…we kids were into the food as soon as the crew finished and that, too, added to the enjoyment of the threshing season. After the harvest, as the days shortened, it was time to take stock of the farm and do the autumn chores to be ready for winter. The stubble was turned over, fences were repaired, straw was hauled beside the barn for bedding and grain was hand-loaded into a wagon and hauled to the elevator at Hubbard by the reliable team of horses named Cholly and Manga. Barns were caulked where required with a mud-straw caulking and the base of the house was insulated with straw. Gardens were also readied for winter, with the potato tops and other dried vegetation burnt, and the garden ploughed under or cultivated. Usually we were ready for winter and were either clearing brush or picking rocks when the first snows arrived. Sometimes, however, the snows surprised my parents and some of the needed chores would be finished after the earth was blanketed with its’ first covering. I recall those first snows, the sky a leaden gray, the air still and the temperature just below the freezing mark.
POPLAR Remember our poplar? Playful in the breeze it kept us safe from the incendiary sun as joyfully it swayed its graceful top and whispered pleasantly its subtle pleasures spreading its laughter to the yards and grapevines when it was answering your ever-happy laughter. I passed it yesterday. Oh, what the years can do! Neglect and loneliness reigned all around, but that gigantic poplar knew my pain and with a soft, sad whisper told it to the wind and to the sun’s insufferable heat when it was answering only to my tears.
…but I repeat in one piece from top to bottom because of the fall only his humble clothes turned golden like the Sun his face they said pale, like the Moon but lit like the Moon these two stars usually co-exist in icons of Byzantine Art and if he went to hide in Mytilene afterward he was already immortal: it was meant to live forever I m m o r t a l Perhaps along with his clumsy co-citizen Giorgio de Chirico and with Benaroya among many others some from Volos who lived before and during and after the pulling of the ladder era
Close up Monotonous echo of the flute methodically dripping onto fallen leaves path covered by autumnal whim and you hide your lips behind a kerchief concealing your fiery desire for my kiss as I near them and you pendulate between your eagerness for my lips and your fear that I discover your fiery anticipation
At the Café Entropy Outside my window, there in the fleeting life of the suburbs a boy saved the world once it turned its back to the void showing the flashing passing of the secret At the café entropy, the gathering of souls the worrying patrons listen to something irreversible a transformed wind charges the emotions scattering time in lonely events and the words into frightened birds I flow in saving seas, in watery labyrinths each spring is an uncertain cryptogram that takes away all the storm that birthed me and emigrates what passed sparkles inaccessibly what comes, exists here among the icebergs
Eteocles has his slingshot with him. The tomato field is a good half hour walk each way, and the path takes them through an olive grove where Eteocles may be able to use his expertise in shooting the round stones he carries in his pockets. Anthony has his spade on his back but keeps watch for a good target for his cousin, and just before they reach the beginning of the grove he spots a skylark on the ground, more than likely close to its nest. Eteocles sees it too and starts walking slowly and silently toward the busy bird until he judges he is close enough. Then he aims, shoots, and misses. The skylark takes off, chirping loudly as if mocking Eteocles, but he doesn’t really mind. He enjoys the hunt even when it doesn’t produce results. “He’s still laughing,” Anthony says, referring to the skylark, and both boys start laughing too. They continue on their way and soon reach the tomato field. Anthony goes to the edge of the field and opens the gate that lets water into the first canal leading toward their tomatoes. Eteocles watches the water slowly move like a huge, crawling monster little by little taking over the dry soil and filling the ditch that runs alongside the first row of tomatoes. Eventually the muddy water reaches the end of the first ditch, and at that point Anthony directs the flow to the second ditch and the thirsty tomato plants in the next row get their share of Cretan refreshment. There are about thirty ditches to fill, and the whole job takes about two hours, with two boys taking turns in directing the water from one ditch to the next. Halfway through they take a break to get a watermelon from a neighbouring field. Anthony has his own special way of selecting the best melon. He hits each melon with two fingers and selects the ripest one by the sound it produces. Sure enough, when they slice it open, it is deliciously ripe and full of sweetness. After sharing this treat, the boys finish the watering, and around ten o’clock they go back to the village. It is almost time for their daily swim. All the village boys go to the sea at least once a day. Everyone counts how many swims they do, and the one with the highest number at the end of the summer is written on a verbal log the boys keep in their minds…
‘And Dervla?’ ‘Thriving.’ Danny escorted Caitlin into the yard and closed the iron gate behind them. ‘Motherhood suits her. And every day this week she’s had her friend from the cottage visiting.’ Caitlin stopped walking. ‘Her friend from the cottage?’ ‘Connie. She and Dervla go way back. They were at school together in Lisnaglass.’ ‘Didn’t Connie go home to Belfast with Robert?’ ‘No. Robert’s coming back on Monday, so Connie decided to stay in the cottage. Have a short holiday. I would have thought you knew.’ ‘Michael must have forgotten to mention it.’ Caitlin turned to the back door of the farmhouse, a frown on her forehead. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Danny. Regards to Dervla.’ ‘Thanks, Caitlin. Yes, tomorrow bright and early. Good evening to you.’ Caitlin entered the scullery, placed the eggs on a shelf, and started to make tea for her and Michael. She paused occasionally to look up the hillside, but she could not see the cottage from the scullery window. Michael came in an hour later, greeted Caitlin with a kiss, and washed and dried his hands at the sink. ‘We’ll finish the shearing tomorrow,’ he said. ‘There’s only a few left in the catching pen.’ ‘I don’t know why you don’t hire a professional shearing team,’ Caitlin remarked. ‘There are enough of them around.’ ‘I’ve been shearing sheep since I was seventeen,’ said Michael. ‘I can handle it myself. And Danny’s good with the shears too. If we had a bigger operation I might build a shearing shed.’ ‘You’ll be glad the shearing’s all done, though, won’t you?’ said Caitlin. Michael filled a tin mug with water from the tap and leaned his haunches against the sink. ‘Ay, that I will.’ Then he drank thirstily. ‘Danny was tired when I met him on his way home.’ ‘He’s worked hard this week.’ ‘You didn’t tell me Connie was staying in the cottage on her own since Robert left on Wednesday.’ ‘Didn’t I? Didn’t you see her in the loaney? She’s been going down to visit Dervla every day.’ ‘I must have missed her,’ said Caitlin. ‘Anyway, let’s eat.’ If Caitlin had had any suspicions about Michael and Connie Hanlon, remembering how Connie had come on to him in the square in Corrymore on Tuesday, she did not show them. She wondered how she would react…
Forest Sounds Wind pierces the four walls of the shack that resists annihilation in the gaping mouth of the abyss ready to gulp it and I place another log in the fire pit and you lean on the carpet anxiously waiting for the moment of action that would commence with hespera’s song repeating your moan while the sounds of crackling come around your fiery contours, caressing and I let myself into your embrace this, the only moment that exists in the tired shack with the old faded carpet and the mirror’s jealousy
Wealth During the summer nights, when the day turns cool you hear the air crystals chime while you sleep as if your flock of sheep passes, without bleating, and grazes in the sky, yes, your flock, you who never had a single lamb, so certain and calm and absolute that, when you wake up in the morning, the simplest work you do and the most unimportant discussion you’re forced to endure take such seriousness and meaning of your unknown, yet, realized wealth.
Routine Often you said we needed to change our habits a new beginning to commence a new purpose to seek help to discover hope and its elements while all along you remained resting in lush recliner and always you upheld your beliefs while tightly in hand you held the recliner’s lever
Manolis Aligizakis 