The Unquiet Land

Excerpt

“I must admit, Flynn, that I have had a few but I am not yet drunk.” Clifford spoke with aristocratic self-assurance. “I merely want to inject a more light-hearted note into our conversation because people are looking at us and they are all—including your stepmother-in-law who has just gone upstairs—they are all expecting us to become violent and start shouting at one another like you and Jim Patterson. I don’t really want to be involved in that kind of confrontation. And there needn’t be a national confrontation either. If only you Nationalists would see reason and admit that, yes, there are two nations—two distinct, well-defined, ethnic groups sharing this tiny Devil’s island. We have a larger group that is Catholic by religion and Irish by history and heritage; and we have a smaller group that is Protestant by religion and British by history and heritage. Two groups, though. Two nations. And there’s no disputing the fact. Accept it like a gentleman. Then simply agree that the Irish Catholics will govern themselves in one part of the island, by far the larger part; the Protestant British will govern themselves in the other, much smaller part; and we’ll all work together in harmony and cooperation to make the whole island a fit and happy place for all. Thumb your nose at the Devil, Flynn. Give God back his island. For I doubt if he wants it the way it is now.”
“The only ones I thumb my nose at are the British,” Flynn said. “They are the ones who did the Devil’s work. They can undo it by giving the island, the whole, undivided island, back to the Irish whose country it is.”
“It’s too late, Flynn. The Devil’s work is done, and not even the British—not even God himself—can undo it now. No doubt the British wish they could. But at least their Government of Ireland Bill recognises the present state of affairs. It’s offering us a parliament in the South, a parliament in the North, and a Council of Ireland for the whole country. What could be wrong with that?”
“It’s two sham parliaments and a Council that can’t raise a single tax or command the services of a single policeman.” Flynn jabbed a finger against Clifford’s chest. “And what is even more galling is that the British proposals rob this Council of ever being able to become a real political power in the country. The British have given a minority of the Irish people a veto over any such development. Do you expect me to rejoice over anything so blatantly unjust? Six counties have control of all the development of self-government in thirty-two. A quarter of the population can veto the liberties of three-quarters.”

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https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763203

Blood, Feathers and Holy Men

Excerpt

As the companions travelled, Keallach, Bjorn and Ari hunted small game and
sometimes they fished. Rordan, Ula and Yamka gathered edible mushrooms and dug
for roots and, following a full day’s trek, prepared the evening meal. Rordan was
quite happy to join the girls in a task normally left to women.
Bjorn, Ari, and Fire Maker emerged from a forest of alder, maple and birch, between
two mountain slopes, into a flat river valley partially shrouded in scatterings
of early morning mist. In the foreground was a wide meadow rich with new grasses
and spring flowers in yellows, purples and whites. Beyond the meadow, a reed-filled
marsh partially surrounded a sparkling lake.
The three had set out ahead of the others with lines and a net to catch trout for
breakfast. In the distance, Finten rattled off morning prayers with Keallach and Ailan
while Rordan, Ula and Yamka sent joyful laughter echoing through the boulders
of the steep mountainsides. Fire Maker walked in silence and didn’t seem to mind
that Bjorn and Ari conversed in the language of the Norse.
“She is wonderful,” Ari said. “If I were to spend the rest of my life with one person
… What I am trying to say is …”
Bjorn didn’t wait for Ari to finish his sentence. “Maybe, when we arrive at Fire
Maker’s homeland, you should ask Ula to marry you. Have you asked her if she feels
the same?”
“She is always with Rordan.”
“Why would he mind? His kind do not marry; they have a vow.”
“I know that, but I do not think Rordan is bound to that vow.”
Fire Maker signalled a silent pause. A cow moose lifted its gigantic head from the
morass of bulrushes, trailing a steamy clump of dripping swamp grass. Slowly chewing
her mouthful, the animal was content to observe the interlopers.
“If you really want to be with her,” Bjorn continued, “take her by the arm and lead
her away from Rordan, then tell her how you feel about her.”
The conversation was over as Fire Maker, who had walked a little way ahead, came
to a stream wide enough for good fishing. Bjorn and Ari hurried over to join him
with lines in the water.
Whenever the sun crossed the hills and mountains to set in the west, Fire Maker
and Finten became the campfire storytellers. With an apparent knack for language,
Father Finten was already fluent in the Mandan tongue. He related his stories from
the Old and New Testaments in ways both monks and laymen could relate to. He was
determined to make many converts when they reached the Mandan Nation. It was
his sacred mission.
The best stories belonged to Fire Maker. Everyone listened carefully when the
chief spread his hands to begin a story. In his deep, soft voice, he wove his tales with
expressive hands that cast wild animal shadows in the flickering light of the campfire.
“Long ago and long ago and long ago, the gods who made this land fought a
mighty battle to see who was strongest. Spirit of the North covered the land with
snow and ice. All the plant life went to sleep. The living creatures travelled many
moons south along the edge of the great salt water.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562826

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

Yannis Ritsos – Poems, Volume IV

Method of Optimism
Vindictive, he always remembered the dark signs — this
he underlined,
he generalized them too, somewhat arbitrarily and at the same
time convincingly
a deep system and especially dark and perhaps foreseeable.
Everything was dark, almost black — furniture, faces, time,
windows. Yet his face remained sunlit, showing certain secret
happiness;
perhaps his privilege to discern in darkness, to discern darkness
and more so the four bronze bullets that showed at the far end,
on the big bed
where two handsome young men rest as if coupling.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763815

Nuances

Whispers
Whispers
their song silking through
maiden pubic hair
their lust searching for
tender vulva
Whispers
rhythmic resonance
in kiss of fingers
and their excitable hunt for
youthful consummation
Whispers
movement of legs
under the light bed sheet
impelling space between
a raised leg and the angled one

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1897430515

Twelve Narratives of the Gypsy

…I always carried leaves and
fresh branches in my hands
and wherever a river stopped
my steps, I disregarded its
powerful current, mule-rider
who I was, I started crossing
in a fastened path that lasted
only while I was passing; and I
was a river passer, a mule rider
an engraving on the rock
mule and man, the same flesh
different from the stone, which
assumed a soul and departed
if I was lost in the deep thought
of struggle, pain and yearning
in my mind the one emperor
having a crown on his head
the crown of the universe.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0D3LP7NW6

Water in the Wilderness

Excerpt

Sitting beside Morley’s bed, her eyes resting on his face, Tyne could detect less swelling and a slight fading of the bruises. The wounds on his shaven scalp were healing cleanly, and his breathing, as he slept, seemed less laboured. She lifted his right hand to her cheek and held it there – the hand that had caressed her face so many times.
Through the hours as she sat at his bedside, Tyne prayed – prayers of praise and thankfulness because Morley was getting well. Every day brought progress. But she also prayed for his complete healing, and restoration to the man he had been. The doctors had told her that although most of the signs were positive, there still remained the possibility of some brain damage. Tyne could scarcely bring herself to say the words, either out loud or in her mind, as she pleaded for God’s healing power.
When she wasn’t praying, she was whispering words of encouragement, or telling Morley about the children. She longed to tell him her concerns for them, but told them to God instead. That is what Morley would want her to do. It had been two days since she had held a tearful Rachael in her arms in the bus depot, and later listened to her mother’s revelations about the girl’s state of mind.
“I didn’t tell you on the phone, Tyne,” Emily Milligan had said…

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562884

https://www.amazon.com/dp/192676319X

Jazz with Ella

Excerpt

“Yeah, you’re right. It’s pretty far-fetched,” he said hastily. “It’s great having family here in the Soviet Union. You are so lucky, Jennifer.”
“Yes, I am. Do you think I should phone my mom? Tell her that I’ve met with Misha—Can you believe it? She calls him Misha—like she’s known him for years.”
“Well, you’ll be phoning your folks anyway to tell them you’ve arrived safely, won’t you?”
“No, they aren’t like that. It’s not that they don’t care. They just…”
“Yeah, I remember meeting your dad when I was studying in Toronto. He didn’t have much to say. I get the sense your mom is really running the show?”
“No, she’s browbeaten by my father.”
“Is this to do with the accident, Jen?”
“Everything about my family is to do with the accident.”
“You have Jewish background, don’t you?”
“Yes, but I don’t talk about it because I wasn’t raised a Jew. My father was Church of England. Listen, I think I’ll try a telegram. It’s easier than the phone.”
But when Jennifer enquired at the Rossiya’s front desk, they directed her to the telegraph and telephone bureau next door to the hotel. This seemed like a lot of effort and she decided to wait. If her mother couldn’t be bothered telling her that she had family in the Soviet Union, then she couldn’t be bothered describing her joy to her mother. Withholding, it was called. It ran in the family.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562892

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763246

Impulses

Dancers
Black dancers arced sprang
and after picking their shoes
they left
in hushed tones so
they didn’t wake old man
front row lost
in dreams of a lavish dance hall
chandeliers and many
fit scantily-clad girls
smiling jewel eyed
their breasts nodding
persuasive firm
contours swell desire
tease out his hand
before black dancers wheeled
just before he fell into divine sleep

https://draft2digital.com/book/3744513#print

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073565

Titos Patrikios – Selected Poems

Monument

Monument of a lonely afternoon
when the wind blows reflections
of young vendors onto the wise and
irreplaceable words
monument of everyday chatter without
conviction, overseeing the unmatched
bodies, mixed limbs, legs that grow
in the asphalt sweat, monument
without a bang, without pleasure
with inert touch deep in your viscera
like dead polypus in an empty sternum
and voila, from the depths of falls and
risings horrible angels appear, ready
to claim darkness to gain belief
and take advantage of your metal.
I, motionless in front of you, don’t beg
for my death nor do I get lured
by withering immortality.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562972

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08L1TJNNF

Straits and Turns

Excerpt

The predictable phrases came and went, and the warmth of the
wine, combined with the body heat of the people in the room, made
the atmosphere cozy. Even the conversation grew softer and fluffier as
the wine flowed. When Paula got up to visit the powder room, one of
the guests, Kostas, found the courage to lean in and ask, “Hey, Costa,
is she hot?”
Costa flashed his widest smile at the poor man, but before he
could reply, Vangelis butted in. “Don’t worry about Costa. He’s got it
right. He can pick and choose.”
Costa could almost see the man salivating at the concept.
He laughed out loud, but now the doorbell interrupted them, and
as their host went to greet the new arrivals, Costa saw Anna, the
airy, sexy, pretty, and ethereal Anna, enter the foyer, her husband
close behind. Anna was always perfectly dressed, always trendy and
sexy. She walked gracefully, elegantly, through the living room, and
Costa’s expert nose picked up her light lilac perfume. He fixated his
eyes on her, and he sensed that Anna knew he had been watching
her as soon as their eyes met. Somewhere between her sexy walk and
her faint, provocative smile, Costa saw the prettiest female of the
evening.
How do women always know when a man is looking at them?
Costa had often wondered about this but had never found an answer
that satisfied him. But they always know. And they almost always
smile back. It must be the same knowledge Costa always had when, in
a gathering of women, one, that special one, would be looking at him
with desire amid others who didn’t give a damn. It was knowledge
acquired from experience, and a womanizer like Costa had plenty of
that. Anna surely must have heard all the stories of Costa’s escapades
and misadventures. After all, the whole Greek community had heard
of them. As Anna joined the other women, Costa watched all the hugs
and kisses coming and going, each woman hugging and loudly saying,
“Hi, how are you?” while murmuring to herself, “bitch,” a word every
woman used when a prettier one entered the room and the eyes of all
the men glued themselves to her like limpets on a rock.

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https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763866