…risky to remember/to remember is not risky for memories we do not forgive so there is nothing to forget in lieu of our fathers we remember in the end there is a beginning that is why spring flowers bloom everything in the end bursts hope snotty phantoms crawl in the petty silence in the autumnal rose’s blood fish with no scales six concrete layouts draw near from six directions the plan of possibilities narrows more and more long passed minutes climb up to the top breath becomes heavier the dull needle still gathers pieces of sound and song “you rest in peaceful dreams in the dark lit pearl may you burn” what hurts most is that the record runs down and we do not realizzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Only a sour body smell was left on the unwashed bed-sheets. The lost limbs crawl at the quarry. Aquatic plants spread in the empty space. Only the eyes insist: sweat, shaven heads, thermometers and spitting bowls. And next to this the nurse, cursing, waited to give his report, knowing that death or recuperation were equally unwanted to the camp commander. Yelling was heard from down the soccer field.
V Finally, could it be an unfamiliar mechanism or shall we remember the beginning as we return to the exit? Perhaps like the water, the soil, the sperm, necessary things, which because of their exaggeration might choke you, you die when your life becomes excessive? e young man laughed, and it was as if God, in a moment of weakness, had kept all His promises.
practiced my religion on the last breath of the sick man and I said, he is a hero, too, since he endured human pain and he loved the fragrance of the night flower which didn’t know of holidays the sick man and I are comrades, since we both experienced the heroism of a twenty-four-hour duty I practiced my religion on the future catastrophe and in the longing for the past during which we endured pain we, the youths with acne and a light beard on our cheeks us, who, one day, will be called dreamers and I said, let them call me a foolish dreamer let them name me crazy let the joys of wealth be untouched and let their glory be inglorious I practiced my religion on the perfection of human wholeness and I hymned eternity with odes.
…watched her eat all the things that “were good for us”. Thank goodness he liked perohy or we may not have acquired the fondness for them that we did. In fact, every Friday morning was perohy-making time, since, as Ukrainian Catholics, we observed the meatless Friday rule.We were roped into the perohy-making assembly line whenever we were home from school. It was usually fun, invariably initiated one or two squabbles about who was or was not doing how much of what, but also included listening to Mom telling a story or singing us songs. When she ladled those delicious little creations out of the hot water into the cooling pot and then onto our platters, and covered them with melted butter and crisply fried onions, a morning’s work was known to disappear in short minutes! They were so good! I certainly well remember mother’s songs and stories that she had brought with her from “the old country”. As she worked away in the kitchen she forever sang those wonderfully sad Ukrainian soul songs or told us stories of her early life. So many times the tears would gather in her eyes and we would feel sad with her, not really knowing what had made her sad in the first instance. We must have been a comfort to her though, she being so far from her family and almost certain that she would not see any of them again. She at least had us to occupy herself with, leaving her precious little time for self-pity. I also recall the concerned exchanges between my parents as World War II ravaged their birth areas and then as communism under Stalin’s fist tightened its’ vicious grip throughout eastern Europe, I wonder now what conflicting thoughts they had to endure. Their life was not easy; however, what little news came through, devastating as it must have been, would certainly have made them feel thankful for getting away from that tormented region.
Those who went to the house swore it had never been cleaned since Maggie’s mother was alive. It seemed that Maggie lived, ate, slept and washed in only one room. All the other rooms were packed to overflowing with the accumulated belongings and unsorted junk of at least two generations of Potters. In several corners in the house stood unemptied buckets of Maggie’s excrement and urine which neighbours said she used as fertiliser in her garden. Even more remarkable were the envelopes and canisters and small cardboard boxes filled with money—more than four thousand pounds in all—that passed to a man in the city, a nephew, it was said, who had never ever been to see his aunt in all the years that anyone in the village could remember. Old Rachel Dunn, Willy’s arthritic mother, was still alive in a nursing home in Ardross, a helpless cripple, clinging tenaciously to life at the age of eighty-seven. Into Maggie Potter’s ill-starred house Liam and Nora moved in the first week of January 1943 when all the country could talk about was the rout of the German forces at Stalingrad. But Nora’s mind dwelled not on the frozen snows of Russia nor on the hot desert sands, where Tom Carney was fighting, but on the treacherous waters of the North Atlantic where the German submarine wolf-packs prowled: grim, determined, unseen predators of the convoys from America. Joe Carney was among the prey, and Nora feared for his life. She wrote to him almost every week, giving him all the gossip from the village and keeping to herself her misery and her cherished memories. They’ve actually made a good job of fixing up the house and painting and decorating it. I never thought that Maggie Potter’s place could look so clean and trim. Even the outside walls have been whitewashed and the doors and window frames painted the usual dark green. As in the old schoolhouse, we have a kitchen and a scullery and a sitting room downstairs, two bedrooms and a box room upstairs, and a view of the sea from the back. The sea is pale blue and grey today and sparkling where the sun is shining on it. I used to love the sea but now I hate it for separating us and threatening you with so much danger. And yet I still love to walk along the shore and watch the endless convoy of waves reach the rocks and shingle and break there and whisper to me with their parting breath that they have seen your ship on their way across the ocean and that you are well and send your love. Later that day, for the first time since she had written to Joe to tell him of her pending marriage to Liam Dooley, Nora mentioned in her letter that she was unhappy.
If and Since He Had Died “Where did he retire? Where did the Sage disappear to? After his countless miracles, and the fame of his teaching that spread over so many nations he suddenly hid, and no one learned with certainty what happened to him (nor has anyone ever seen his grave). Some said that he died in Ephesus. But Damis didn’t record it; nothing was written by Damis about the death of Apollonios. Others said that he vanished in Lindos. Or perhaps the story that he ascended in Crete is true, at the sacred temple of Dictynna. However, we have his exquisite, supernatural appearance to a young student in Tyana. Perhaps the time has not come for him to return and appear to the world again, or perhaps he is roaming among us incognito. But he will reappear as he was, teaching the right things, and then of course he will reestablish the worship of our gods, and our refined Hellenic ceremonies.” This was the way he mused in his poor house, one of a few pagans, one of the very few who remained after reading Philostratos’ On Apollonios of Tyana— In any case, an insignificant and timid man, on the surface he played the Christian, and he, too, went to church. It was the era when in utmost piety the king who reigned was the aged Ioustinos, and Alexandria, a god-fearing city, abhorred the miserable idolaters. On the Ship Certainly, this small sketch, in pencil resembles him. Done rather fast, on the deck of the ship, one enchanting afternoon. The Ionian Pelagos all around us. It resembles him. However, I recall him as handsome. He was sensitive to the point of suffering, and this lit his expression. He appears even handsome to me now that my soul recalls him out of Time. Out of Time. All these things are old, the drawing, the ship, and the afternoon.
General The monarch butterfly staggers in front of you light stumbles on the mauve heather and song you hear pacifies suddenly the statue of the general parked on solid earth unlike his image in clouds sweats glory while his subtle smile bleeds forgotten soldiers haunting cenotaph earth his arms wide as to embrace all heartsick and hovel-less souls and his legs straddle the pedestal poised to announce war is over wars should be declared obsolete
“One day you will remember of me”, he said “but you won’t be able to cry;” what did he mean and what was the meaning of words? Women stood at the crossroad, dark faced, holding the half open pomegranate like thousand faces of nothing. The prostitute, returning home, went to the kitchen and warmed the food and I, hell, failed between two evening songs. When Rosa had a john she used to place a carton on the corner so the memory of her father wouldn’t see her; someone, with an axe, came out in the night and started striking blindly. The whole city was panicking, searches, interrogations, occasionally someone would come, kneel before the icons and confess to everything since the beginning of the world — thus perhaps seeking a purpose or two lines in the newspaper and a small rose at the edge of the road; the stupid child would go by and pick the rose, he’d look at it and then as if he understood something he’d leave it in its place and only the gambler could guess that movement such as those that save you. Thus one by one they all got lost and I was the only survivor playing, at the critical moment, with the fringes of the tablecloth. I truly wonder why all these since one can be lost with a lot less things. I remember one who’s hunger pushed him to desire a street organ, which he sat down and ate, there, at the corner only spitting out the crutch of the soldier, and the fat ugly woman had revealed her big breasts over the balcony “don’t feel sorry for me” she said “I’m very clever” and she was staring at the end of the road; then we sat on the grass of the dark cemetery and helped the dead child.
thundersticks of the white men, never making it to the appointed battlefield. Others fell under the hoofs of the frightening beasts or were stuck by the long spears while trying to break through metal with their wooden swords. Guacaipuro and Paramaconi persisted in their attempts to pass, thinking that the rest of the coalition must long be engaged in battle. Precious hours went by. It was past noon when Losada, sick to his stomach in bed, was notified of the unnatural gathering of savages on the outskirts of the city. The several caciques that had opted to wait and those who had wanted the charge soon found the choice made for them. I was told later by Benjamin that Losada dressed leisurely when alerted to the Indian presence, showing once again the temperance that had always characterized him. He chose thirty men and appointed the rest to the protection of the city. The cavalry went out first, forming a crushing front with horses bred and trained for bodily conflict: horses that would kick, turn and caracole on command; that would not shy away from the sound of battle; that would dismiss wounds as long as they could stand. The infantry followed, finishing off any stubborn traces of life. Many Indians fled in confusion, but it was a massacre all the same. In my days with the conquistadors, I heard many stories of battle and triumph. In those accounts, there were always thousands of Indians attacking a handful of heroes who, despite the odds, managed to come out victorious. The Indians could not possibly win simply because of their inferior means, but had there been so many thousands, as the Spanish accounts relate, I am sure no Spaniard, half-breed or traitorous Indian would have survived. From living amongst them, I knew there was no lack of courage or commitment from the Indians. On that day, according to Benjamin, after the Spaniards had thought most of the Indians were dead or had withdrawn, a solitary voice defied Losada. There, amid corpses and dying friends, stood Tiuna with gold bracelets on his arms and a gold pendant on his chest. He was a warrior from the Caracas Indians, of which Catia was cacique.
Manolis Aligizakis 