five
Twentieth century after zero
intellect is rounded dangerously
here comes death
of every existing artistic style
the reign of emotions
battles
the classic
the modern
battles
the classic
furiously
the natural observes
the deconstruction that
has been planted
in the newborn-subconscious
the classic resists
the postmodern
Dali embraces Lorca timidly
Five Painters
If you were ignorant, you
could think they were civil servants.
Colorless, at the corner
of the restaurant
they chit-chat
about current affairs. Nothing
of their movements
or words reveal anything
about art. Nothing,
other than the smile,
I think, and the glance
of the oldest one.
He just finished, tonight,
three hours ago,
his most important composition.
He senses that it could be
the crown achievement of his work
now that time is pressing on him.
He stays quiet, he only listens.
He contemplates the opening night
the comments of his peers
the people’s simpleminded words.
The thorny crown of the critics and
later the dissertations, monographs,
writings and further down the road
a very honorary spot on the museum wall.
He contemplates, happy with what
he has left behind, that some might imagine
his unlimited delight during that night,
when he placed his last brushstroke
on the canvas. He could explain,
with such euphoric euphoria, his intentions
and achievements to his friends
who would be listening with awe.
Intentions and success of the Art,
not colorless gossip and banal
words that the ignorant
always like to repeat.
excerpt
He was in his room with his mind wandering to faraway lands
where he might have to go for a while. Yes, he had to accept the offer.
This position was going to be his post. Even if he had to go abroad, it
would be just for a while. He liked the idea of being around the young
people who could be moulded to his way of thinking. He could be a
craftsman who would take soil and plant it into a pot of his liking.
Yes, this was a position he had to accept.
“Everything will go the way it was supposed to go,” Hermes
told himself.
Cleaned and dressed, he went downstairs. His aunt was there.
“Ready to go, my boy?”
“Yes, dear Aunt. I shouldn’t be late.”
“You are right. Go then and try to learn everything, so you
know what you will get yourself into, conditions, demands, everything,
okay? Remember, nobody these days offers you something
without expecting something in return.”
“Yes, I know, I will find out the best I can. Don’t worry. I’ll tell
you all about it when I’m back.”
“Are you going to be late?”
“No, and I’m not going to Eleni’s after this, if that’s what you are
saying,” he answered and went to the door.
Half an hour later, he was at the doorstep of the dean’s house
and rang the bell.
The dean himself opened.
“Good evening, Dean.”
“Good evening, Hermes. Come in.”
He walked in and sat down in an armchair. The house was
rich, lordly, with thick carpets and furniture of a conservative style.
All kinds of paintings hung on the walls. Some of them were classic
styled and coloured pieces, although a couple of them looked
modern, especially one, an abstract painting, flooded by an overhead
light, looked very impressive as it caught Hermes’ glance, which
focused on it for a few extra seconds, not to be missed by the dean,
who smiled and, sitting across from Hermes, asked,
excerpt
The Minister was a Maritimer and his open, neighbourly manner
delighted Ken. Their meeting resulted in the eminently successful 1975
exhibition of Ken’s Arctic work in Spain, and in the fashion of one domino
tipping the next, the first Canadian exhibition of the Arctic works was
triggered. Once the unusual, haunting images had been seen, and the origin
of the work was explained, all the right people wanted to own one of the
paintings, and gallery owners were clamouring to exhibit them. Best of
all, to Ken’s mind, it had been accomplished without cost to the Canadian
government beyond their public support and a few phone calls.
This was the beginning of the long road to the national introduction of
the Inuit, their stories and experiences, and the growing acceptance of the
symbol of the Inukshuk as a uniquely Canadian icon. It could be argued
this was the pivotal step that led to the Inukshuk becoming the distinctive
symbol of welcome for the 2010 Vancouver Olympics.
The Arctic paintings sold by the hundreds, nationally and internationally,
to the point where, a quarter of a century later, Canadian Art galleries were
objecting to anything other than ice, snow and Inuksuit displaying the
Kirkby name. It was ironic.
~~
Despite the history, the lack of outlets for Kirkby’s west coast images
promised a lean period ahead for the painter. He decided to force the issue
by withholding all of his art until the galleries accepted his new works. The
businessmen amongst the owners appreciated the fact that a painting with
the Kirkby signature translated into a certain sale, and Ken’s experience had
proven they’d come around when their stock was depleted.
He continued to work late, the bright light a beacon, spilling warmth
from the loft window. And then, one night he returned to the cottage to
find the message light blinking on the answering machine. That was the
start. While gallery managers still hopefully requested the Arctic series,
they agreed to hang work from his Vancouver Island series. Happily, new
customers liked it and previous Kirkby collectors were intrigued. Ten
years since that breakthrough, his work is more popular than ever and…
Emptiness
Ripped curtain with one leaning shoulder. The house has
been empty for days. The mirror is flat in its denial to
reflect emptiness, or the yellow blanket, or the memory of
that body enlarged in the moonlight of that August, touch
after touching the flesh, nails, teeth, lust, the red. The flat
of the mirror, nothing. Only the nails in the wall, from
fallen-off pictures, still gloriously, insist on being a little
golden from the last reflection of the twilight, to appear
in a second depth, always expecting to hang an umbrella,
a hat, a wreath or two carton wings you had put on that
busy night among the crowds, and you were raised
towards the balcony of the tower, where they lit
the colourful fireworks over the metal coffin.
Long-listed for the 2023 Griffin Poetry Awards
History’s Omission
Oen he went down to the basement or climbed up
to the attic, ordinary things, of course, but he had
different opinion and he was always regretful,
until the doctor gave him an old pyjama, gesture
that remained, alas, in the shadow of history because
he never wore it but he held it so tightly on him and
as it occasionally occurs, suddenly, at night in the small
garden.
https://draft2digital.com/book/4051627
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763564
excerpt
Ari found a special friendship in Grey Wolf, once Grey Wolf learned from Ari that
he had been avenged for the loss of his ear. Grey Wolf and Leaping Water expected
their first child before the end of the next summer.
Throughout the winter, Rordan and Ula created a deep special connection with
Running Deer and the other camp children, teaching them simple songs in the Celtic
of his own childhood. They called Ula, Aira, meaning Of The Wind, because she
could run like the wind and beat almost anybody in a race. She was expert at throwing
a knife and could hit a target at twenty paces. Ula didn’t mind the new name
because both names sounded so similar and she loved the acknowledgment of her
prowess and strength. The Natives gave Brother Rordan the name Mountain Thrush
for his pleasing voice and happy laugh, though many of the elders referred to him as
Ominotago, Beautiful Voice. The children were also fascinated with his blonde hair,
almost the colour of the cotton traders brought from the Lands of Winter Sun.
For the first time in many years, Brother Rordan had found his niche as a singer
and teacher of song among the Natives. Finten regarded the transformation from
surly boy to happy Brother as a miracle and didn’t object that Rordan and Ula
seemed to spend all their time together. Perhaps this was God’s country after all. He
often thought that if singing were praying twice, the singing of the children would
surely bring conversions.
Music contains a power stronger than many medicines and Brother Rordan’s
chanting was healing Ula’s sadness but she still remained wary, especially toward
Father Finten and Bjorn, both so much older than she or the Brothers. It took a
period of fever, when Ula had to be nursed by Chochmingwu Corn Mother, Brown
Bear’s wife, for Rordan to reach a new closeness with Ula. It was then that he saw her
vulnerability, as she revealed her childhood suffering through fevered ravings and as
he witnessed her tears.
Since her daughter’s murder by Illska, Corn Mother had dedicated herself to healing
the village children and young people. It was a testament to her loving heart that
she nursed one of the white strangers. She also appreciated Rordan’s commitment to
the children and so she reached out to his constant companion.
Corn Mother’s herbs worked their magic. Ula began to speak to Rordan of her
past as she recovered from the fever that had racked her for two weeks, and as she
saw the relief and warmth in Rordan’s eyes.
“How did I come to be a slave? No, I wasn’t taken by Vikings. My parents weren’t
killed in an awful raid. I didn’t crawl out of the flames. My pigshit mother thought
I’d make a good nun and sold me to a convent. A good nun, ha! Could you see me
in a convent?
“My father? I had three fathers. All of them were my father. None of those assholes
was. I was traded to the convent for six chickens and a pig. A pig! My mother got the
better of the deal: She got the pig; they got me.
“I was there a whole bloody year. Thought they’d rescued me from a life of shame
following my mother’s trade. I was their prisoner, more like it. Stale straw and kitchen
slops and prayers, prayers, prayers, morning, noon and night. So I ran off dressed
as a boy. Then they were going to hang me up for a loaf of stale bloody bread. The
sheriff sold me to a Norseman instead.
Relinquishing
The willow shatters glassy myth
of lake and naked hemlocks etch
the crest of sky in turquoise leaves
diving in handling roots
of your wounded heart just once
How deep the knife dove when
they took your left breast?
Your eyes stare silent
between two of his mumbled words
you balance the dry stick
in hand before throwing it
amidst the water’s despair
How long he waited by your bed
until you opened your eyes?
Your wounded voice gnaws your smile
describes the loss
willows weep above you
carry your song
flattened on the glassy lake
mastectomy: describer
mastectomy: your breast given away
excerpt
Two adolescents joined them. The boy bounced a basketball, oblivious
to the vista. The girl leaned against the car, gyrating to head-phones.
I moved to the edge of the property for a better look. House hunters,
I presumed; the Project, gentrified now, was crawling with
them. But when returning to the car, the man glanced my way. There
was no mistaking that stain. It covered one eye like a splotch of
paint. He seemed to recognize me, although I can’t be certain. He
appeared to nod his head, but that also might be interpretation.
I could have made some calls and verified his identity, but I didn’t.
I preferred to believe it was him. Returning to a place that had meant
something once. Because it’s what I did. It’s who I had become.
excerpt
That was just like Infante, to find a way to turn the tables. So I was
being accused of insensitivity, failing to honour the memory of my
slain friend.
“Exactly what I was trying to do when you interrupted me,
Infante,” answered Losada.
“It is not the place of Friar Salvador to decide the security of this
city,” Infante said. “That is my job. I am sure, Friar, you would take
equal offence if I was to start leading us in prayer.”
There was a good deal of chortling at this remark. I was appalled
by Losada’s lack of control. What was going on? Why did Losada
accept such a tone from his subordinate?
“Friar Salvador, please tell us why are you so sure they are
seeking peace and not our demise?” Losada said.
“I told you. Their morale has been shattered. I can assure you they
are convinced they cannot win. They want to secure the survival of
their people. Some have opted for peace. Others are staying away.”
“Where? Away where?”
“I told you I didn’t come here to lead you to their villages. I
couldn’t if I wanted to. I don’t know where they are.”
“But you know their language, I presume,” Infante intervened.
“I do.”
“I, in the captain’s boots,” Infante said, turning to the others,
“would interrogate the caciques with Friar Salvador’s aid to secure
the safety of the people in the city.”
A murmur of approval spread among the onlookers.
“I will do as I must, don Infante,” answered Losada, indicating
his leniency for insubordination still had its limits. I didn’t like
Infante’s obsequious tone or Losada’s conciliation to it. There was
something going on between the two.
“We are sure you will, don Diego,” Infante conceded. “Our lives
are in your hands.”
Infante bowed and the others followed. It was mockery rather
than respect. This bode ill.
I left Losada disappointed and afraid. Not one day among the
Spaniards, and already I smelled unshed blood.
Manolis Aligizakis 