192676370X

Cloe and Alexandra

Φραγή εισερχομένων κλήσεων
Η Πύλη είναι ο δικός μου Πόνος.
Δεν σου αρμόζει πια να μπεις.
Θα κλείσω τα ποιήματα για σένα
και όσο για το φιλί κλειδί
να μου το δώσεις πίσω,
γιατί το Μουσείο είναι κλειστό Παρασκευές
κι εκείνο το αρχαίο σκουλαρίκι
που αιώνες πριν μου κρέμασες στ’ αυτί
(ένα δελφίνι που κολυμπάει στο χρόνο)
πνίγηκε μες τα δάκρυα
που ποτέ δεν έχυσα για σένα.

Block Incoming Calls
The Gate is my Pain.
You’re not allowed to enter anymore.
I’ll lock up the poems about you
and that kiss key
give it back to me,
because the museum is closed on Fridays and
that ancient earring you hang
on my ear eons ago
(a dolphin swimming in time)
drown in the tears
I never shed for you.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562908

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763262

Vernal Equinox

Triangle
In the crystal night I’ll find you
again in the plaza by the same
statue that saw us separating
that cold October morning
you to the west I to the east
from the merging point
of two lives like triangle
lines and I’ll come to you
holding a book in my left
hand and a carnation in the
other just in case you come
looking to stir my emotions
just in case you come yearning
for kisses like that cold
October morning we separated

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562877

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

AUTUMN

The Gospel of Silence

Excerpt

…the pharmacist — to her name-day celebration, and alongside the
many exquisite dishes she played the piano beautifully. She also
took in her two sisters, who passed the time with card games and
reading. I found the endless solitaire and other card games played
for hours beside tables laden with pastries and tea — in winter in
the parlor, in summer on the terrace — unbearably boring.
Between the identical walls of the dormitory rooms I learned to
pay attention to others and to myself, to write amid silence and
noise alike. I tried fitting words together so they might express me,
preserve me. My young literature teacher read and evaluated my
writings in her apartment; the situation was at once embarrassing
and liberating. It was as though the boundaries between text and
life had blurred. That was the first time I understood literature was
not merely abstract curriculum but could become an intimate bodily
experience as well.
I founded a literary circle attended not only by students but by
teachers too. We did not merely dissect our own writings; we immersed
ourselves in literary history and theory, argued, doubted,
reread everything that until then had seemed certain. Meanwhile I
danced in a folk-dance ensemble wearing traditional costume, and
played bass guitar in a successful pop band where rhythm held
us together even when direction often remained uncertain. And
like local stars entertaining the student audience, we enjoyed the
special attention of girls, which manifested itself sometimes in shy
smiles, sometimes in stolen glances, sometimes in laughter too
loud to be natural, and although we accepted this innocent admiration
with confident ease, in truth all of us longed for the same
thing: that one day someone might notice not merely the role in us,
but the human being as well.
Even then the prankster in me resurfaced. Back then there were
no text messages, no instant communication; communication possessed
its own slow, paper-scented magic. At the Ditrău grammar
school — I do not know whether such a thing existed elsewhere —
there operated a peculiar institution called Flash Mail.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763874