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
Autumnal Exercise Autumn is harsh to innocence and our adventure will finally remain unexplained; but when the moon rises we’re all guilty and a child in the suburb collects the leaves as if they’re proof of a killing or the fool smiles while he’s done with harvesting and at night the dreamer is king; for this he has nothing to do but to write on a window pane all day long, reading passages of another era, since he knows that he might be forgotten like a mother’s breast that now nurses the narrow path and, oh, strange windstorm, when they all have the same thought of sheltering themselves and the crippled jumps hastily between his crutches like a bird.
…protocols and ways that all members adhered to, which was to slow down and do things the way others have done them before since here no one did things to impress the boss. Therefore, after Mike had finished his cigarette, he decided to go to the can, although he didn’t feel an urgent need, to give Luigi enough time to do his part of the job. He sat on the toilet and suddenly the same image of his hero came to his mind when he frantically searched his pocket, into which lucky enough, he discovered the pencil he used to write down the number of gallons that filled the occasional engine tank, to make sure that later in the day, he didn’t enter the wrong number on the official logs of the company. With the pencil surely in hand, he took a piece of toilet paper and, folding it in two just so the pencil wouldn’t poke holes in it, Mike started unfolding the image he had in his mind. He had plenty of time, according to Luigi, who preferred things done slowly; suddenly, the image changed, as if in a revelation, and became a new one which he described as softly as he could so he wouldn’t pierce the soft paper. Mike knew he had to rewrite it sometime later, yet he slowly unfolded it on toilet paper, and when done, he folded it in two and placed it in his pocket. He went out only to realize that Luigi had finished his work and was standing at the side of a bench, talking to another Italian, Giovanni, an engineer, who was on the afternoon shift like them. One could understand, that here in this big corporation for which Mike worked, there were men of different backgrounds, Italians, Hellenes, Chinese, and other nationalities, however, the Italians were just like the Hellenes, Mike remembered that back in Athens we used to say, una fatcha una ratsa, meaning that Hellenes and Italians were so much alike, just like one race and they never talked about the war of 1940 when the Italians attacked Greece. Luigi then informed Mike that it was time to go for their coffee, so all three headed towards the small coffee room out in the yard. It was a pleasant afternoon to the point of making Mike feel nostalgic. The sun was passing the west horizon slowly, just like Luigi liked things to be done, towards Stanley Park to the west of the city…
“When’s the next return connection, please? And where do I catch it?” “What connection you talking about? You got ID?” The guard is surly, he picks at a scab at the corner of his mouth, and then presses a red button above his intercom. This is all happening too quickly. Lucas can only speed into a convoluted improvisation about a lost student railcard,. As the fabulation becomes increasingly riddled with internal contradictions, Lucas can hear his voice rising to a fractious squawk. Now he’s a public spectacle. The guard has been joined by two colleagues, and there’s also a random gathering of people from the concourse, a man carrying a huge china dog, an elderly Asian in flared trousers, someone with a combination-lock briefcase chained to his wrist. They’re all staring. Their throats start moving in unison, out of his control, they’re inhaling nasally, to produce a thick hawking laughter. Through their din, Lucas can hear fragments of a security conference: “. . . sure this is the geezer ID Division is after?” “They want him to have special ID treatment, for crissakes . . .” “They’re not really Operational yet. He might be some random nut who’s wandered in from the rain.” “If he is just a random, Transit will want some action, you bet.” Lucas now knows what has to be done. Crude physical action can refute any illusion, even a bad dreamscape. Material conditions determine consciousness. That’s what Mummy said. So just hit out. He punches the iron pillar nearest him, bruising his hands on the protruding bolts. Nothing collapses. So this Terminal of Babylon is going to be a stubborn bugger? On a rush of adrenalin he pushes aside the guards and staggers into their booth, tugging at the intercom, to tear out its reality by the roots. It comes away in a clutch of wires. His ankle collapses and he falls back through the cubicle doorway, but the momentum won’t stop, his fists swing into their grinning faces. “I can’t wake . . .” he shouts between gasps. “I can’t wake up!” Now they are rolling and tumbling in the rubble; he can smell one victim’s aftershave, and blood trickles all over his hand, he’s broken a porcine nose, or a porcelain dog, and lightbulbs are swinging— More figures in peaked caps block the light—their gloves grip Lucas around the neck and legs, bending him into balletic contortions, counter- stretching every tendon in his body.
The poem virus A poem has been swirling around me since yesterday. It gives me a headache and vertigo. I turn my head to the side. At the edge of my vision I discern it thick stain at the edge of my desk. This is not personal—I say to it I don’t want any more poems nor steamships loaded with rice, I am fed up with the oceanic voyages on ships of high underwriter’s costs a raft is all I want in a plastic self-contained pool in a yard full of rusted metal, one restful body, a chair made of cloth to rest This I said to it. And it took its revenge on me. And it got filled by you and with you. And it wrote itself.
Manolis Aligizakis 